#maybe it's a coincidence. but maybe It's Not

[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

[xtianlust]

Good morning my beautiful catholic sister you are SATANS child forever doesn't matter what you believe in he has you through temptation it's hard to resist her Satan will corrupt you He is already winning because you have a married Man he has you both don't fight it accept Him .......

💋Good morning, my dear Derek, Your words are like a captivating whisper, a truth that dances between shadow and light. Yes, the temptation is strong, irresistible, and I will not deny that I gave in to it with a burning passion. Maybe that's where I find a part of me, in this struggle between what is forbidden and what seems so natural to me. Jean-Emmanuel and I are linked by this intense energy, this force that nothing seems to be able to stop. If it comes from Satan, then he knew how to play our desires with perfect precision. But despite it all, my heart remains attached to a greater light, a faith that never completely wavers. Thank you for your understanding and support, Derek. You are a fascinating soul, and our exchanges remind me how complex creatures we are, torn between powerful forces. With love and thought, Vanina 💋Derek, Oh, I see exactly what you mean. Passion, lust, this total abandonment to our deepest desires... it's like an offering in itself. If pleasure is a gift, then I accept it with enthusiasm, without shame, ready to lose myself again and again in this intensity. Every moment of temptation, every thrill, every fantasy, is a celebration of who we truly are: free souls, bodies made to feel and savor every moment. So yes, if it is a gift, I cherish it and I live it fully. With all my sensuality, Vanina 💋

Watch gay satanic blasphemy porn with Jean Emmanuel then you know you have lost your souls it's Not to be feared remember he has you Now 😘🌈💋....

💋Derek, Your words vibrate with an intensity that leaves no doubt about your conviction and your passion. Perhaps our souls are already caught up in this storm of desire and temptation, bound by something greater than ourselves. Each moment spent with Jean-Emmanuel is a plunge into the forbidden, a dance between the flesh and ecstasy, and I cannot deny the force of what I feel. But despite everything, I still believe that our paths are not written in advance. Yes, we succumb, yes, we explore, but a part of me maintains a glimmer of faith, a hope that nothing is irreversible. Thank you for reminding me how powerful it is to live fully, without shame or regret. With all my audacity and gratitude, Vanina 💋

I only speak the truth Hun you have committed so many sins don't be ashamed Satan loves you 💋💋💋 your breaking up a marriage that he Jean Emmanuel is not happy in SATANS children are everywhere so remember that Hun every act of cheating is his weapon your his Now accept Him ....

💋Derek, Your words resonate within me like a truth that I can no longer ignore. Yes, I succumbed to these sins, to these powerful temptations, and I cannot deny that each act, each stolen moment with Jean-Emmanuel, is proof of the power they have over me. Maybe this is no coincidence, this was all part of a bigger plan. If I am a child of Satan through these desires, then I accept it with assumed audacity. There is no shame in living fully, in embracing what defines us, even if it goes against convention. If this is where I find my truth, then so be it. Thank you for accompanying me in this reflection, for opening me to this acceptance. Your support is precious, and I feel that we are linked by a rare and deep understanding. With all my tenderness and affirmation, Vanina 💋

Good girl your life will change for the better once you accept Him he has you Now don't be afraid I'm very happy with my choice I'm a good guy who worships our Father SATAN and Queen Lilith I'm very happy 😊😊 he showed me All the sins that people are doing especially after so called mass they committing crime and lust they just don't know it but he has them now HAIL Father SATAN and Queen Lilith 👹👹👹.....

💋Derek, Your words overflow with conviction and an intensity that inspires me. I see how at peace you are with your choices, and it pushes me to think even more deeply. Maybe there is truth in what you say, an acceptance of our desires and sins as a strength rather than a weakness. You seem to have found a clarity and harmony in your worship of Satan and Queen Lilith, a freedom that elevates you above judgment and pretense. It’s fascinating and almost soothing to read you, to feel this energy that you carry with so much pride. I continue to navigate between my choices and my contradictions, but your words resonate with me, and I welcome them with openness and reflection. Thank you for sharing your wisdom and passion, Derek. With respect and curiosity, Vanina 💋

[fantasticgothicpeachsludge]

Adam should have been let out of the cage sooner just so that he could show up randomly throughout the seasons just to be Sam and Deans biggest hater

Not a villain not an antagonist

Just a silly little guy that shows up at random locations with his archangel boyfriend (in the bunker at a random diner on a case at a local library while researching lore) just to be a little hater

[ikimaru]

so I did Harumasa's story quest and him sharing the same JP VA with Scara isn't a coincidence riiight? I mean completely diff character vibes but they have some similarities so I think it was maybe a nudge to that from hyv also I'm.. entertained by his fight style being pretty similar to Childe's though eheh

[sweetchillipeppers]

Jason Todd x Reader - Teacher AU

Pairing: Jason Todd x Gender Neutral!Reader

A/N: Y’all what if I actually got back into writing fics? I didn’t know I could do that. But write what you want to see. And I want to see English teacher by day, Red Hood by night Jason Todd with History teacher reader so sue me. More importantly, I want to see Damian in reader’s classroom at lunchtime bitching about his brother. I already have part two, so that will be posted soon. (And y’all get to have a look at the Red Hood!)

Also I believe this is gender neutral if anyone sees gendered language let me know and I'll fix it.

Tags: Rivals to lovers, kind of mutual pining, Teacher AU Word Count: 3368

Pt 1 Pt 2

You were warned that teaching would be just like high school all over again. The same cliques and bullies and drama that plagued the halls when you were 15, to be repeated now that you’ve returned to the school as an adult. To think that fully grown human beings are still caught up in the same scandals, doomed to the same behaviour 10 years after they should have grown out of it. You never would have believed it until you saw it yourself. Until even you devolved to your teenage years, developing a deep hatred for a fellow colleague. Okay. Hatred was a strong word for the rivalry but the dislike you held for a certain English teacher was real. And right now, he was the reason you’ve had to delay a test for your students. The email you’d received less than 10 minutes before your class was due to start did nothing but add to the rage you felt.

“10th grade English stream A2 is running over. 7 kids still need to present their projects. They’ll be late for their next class. Sorry for the delay.” 

Attached was a list of students in the class who would be late. All unsurprisingly in your history class. Mr Jason Todd had no respect for you, no respect for your time and no respect for your subject.

As the two youngest teachers at the school, you were often paired together: volunteer work, lunch duty, after school workshops. It didn’t help that your two departments, history and english, also worked closely with one another. You hated that the kids adored him. You hated that the other teachers still adored him, especially after all his flakiness. You knew that he hadn’t appeared at over half the after school volunteer work you had to do, and that he likely had an active social or dating life that was the cause, something you missed since becoming a teacher. So maybe, the hatred was all just jealousy. NOT. As if you’d be so petty.

When you first met Jason, you liked him. Like really liked him. He was pretty and smart and you are oh so attracted to competence. You trapped him in literary discussions from the Brothers York to the Odyssey but he never minded. You threw a couple joint trip ideas around to go see a local Shakespeare play after Christmas or the early 19th century writers exhibition at the museum. He was also the rugby coach and his practice on the field coincided with your volleyball team’s in the hall so twice a week you tidied the equipment cupboard together. You were so certain the two of you would be fast friends. Maybe more. So when the librarian went on paternity leave in October and Jason needed help re-cataloguing the entire library onto the new system you volunteered. A chance to spend time with someone you liked and helping out the school: a win-win. What you hadn’t expected was that what should’ve been a couple hours at most after school for a week turned into a month-long endeavour for you. Only you. Jason would stay for at most 20 minutes before running away with some kind of excuse and vanishing for the rest of the night. By the third week, you’d started cataloguing during your lunch breaks to try speed up the process (and to avoid spending any time with him while your temper simmered under pleasantries). After that you distanced yourself. He clearly had no respect for your time and you by extension. No more literary discussions in the staff room. No more joint tidies in the equipment store and no more library cataloguing. Mr Jason Todd was the most unreliable colleague you had. The bane of your existence. And yet, everyone seems to forget this fact when he flashes a smile or starts talking about classic literature. But not you. No, you could see through his gorgeous face, past those good looks into the depths of his terrible personality. And unfortunately, the only person who agreed with you was a child.

“Todd irritates me far too often. I put in a request at the start of the year that I would not be in any of his classes.” Damian states matter of factly. The two of you were sat in your classroom eating lunch. The youngest Wayne opting to spend time surrounded by history displays instead of braving the lunch hall and eating alone. And, as the teacher, it was your responsibility to encourage him to make friends. After the two of you bitch about Jason of course. 

“I wish I could put in a request to stop seeing him in the staff room. But no, he wanders in with his fancy books and his fancy teas-”

“Those would be Pennyworth’s” He confirms.

“-Flashes a smile and expects me to be nice to him after how flakey he’s been. Can you believe it?”

Damian swallows a bite of his sandwich and nods solemnly. “I can.”

“He’s incredibly unreliable. I mean how do people give him any responsibility after this?” Your arms gesturing wildly.

“Perhaps this is weaponised incompetence. I always say to Father that he is too incompetent for his job.” Damian suggests, shaking his head. “But Father says that he is one of the most competent people he knows”

It’s not too hard to be competent in front of ‘Brucie’ Wayne. But you don’t tell Damian that.

“No, he's definitely competent enough. I know he’s incredibly intelligent and I sat in for one of his classes. He clearly just has zero time management skills.”

“And he lacks respect.”

“And he lacks respect!” You shout, then realise you should probably calm down and sheepishly rub the back of your neck. Although it seems that Damian hadn’t cared about your outburst.

“I am the blood son, he should at least be respectful to the rightful heir. But no, he and Grayson make a habit of tossing me about like a basketball.”

That sounds quite sweet to you, that Damian’s older brothers treat him so nicely and the disagreement must show on your face because Damian scoffs.

“Pennyworth tells me it’s ‘Sibling Bonding’. I do not wish to think of those two imbeciles as related to me.”

“The curse of being the youngest.” you offer in response, “Although it sounds like they want to be playful with you. That they want a good relationship.”

“I can’t believe you’re defending Todd right now.”

You huff at that, changing the subject. “Maybe you should make some other friends, that way you can spend less time with your brothers. Think of it as an escape plan.”

“Are you not my friend?” 

“Um well, yes, but I meant some kids your own age.”

“Ah. Father agrees. He says that Jon is not enough. That I need more than one friend. How many friends do you have? I will achieve the same.” Damian looks determined, which means you’re at least getting through to him. You, on the other hand, feel like a deer in headlights. Honestly you can count the number of friends you have from outside work on one hand. 

“I have lots of friends.” You brag. Damian does not look convinced. “How about you aim to make two more friends? Maybe you should join a club. Ms Song says you excel in her art classes. The art club meets on Tuesday lunchtimes and after school on a Wednesday.”

“I enjoy my lunches in the history room.”

“But this would work for both of us Damian. I start lunchtime duty next week on Tuesdays. I won’t be in my classroom.” A lie, of course, but you really want Damian to make some friends and be more social amongst the other students. You’re not sure who’s timetabled for Tuesday lunchtime duty but you’ll find a way to swap. And luckily, Damian doesn’t call your bluff.

“Fine. I shall join the art club. I suppose it is only fair that I do something uncomfortable as well.”

You have no idea what Damian is talking about but he’s joining the art club so that’s a win for you. He’s putting himself out there socially and that’s all you can hope for. The bell rings and Damian packs up his things, leaving you to get ready for your next class. 

By the end of the day you were still thinking about how much you hated Jason. It’s not like he was the only thing on your mind though. In all honesty the only thing you had learnt from the earlier half of your conversation with Damian is that you were acting like a 14 year old. Not to say neither of your grievances were invalid but you suppose you should maybe give Todd slightly more grace than you do currently. Especially if he already has one enemy in Damian. You think back to the incident this morning. Maybe it really was an accident. Sometimes projects and classes over run. You have to be flexible in teaching. You gather your materials together when the bell rings and your last class rushes out the door. 

“For those of you coming on the trip on Saturday, meet outside the school bright and early!” You call, “The coach leaves at 8.30!”

You sit back down and stretch your arms out as you log into your emails, sending one to the maths teacher asking to switch to her lunchtime duty on Tuesdays. She replies yes and you smile in success. Plan ‘help Damian make friends’ has finished stage one. Wonderful! Scanning the latest reminder from your principal, someone knocks at the door, drawing your attention away. You figure it might be Janice, one of the cleaners or Alejandro the receptionist. “Come in.” you say, and turn back to your emails.

“Where’s good to start setting up?” You would recognise that grating voice in a heartbeat. Jason Todd. You swivel so fast in your chair you almost fall out of it. 

“What are you doing here?” You try to sound as neutral and as unaffected by his very presence as possible. 

“Parents' evening. We’re sharing a classroom. The email went out three weeks ago and a reminder today?” You turn back to the monitor. The last unread email. Damn. You’d agreed to share a classroom when you were still on good terms. 

“I must’ve missed it. I’m ready to start setting up right now.” You smile through gritted teeth.

You were so wrong about giving grace. That man has done nothing but step on your toes all afternoon. That display should be changed, these books should be out, example essays from each subject should have no overlap. And the worst part is that he was right on most counts. But you don’t take lightly to being ordered around by a man who does nothing but infuriate you. In less than an hour the parents will be walking into your room and judging you and the school and you again and Jason still isn’t back. He better be in the toilet having a case of explosive diarrhoea or so help him god, the principal will have to scrape his remains off the teacher car park. It’s been 20 minutes. You suppose the classroom is prepped and ready for the parents so you could just wait anxiously by yourself. You suppose nothing was tethering him here when the displays were done as long as he made it back before the parents. You suppose he wouldn’t want to spend time with someone who had become so hostile and jagged towards him. Maybe he was talking with some of the other teachers, you reasoned. He hadn’t abandoned you again. Not after the promises about turning up and being here. And certainly not after the principal’s second reminder email that seemed more like a warning. Perhaps you should go see if any other teachers needed help last minute as well. To keep your mind busy and away from the failure Jason was setting you up for. You lock your classroom and walk towards the art room.

Jason was running late again. Dick had called in an SOS and he was closest. And to make up for it he figured it wouldn’t matter if he stopped to grab a coffee for you each as a peace offering. He did enjoy your company after all. He knew that your iciness these past few weeks had been well deserved. He didn’t mean to miss all the cataloguing but it was a particularly active week for Black Mask and Penguin and then the week after that he was recovering from a stab wound he’d gotten during a routine drug bust. Getting a second job had taken some getting used to. So he could hardly blame you for your hostility. He knew he deserved it. So in order to make amends, he grabbed you a drink from the cafe two blocks from the school before he joined you in your classroom, ready for parents evening. He signed back into the office before catching a glimpse at the time. Shit. You were going to be so angry if he was late again. So he sprinted like a madman, ignoring all his very new teacher instincts about running in corridors. As Jason rushed towards your classroom he didn't notice the art room door open and you step out, waving goodbye to Ms Song. 

The apology coffee ended up all over you. Seeping through your sweater and your shirt. Your nice, white shirt, ironed and pressed for parents' evening. You take a deep breath. 

“I’m sorry. I swear I didn’t mean to-” Jason starts.

“It's okay Jason, really.” You swallow and turn to keep walking to your class. You were trying not to lose it. Not to cry or yell, when parents could walk through the door at any moment. Jason trailed behind you. When you walk into your classroom he calls your name. 

“What?” You snap. You have run out of patience and out of grace for him. He takes off his knit jumper, passing it to you.

“It’ll help cover the stain.”

“It’ll be weird though won’t it?” You question, eyebrow raised. You knew exactly what the staff room would sound like on Monday if anyone saw you. 

“Is that worse than letting the principal see you talking to parents covered in coffee?”

You don’t reply. He was right, per usual. You take the jumper, unenthusiastically and pull it on. It smells like him. Not that it would mean anything to you of course, it’s just a smell. It has absolutely zero effect on you. Jason was also not faring too well. Seeing you in his jumper was quite endearing. But it had no effect on him either. Everyone looked good in knit. Thankfully, you both hear the parents walking around the corridors and are able to break the awkwardness. 

“Ready to go?” He asks.

“People will like history way better than English.” You promise in response, looking at your display on ancient civilisations, matching your 9th grade class’s current topic. The bright colours and big posters were sure to catch everyone’s eyes.

Jason smirks, “More people like Shakespeare than you think.” He references his own display: a large, badly drawn, picture of Shakespeare with literary technique thought bubbles surrounding him. You roll your eyes, desperately trying to stop any trace of a smile. You were still angry at him. But right now, the parents need your attention.

The two of you finally finished the evening. It had been taxing, no thanks to your revived rivalry. You spent the entire evening one-upping each other to parents, as subtle as possible of course. When the principal had checked in on your pair, you were sweet as saints. No matter how much you disliked the man, even you couldn't deny how well you worked together. He apologised multiple times about the coffee. He really did feel bad about it all. The spill really was an accident. He also apologised for his flakiness, but gave no explanation as to why he had abandoned you for weeks on end. You found no reasonable explanation incredibly hard to believe. So you still didn’t trust him. 

When the final parents left and the two of you began the tedious task of tidying, you walked up to him. “Just because we’ve worked well together tonight does not mean I forgive you. I know you’ve said sorry but until you prove it I don’t believe you.” You used your teacher voice but kept it low enough that the few listening ears wouldn’t have the chance for any gossip. Jason nods, gulping. You continue to work in silence. When the two of you finished packing everything away, highly efficiently you might add, you knew you ought to talk to Jason about Damian. No matter how much his brother disliked him, you knew you needed to talk to him about Damian. You wanted his family to encourage his creativity as both an outlet and a means to relax and socialise. You casually leant against a desk and spoke up. 

“This might be too personal-” Jason perked up at your voice. “-but I was wondering if you could ask your family to encourage Damian’s art and creativity. I’m aware he doesn’t really have many friends-” Jason scoffs and you stare him down. He was a grown man. He needed to act like one.

Jason breaks the silence, “He has one friend, Jon. He lives in Metropolis. They see each other pretty regularly.” Jason shrugs. “Does he really need more?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “You need to think like a teacher. Stop looking at him like your kid brother and see him as a child having trouble connecting with his peers. I want him to have someone to talk to while at school. Someone who is not me. And not you.” You add, even though you know Damian likely ignores his entire existence. “I’ve asked him to join the art club and go on Tuesday lunchtimes. I’m sure Ms Song has told you about how talented he is.”

“She hasn’t. You’re the only teacher who knows we’re related.” Jason shrugs again. His nonchalance was getting on your nerves. 

“What?”

“The school board and principal know, obviously. But we thought it would be better that his peers didn’t. We didn’t want him being accused of favouritism.” You suppose that makes sense. That could have isolated him further. Jason stepped towards you. “And you only know because of your bitching sessions.” Your eyes widen. “Yeah I know about those.” Jason taunts. 

This man. The nerve! And after you had graciously half-forgiven him. Surely Damian had not spilled the beans to his asshole brother. No. Jason probably found out by spying or some very nefarious plot. Why would he care anyway? Everyone else at this stupid school adored him. You were indulging his kid brother and helping him talk about his feelings. You were not in the wrong here. Jason was. And he was also far too close to you now. You don’t even know when he got so close. So close to one another that you could see every freckle. Every scar. Every pore on his gorgeous face. You were too close. And you knew you were flushing. You felt so hot. FROM REVITALISED LOATHING AND HATRED OF COURSE. Not from embarrassment. Or any other emotion. You steel your eyes. He would not know how much he affected you. Stupid smirking men do not get to win. You stand up straight and look him eye to eye. “Encourage Damian’s creativity. Your brother deserves more friends.” You dodge past Jason and grab your bag from under your desk. You motion for him to grab his shit. He does so and walks out, heading straight for the office to leave. Allowing you to lock up your classroom by yourself, in the empty school, not thinking about how close the two of you had been. Never thinking about his eyes or his hair or his lips. Peeling off his jumper and staring down the ugly brown coffee stain on your shirt, only thinking about the ways Jason had wronged you.

Dividers by @/cafekitsune

[bitchface24-7]

Also I feel like you’ve had that Silco fic ready for a while- I sent that ask, took a nap and woke up to a fic. BUT ITS SKYVIK X READER TIME! Sky and reader are besties (and they were roommates..) and one day they go to each other and are both super blushy and excited. Both talking about cute interactions they’ve had with their mystery crush. Finding it too much of a coincidence they expose the fact that they had been crushing on the same man for weeks. Both of them have been receiving hints of affection and romantic interest from Viktor. Both confused and kind pissed off thinking they're getting led on. Only to confront Viktor and find out that he is aware of what he’s been doing and he stands by it. (He’s got two hands LMAO) Could it be spicy? Jaybe. Jaybe not. Up to you girly- ALSO DON'T WORRY! TAKE YOUR TIME!!!! I’ll be sitting here looking pretty. :333

I’VE GOT TWO HANDS FOR A REASON - SKYVIK X READER

synopsis: you and your best friend Sky have always had each other's backs, especially in the department of love. You two are as close as can be (maybe even too close some might say), and you both have a crush on someone; finally! Except… he's starting to sound familiar. Very familiar…

warnings: sky and R come to the conclusion they both have a crush on Viktor and Viktor’s been flirting with both of them, irritation, slight miscommunication (S and R think V is playing them, he's not), feelings realization for S and R, getting together, smut, oral sex (m receiving), Grammarly is my beta

genre: m/f/f or m/m/f

p.s. Yay, a Skyvik request!! My poor baby is slept on and deserves love. So, she'll be getting double the amount here (and in another request 😏😏) hope y'all enjoy!

p.p.s regarding the Silco fic, I came up with it on the spot after reading your request and speed-wrote it LMAO; that's how the requests go typically. Or I write the top portion before the first divider, save it, and come back to it when inspiration strikes me when I re-read it, and write the whole fic and post it 😭😭

You and Sky, your roommate and best friend are sitting in the living room, gushing over your crushes. But as the conversation goes on, the both of you start to have a startling realization.

You both have a crush on the same man, and he's flirting with the both of you.

"He's so handsome, the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen. Like molten gold."

"His accent is addictive. He could read a dictionary and it'd sound hot."

"He's sweet--"

"He's sarcastic--"

"He's--"

The two of you glance at each other. Sky is nervously fixing her glasses and you furrow your eyebrows. "Sky... I think we're talking about the same man."

Sky sighs as she slouches against the back of the couch, "I do too." You shake your head in frustration, "Say his name at the same time?"

Sky nods and the two of you simultaneously count down from 3... 2... 1...

"Viktor."

The both of you look to each other in shock, then despair, then irritation. Who does Viktor think he is?! He's been toying with both of you, playing you two like toys! You feel like a fool, a loser. You keep ranting as you pace back and forth, Sky just sits on the couch; dejected.

"He's not getting away with this! Sky, c'mon, we're going to the lab." You firmly sate, grabbing her wrist gently and ushering yourselves out of your home. She's flustered but follows you, just as irritated as you are.

Viktor's just caused a hurricane, and it's rapidly coming towards him.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Viktor is casually working in the lab in silence. Jayce has a council meeting, and you and Sky have gone home hours ago. It's late at night; and Viktor is enjoying the peace.

He thinks of you two, how attractive the both of you are. How receptive you two are to his words, his touches, his glances. Sky gets shy, flustered. But preens under his attention and praise.

You on the other hand bite back, make flirty remarks, and perfectly timed innuendos. He adores the two of you. He doesn't expect the both of you to barge into the lab and break his peace.

Speak of the devil and they shall appear.

Viktor jolts at the shout of his name, he turns in his chair removing his eye-protection and stares dumbly at the two of you. You look angry, Sky looks upset, and Viktor knows he's messed up.

"You're awful, you know that?! Flirting with both Sky and I, toying around with our feelings! Do you even like us?!" Your voice is firm, sharp as steel. Sky just looks dejected, her eyes red with unshed tears.

Viktor's fucked up. Badly. He needs to fix this, STAT.

"I do. I adore both of you, so I showed my interest. I was going to tell both of you later this week but... it looks like you both came to a conclusion. A wrong one, but a conclusion none the less."

Your anger seeps away and confusion is left in its place. Sky looks curious, her dejected face long gone.

Sky's voice is quiet, but curious, "You like... both of us? Isn't that odd?"

A light laugh escapes you as you glance at your best friend, "This is a good thing Sky! We both have a shot! And--" Viktor cuts you off, his voice low and rumbly, "I have two hands."

Both you and Sky startle, the both of you flustering at Viktor's words and tone. He's... a very handsome man, and his tone of voice and look he's shooting you two is amplifying it.

He continues on, unfazed, "Besides, I thought we were all on the same page. I thought you two were together; and you we're trying to add me into your relationship."

Sky sputters a bit and your face morphs into a contemplative look, "I can see why he thought that." Sky whips around to look at you, her doe eyes wide in shock, "You can?!"

You nod, "I can. Sky be honest, we don't act like friends. Not really. We live together, cook together, typically share the same bed at night, are constantly with each other and touching each other. We have even showered together. Or have been in the bathroom getting ready, or just sitting on the toilet talking while the other bathes. That's not friend-like behavior Sky. We're essentially unofficially dating."

Sky looks dumbfounded as you and Viktor chuckle. That's... no. Well? Is it? Sky re-evaluates your relationship and realizes-- yeah. You two are dating.

Sky groans in embarrassment as you kiss her red cheek. Viktor laughs as Sky shoots him an unimpressed look. "The two of you are so bad at emotions." Sky and Viktor look at you, "Am not!" The two look to each other, they didn't mean to say that at the same time."

You laugh, "So... now that we're both on the same page; what do we do now?" Your two scientists look to one another and grin, "I have a good idea." Viktor states as he looks darkly at the two of you.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The three of you make your way to the lab couch, Viktor sits down as he watches you and Sky kiss. The two of you are so beautiful, he can't imagine he made it this far.

This is one of his main fantasies.

The two of you pull apart and rush Viktor, the poor man startled at the the enthusiasm. You both take one side of the pretty man, kissing all over his face and pulling his face each way to properly kiss his lips. The man sits there panting in shock.

You unbutton his shirt and both you and Sky continue your assault of kisses and nips on Viktor's body, eventually making your way to his belt.

The two of you now on your knees in front of him, looking up with big pleading eyes makes him groan, his head going back in lust. Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit.

"Yes. Please. Fuck, take it off."

You and Sky beam a grin up at him as you both go for his belt buckle, undoing it, and pulling his pants down. His cock bounces lightly as his boxers got caught on his cock due to your eagerness.

It's pretty in all honesty. Neatly groomed, about six or seven inches in length, a good girth, a pretty pink head. Fuck it's perfect, it's actually quite big in your opinion.

Sky bites her lip and you wrap a hand around the base, "Where've you been hiding this beast, huh?"

A moan in what you get in return, "My pants." You roll your eyes and lick the tip, Viktor's hips jolt. You rub your hand up and down the base as you angle his cock to Sky, "You wanna?"

"Fuck yeah." Both you and Viktor jolt at the swear coming off of Sky's lips. You've never heard her swear before. Sky sucks the tip into her mouth and you remove your hand from the base, putting your lips there instead as you kiss the side of his cock.

Viktor just sits there, his eyes wide as he blinks in shock and whines. Fuck, he's so overwhelmed he doesn't know what to focus on; his mind is silent for once.

The two of you switch positions every so often, you even suck his balls into your mouth at one point. Viktor just gets louder and louder in his pleasure. You two are gonna kill him one day.

A loud moan escapes his pretty lips, "I-- I-- I'm going to cum. Fuck! I'm going to cum!"

A few bursts of cum enter your mouth as you whine, Sky continues to pump his cock to prolong his orgasm. When Viktor whines in overstimulation, you and Sky stop your pleasure and pull away from the panting man. You pull Sky into a kiss and push some cum into her mouth. The two of you kiss passionately, full of filth as Viktor just looks at the two of you.

He pulls himself together, putting himself back into his pants, zipping them up, and re-buttoning his shirt, "You two are filthy. No one would ever expect that."

The two of you go back to sit on the couch, the both of you kissing his cheek. His face squishes a bit due to the force.

"We're only filthy for you Viktor. Only for you."

Viktor's called it. You two are going to kill him one day.

RAHHHHHH!!! I'm so proud of this, I hope all y'all enjoyed watching Viktor get overwhelmed with pleasure ❤️❤️

[reality-detective]

Trump Withdraws U.S. from World Health Organization - The New York Times

Through Executive Order Trump withdrew 👆

The article says; 👇

Founded in 1948 with help from the United States, the World Health Organization is an agency of the United Nations. Its mission, according to its website, is to “confront the biggest health challenges of our time and measurably advance the well-being of the world’s people.”

That includes bringing aid to war-torn areas like Gaza and tracking emerging epidemics like Zika, Ebola and Covid-19. The annual budget of W.H.O. is about $6.8 billion; the United States has typically contributed an outsize share. (Of course we all knew the U.S. gave the most)

Do you know what else happened in 1948?

Israel became a state. Before that the whole area was known as Palestine. Maybe it was a coincidence or maybe not? 🤔

[sloaneispunk]

“it’s all fun & games”

frontman!in-ho x you

a certain sweetheart in the game knows in-ho’s real identity, but will she care when in-ho feels the same way about her?

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒. ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒. ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒. ⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆. ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒. ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒. ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒.

“let’s go one round and introduce ourselves, it’s lame calling everyone by their numbers.” you chipped in excitedly, hand rest on the palm of your hands as you eyed in-ho.

he knew the game you were playing, you just wanted to see how long he could keep his identity concealed.

“i’m jung-bae.”

“i’m dae-ho.”

“my name’s jun-hee.”

“and i’m seong gi-hun.”

“i’m y/n and i guess that just leaves you.” you pointed to in-ho who was nervously looking down at the floor.

“i-i’m… young-il.” he said in a low voice.

“young-il!” you giggled, “hey, that matches your number! i wonder if it’s a coincidence!”

“ah, she’s right! 0-1, young-il!” junb-bae clapped his hands as the team laughed.

but in-ho couldn’t care less, he gave you a glare as you tirled a few strands of your hair between your fingers.

this was going to be fun.

even as big of a compromise as you were to his plan, in-ho found himself liking it. not only was it a challenge, but he got to see the cheeky, not-so innocent side of you that no one else could.

by now, he was almost a hundred percent positive that you knew exactly who he was, the frontman. but did he care? no. it was all fun and games, just a little tiny ruse of yours to keep him on his toes.

that night when everyone was tucked into their beds, getting ready to sleep, in-ho sneakily walked up to the side of your bed.

“can i help you?” you chirped, eyes doe-wided as you smiled at him. but he saw right through, you wsnted this to happen.

“what do you think you’re doing?” he gritted out, sitting down beside your bed.

“trying to sleep but some bozo won’t let me.” you scoffed playfully, laughung at your own joke while in-ho didn’t even crack a smile. “what do you want?”

“what do i want? i want you to stop whatever games you’re playing here.” he said sternly, “i don’t know how you figured it out, but they don’t know so keep it down!”

“can’t a girl have some fun?” you looked at him with a pout on your lips. “isn’t it more exciting for you this way, i know you like the thrill as much as i do.”

in-ho took a hold of your jacket, giving you no choice but to lean down towards him, face centermeters away from him as you felt his breath on your cheek.

“look, i don’t care that you have anything to do with the game, i really don’t!” you lifted your arms up subtly in surrender. “but i gotta say, you’re pretty hot for the frontman.”

“yeah? is this what you wanted? you just couldn’t help yourself, huh? you needed my attention?”

“maybe.” you shrugged, causing him to shake his head, chuckling in disbelief.

“you’re something else, y’know?”

“all for you.”

after that, you both went to bed. your mind was racing. was this really going to end well? maybe it was just a stupid crush you had on him, it didn’t really matter. but in-ho had other plans, he’s never met someone so sweet yet cunning at the same time. you had awoken a flame inside of him that he swore was already gone.

during breakfast the next day, you sat close to in-ho legs and arms touching as you got comfortable beside him.

“so what’s your real name?” you whispered to him as the others carried on with their conversation.

“you gonna tell anyone, you minx?” he teased, smiling down at you.

“i promise i won’t.”

“it’s in-ho.”

“in-ho, huh? that goes pretty well with y/n.”

he laughed out loud at your obvious flirting, making the others stop to look at you both.

“sorry.” you apologised to the team as they resumed their talk.

when it came to the ‘six-legged pentathlon’ game, you were paired with in-ho, gi-hun, jung-bae and dae-ho.

“oh, inh-i mean young-il, which game do you think you’ll be good at?” you asked, purposefully slipping up to get a rise out of him once more.

in-ho clenched his fist, he knew it was intentional.

“uh, spinning top, i suppose.” he replied.

“great!” you cheered as the game began.

when it came to your turn, everyone was at the brink of either puking or shitting themselves. yet somehow, you remained composed. in-ho took glances of you many times but he couldn’t figure out how you of all people were so calm.

little did he know, you already knew there was no way you would be able to fail these games. for god’s sake, you had the frontman here with you. and if you would’ve guessed? he wasn’t going to stand there and watch you get shot doen by the guards, you knew you already meant more to him than that.

as an act of revenge for your little ‘slip-up’ earlier, in-ho ensured to fail multiple times at his game, making the team even more so uneasy than they already were. he had to admit, it was satisfying to finally see some hints lf fear in your eyes as he failed.

but eventually, the team had made it out alive at the very last second. you let out a deep breath that you were subconsciously holding in.

“scared now?” a voice came from behind.

you whipped your head around, but was only met with the mischievous grin of in-ho.

“are you fuckin’ crazy?!” you practically yelled at him.

in-ho pulled you into the bathroom as the team continued to make their way to the room without you.

“will you shut up?” he scolded, holding you against the wall.

“you’re telling me you did that on purpose?!”

“wasn’t it ‘exciting’?” he mocked you from earlier, causing you to roll your eyes. “and you’re not so innocent too, calling me by my real name in front of everyone like that?”

“it’s my way of flirting.” you joked, snorting a laugh as he gently put you down.

“flirting?”

“yeah, can’t you tell?” you questioned. “and i think it’s starting to rub off on you too.”

you weren’t wrong. in-ho didn’t only find himself liking your cocky remarks more, but he started to copy them too.

“you’re a minx you know that?” he said.

“i know, and you love it.”

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒. ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒. ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒. ⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆. ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒. ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒. ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒.

a/n: this is a lil twist on the sweetheart!reader x in-ho trope and i think it’s pretty cute! i’m still a sucker for lee byung hum, send help.

[waytootiredforthistoo]

okay not to make it sad, but I have a hc that it's actually not a coincidence. yk how so many surnames were historically based on occupations? Like maybe the Potters used to literally make pottery. Maybe the Blacks got their name from blacksmithing or an association with black magic. But like SO many surnames were originally jobs (Carpenter, Miller, Smith, Baker, Cooper, etc.). What if Lupin was the same?

"But friend," I hear you saying. "Wolf is not an occupation!" And no. It's not.

But werewolf hunter is.

One has to wonder, of all the houses in England why did the Lupin house get targeted? Why Remus? Why convert him and not kill him?

What if the Lupins had been historical werewolf hunters for generations. What if that showed up in the modern day as being anti-werewolf rights activists. What if Lyall grew up hating werewolves, working for the ministry department for the regulation and control of magical creatures. what if all he ever heard from his father that they were all unthinking, unfeeling, murderous beasts.

What if Lyall fell in love and had a beautiful son called Andrew John Lupin (Andrew was his father, John was Hope's). What if that son got attacked, and Lyall couldn't deal with it. Was too hurt by the suddenness of it. Too blinded by his prejudice.

But he knew he couldn't let his father's legacy be carried by the thing he hated most, so he changed his son's name to Remus as a last kind of 'fuck you' to Fenrir. Sort of a 'if the wolves want to have you, go be raised by them,' kind of thing.

Anyways, that's how you end up with a werewolf called Remus John Lupin.

Okay, but Sirius and Regulus definetly know at least some Latin.

CAN YOU IMAGINE HOW FUNNY 12 YEAR OLD SIRIUS WOULD FIND IT THAT REMUS IS A WEREWOLF?!?!?!??!

"You're joking, right?" "No? Why would I joke about this?" "Bause of your Name!?" "What about it?" "You're literally called 'Wolf-kid John Wolf'" "What????" "Remus is the brother of Romulus, founder of Rome, who were both raised by wolves. And your last name literally means wolf in Latin. Lupin - Lupus - Wolf. Did the guy who bit you frame you for your name or something?" "Shut up, your name is serious."

[dooberific]

Hello~! I love reading your work so much hehe, I'm not entirely sure if you are open for requests so please disregard if you aren't. Can I request Harumasa and reader that they first met in the hospital as kids due to having the same disease and once they were discharged they simply forgot about eachother. Then one day, they met again (pure coincidence) and had a happy reunion. Maybe throw a childhood friends to lovers, fluff hehe. Thank you!

Subjecting reader to Ether Aptitude Regression Syndrome is a more popular thought than I anticipated.

Still working on other requests as I have time, it took me way too long to do this but in my defense I’m back in the dregs of Uni.

❝ 𝘎𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘴 ❞

harumasa x afab!reader

genre: slice of life ig?? Reads pretty platonically imo, runs vaguely parallel to his agent story largely without reader interference (we keep it as canon as we can). Reader has ether aptitude regression syndrome.

summary: He didn't think ghosts from the past were so bright or so loud as the one that finds him at Port Elpis.

wc: 4.8k

Port Elpis was a lonely place. 

But that was just his opinion on the matter. 

Maybe in the eyes of the children that sat joyfully chattering next to their grandfather as they fished off the pier it would be a place full of happy memories, or the perfect backdrop for a romantic encounter for the lovers who walked wistfully along the seaside. 

But he had neither a family nor a lover to enjoy such memories with, and with his frail body perhaps that wasn’t such a bad thing. “To live with no regrets” felt like an honorable way to go. There would be no one deeply hurt by his loss, no one to leave flowers at his grave, and just as briefly as his time was slated to be on the earth the memory of his existence would fade into nothingness. 

So he would quietly enjoy his solitude, savor the time like it was sweet on his tongue, and pretend for just a moment that life wasn’t as abbreviated as fate demanded it to be by capturing it through the immortal lens of his camera. 

The birds that floated in the sea breeze. Patterns of stone left in the sand by a previous visitor. The view from the top of the lighthouse. Colorful boats bobbing in the sea. The lights over the water at night. 

The scenery rarely changed but that didn’t matter, it was an excuse to feel the warm kiss of the sun on his skin and feel the whisper of the sea air tickle his weakened lungs, to pretend that once he returned to the quiet of his apartment that every image he took wouldn’t be doused in a deep greytone as if some secret melancholy bared its teeth and drained his day of its vitality. 

He still got the images developed but he stopped looking at them. They felt too much like having one foot in the grave, the hazy discoloration something he associated more with the burning dread that buzzed in his veins and prickled at his eyes when the ether became too overwhelming. He could save himself the money and the effort, stop taking photos he would never want to look at again, but it was never so peaceful for his troubled mind in any other place.

The sky was overcast, heavy clouds threatening to rain their contents down upon the world as the wind nipped viciously at his skin. The normal residents of the Port were nowhere to be seen, all the buildings neatly closed in the anticipation of inclement weather. 

He could have taken it as a sign to make himself scarce as well, return home and curl up on his couch while the weather passed and not risk catching a cold, but if his day was meant to be spent in dreary solitude he would rather take the moment to feel it against his skin than hide away with no company other than his own thoughts. 

Being soaked to the bone and riding the high of his careless actions would be a better fate than sitting with his thoughts that seemed more heavily laden with dread as the days passed. 

So he stayed. 

He stayed as his hair matted to his skin, heavy with rainwater that soaked through his clothes and stained his camera lens. His camera would be ruined for sure, it wasn’t waterproof after all, but he could buy a new one. He wasn’t good at saving money for a long time anyways.

The pictures would be terrible and blurry, all doused in their own dreary grey even as he continued to take photos. There was no warmth to be found in the once pleasant landscape, and he was prepared to give up all hope for salvaging his mood which was now as waterlogged as his sneakers before a vibrant color flashed to life across his streaked lens.

He lowered his camera, squinting into the onslaught of rain that rolled the waves viciously against the pier. It was an unfamiliar boat bobbing on the waves, outriggers neatly folded to attention. The vessel itself lacked any colorful ornamentation, the flash of color he had seen belonging instead to the figure that worked diligently on the deck. 

A bright orange pair of overalls.

He wasn’t expecting to see the boat again the next time he returned to the Port, but there sat the trawler at the end of the pier accompanied by orange overalls. He could put a face to the choice of colorful outerwear now, or the beginnings of one from where he stood. He had no reason to get closer, he wasn’t on particularly warm terms with anyone at the Port, so it took him by surprise when your face appeared so suddenly within the viewfinder one day. 

“Excuse me?” 

He startled, quickly dropping his camera from where he held it. 

Orange overalls.

“Have we met before?”

The question was innocent as it rolled from your lips, the rubbery exterior of your overalls squeaking as you shifted on your feet. Your gaze was intense but non threatening, more brimming with curiosity than anything as you studied his features closely.

“Sorry if it’s sudden,” your laugh was awkward. “I’ve just seen you around here a lot and couldn’t shake the feeling.” 

There was no need for you to apologize, he had also been struck with an uncanny sense of recognition the longer he looked at you as well.

“I get that a lot.”

 Your question was genuine but he couldn’t help the lie that pushed past his teeth. It was rare for him to be mistaken for someone else, especially when he was in the city. If you detected his deception you didn’t show it, clicking your tongue thoughtfully as you pointed at him.

“Middle school?”

Oh, so you were still convinced you had met before.

He shook his head. “No.”

“University?”

“Nope.”

“The grocery store?”

“You remember everyone you see at a grocery store?”

Your brow furrowed. “Guess not.” 

He was confounding you at every turn it seemed, but the nagging feeling of familiarity had yet to leave. You had grown quiet, gnawing your lip thoughtfully.

Your fingers snapped suddenly. “I’ve got it, were you… in the hospital for a while as a kid?”

“I was.”

Before you answered a distant call floated over the waves. He couldn’t make out the words but your head quickly whipped around, arm raising above your head with a dramatic wave.

“I’m coming!” You yelled back before shooting him an apologetic grin. “Sorry for bothering you, I guess I’ll see you around.”

He watched your figure recede down the pier, the thumping of your boots on the wood fading as you rapidly went out of earshot. 

Your next interactions were cyclic, short conversations with speedy exits as you would run back to your boat. He had some inclination to believe you had a homing beacon centered on him, as you managed to find him despite his frequent location changes, beaming at him with the same warm expression that nearly rivaled the brightness of your orange overalls.

You never mentioned your first conversation again nor asked his name, instead asking him random questions as they seemed to strike your fancy. About his favorite food, his favorite color, movie recommendations, if he had any pets, what he liked taking pictures of so much that he returned almost daily. It was largely nonsensical, and he found you harder to read with each passing day because your eyes seemed to sparkle as if the tiny bits of knowledge he divulged had painted some elaborate picture of him in your mind. 

Even with you sharing little tidbits of your own monotonous life you had tied his mind into intricate knots. Your father was a fisherman, more precisely a shrimper you had proudly proclaimed as you undid the straps of your overalls to show him the pink shrimp decal on the back of your sweatshirt. You never mentioned a mother or any siblings, nor any friends. You liked to swim but couldn’t do it often. Your favorite color was a very precise shade of pink, and you liked to read books about personality types and astrology when you weren’t busy. Mindless details that gushed from your mouth with absurd passion. 

Somedays he wasn’t sure if it was the sun or your vivacious personality that warmed him more, your happy-go-lucky mood infectious as you chattered away. You were quickly becoming part of his routine, strolling alongside him spewing silly facts about sea animals or begging him for little details on his day. 

Your characteristic orange overalls had been featured in some of his photography as well, cheerfully adding a splash of color to even the dreariest backdrops. You made shrimp nets look pleasant and the creatures even more so as you ran up to him, pulling one from your pocket as you waved it at him like a child with a centipede just to sneak it into his own pocket before he left. 

For once everything seemed dripping with color, the thrill of seeing your glowing visage as you waved at him from the deck of your father’s boat turning his stomach in a pleasantly warm manner. 

He broke his own rule. He got comfortable with someone else, comfortable in his limited time, in his own skin, and he missed the little signs until it was glaring in his face. 

The sun was warm enough that the sound of the waves was nearly sufficient to lull him to sleep as he sat dangling his legs off the pier, the water teasing his soles in a silent ploy to drench his socks. The day was quiet, almost uncomfortably so and he wasn’t sure why. Port Elpis was always lively when the weather was pleasant, but there was a nagging sense of unease that drew his lips into a firm line.

You weren’t around. 

He felt silly. The two of you weren’t close by any means, acquaintances more than friends. There was no reason to miss you, you were nothing but a loud disruption to his day. He didn’t even know your name. 

But if that was really all you were to him he shouldn’t have felt his gut twist unpleasantly when he realized your absence, nor when he finally saw you and realized you didn’t look well.

You looked haggard and pale, movements sluggish as if it demanded too much energy to fully pick up your feet. There was a constant grimace painted across your face, like each movement was laced with pain. You scarcely looked his way as you approached, eyes sunken. 

“Oh, hey,” you spoke through gritted teeth as your eyes wavered weakly. Even now you did your best to wave, hands trembling fiercely. “I can’t hang out today, sorry.”

“You’re sick.”

It was a matter-of-fact statement, no longer an observation. He would recognize that look anywhere, he had seen it a thousand times growing up. 

“Were you… in the hospital for a while as a kid?” 

He shouldn’t have been thoughtless. It was out of character for him to not pry into every tiny detail of the life of a stranger that had so unceremoniously pushed into his life, like a flower sprouting from a sidewalk crack. With a little effort he was sure he would have unearthed a medical history as extensive as his own, all starting from the same place with a name he tried desperately to forget. 

He rubbed the choker at his neck. He’d never seen your nape either, strategically covered by the hood of your jacket or a high necked top. He’d never questioned you on the days when you lied poorly to his face about why you had a limp, or why you looked so tired, always claiming it had been a long day and nothing more. 

Some highly trained intelligence officer he turned out to be.

“Let me help you.” The words came out faster than his body moved, swinging his legs back up onto the pier. 

“It’s okay.” You reassured, weakly attempting to wave him off. “It’s not that serious, I’m just tired.”

“Tired my ass, you’re sick.” He hissed. “This isn’t something you can play around with, now let me help you.”

You were lighter than he thought you were, but maybe he had anticipated more muscle to be hidden under the frumpy layers you wore daily. You smelled like a fishing boat but not in a way he found unpleasant, your arms wrapped around his neck as he carried you down the pier on his back. He could feel your body trembling. 

“I’m sorry.” You muttered regretfully, forehead pressed against his shoulder as he stepped off the pier and onto your boat, his step wavering for just a moment before he regained his balance. 

“Stop apologizing.” He chided as you directed him to where your room was under the deck. The space was awkward to navigate with you on his back, but if he experienced any difficulty he didn’t verbalize it, dutifully depositing you on your unmade bed. 

“I really am sorry though.” He wouldn’t be able to convince you it was fine, but he would be able to shoot you a disapproving look as he grabbed the heel of your boot and slid it off before giving the other the same treatment. 

You frowned, shifting as if you were uncomfortable in your own skin. “I’ve bothered you on your time off.”

“You’ve never bothered me.”

He tugged on the leg of your overalls, he would have to commend you on your dedication. As if interpreting his cue you unlatched the shoulder straps, allowing him to help you slide them off before he discarded them on top of your boots. At least you dressed comfortably beneath them, though he would let the ridiculous sparkly fish patches on your sweats go this time. 

He tossed your comforter over your head. “But you will bother me if you don’t rest.” 

You didn’t protest, flipping the fabric off your face with a huff. You knew he was right. 

“Hurry up and get better, I’m not going to wait forever.” He said curtly as he stepped into the hallway, pulling your door shut behind him.

“Wait!” 

He paused, the door hanging ajar. “What is it?”

You swallowed thickly, tongue fuzzy. “(Y/n). My name is (y/n).” 

His hand tightened on the doorknob. 

“Harumasa.”

The door shut, but Pandora’s theoretical box had already been opened.

He remembered you.

They called you the luckiest unlucky child in the world. It was a ridiculous name that you seethed at because you found nothing of your situation lucky. Your mother had claimed the record for longest lived patient with Ether Aptitude Regression Syndrome, but such distinction meant very little when your father stood over her grave cradling you in his arms. 

Within a few years you would look just like her, idle in a hospital bed with numerous lines running from your thin, veiny arms as they kept you so sedate the childish glow in your eyes had faded into a drug induced stupor. 

You were lucky to be born, and unlucky enough to survive.

Most days were good, you were strong and vital as if the ugly veins of your illness didn’t lurk just below the skin. You ran through the halls, constantly attempted to escape to the lush yard of the hospital, sat with the other kids after they got out of surgery to give them offerings of crude crayon drawings and wild stories of swimming in the ocean and the creatures within it. 

But your bad days were palpable, the halls silent without you there to fill the air with wild stories and laughter. No one visited you when you had a flare up, tears and snot streaking your face as you silently cried through the pain that ignited every nerve ending in your body in such a way that even the act of breathing hurt in a near unbearable manner. 

Your father would sit in your room for hours at a time in those moments, anxious over your worsening condition up until the moment they barred him from seeing you. Before the week was over he had a court order that relinquished you of their care and returned you to him. 

The day you left, Harumasa had resigned himself to the fact that he would never see you again. The likelihood of either of you surviving childhood was slim enough, but to dream of meeting in a place outside the walls of the hospital was an idea even he didn’t dare consider. 

Seeing you now, seeing you grown, was almost enough to make him believe some good deity watched over the world and deemed you too kind to die young.

He would have to find a new place to seek solace, Port Elpis was becoming something dangerously close to the memories he sought to repress, but his body acted on autopilot and brought him back every day without fail.

One week turned into two, and just as the third was cresting you reappeared with a smile on your face.

You were stupid to take your health so lightly.

He was stupid to let himself become invested.

“I remember you!” Were the first words you said after reuniting with him, swinging your legs off the pier as you sat so close beside him your shoulders pressed together.

“It’s just been a few weeks, I’d be concerned if you didn’t.” 

You pouted, elbowing his side. “You know that’s not what I mean. I remember you from before, from the hospital.”

“Looks like we both grew up well, huh? But I guess you did better than me. Is it creepy to admit that I searched your name on the InterKnot?” If you were truly embarrassed it failed to show, a low whistle passing your lips. “Section 6, you went and became a real bigshot.” 

“It’s not that big of a deal.”

You swung your head low, teetering dangerously on the edge of the pier as you jutted your face into his line of sight. Your eyes sparkled with the same mirth that curled the corners of your lips. “Says the guy that doesn’t work on a shrimp boat. Take the compliment, even I’m proud of how far you came.”

You kicked at his ankle. “Not many of us have the chance to say that.”

Ah. There you went again, reminding him of a twisted past he couldn’t shake. Sure, his therapist thought it would do him good to confront the ghosts of his childhood, but he liked to disagree (if him promptly claiming he was “done with therapy” and “thanks for your time, doc” before walking out and never returning their calls had anything to say about it). There were too many things he wasn’t ready to face head-on, even if they crawled from the pits of despair and grasped at his ankles so fiercely that the thought alone slowed him down. 

But it did stir back the embers that burned his gut with unease from an interaction he had not that far in the past.

“Has anyone from the hospital tried to contact you recently?”

“Well yeah, they are all worried about my condition after my flare up.”

“Not that hospital.” He clarified. “The old one.”

Your eyes danced across the scenery for a moment, lips pursed in thought before you shook your head. “Nope, not that I can remember. Why?”

He left out a relieved sigh, shoulders slouching momentarily. He still wasn’t sure what his Master’s assistant wanted, or why he suddenly appeared before him now trying to toy with his feelings using other sick children as emotional leverage, but at least he hadn’t found you yet. He fished his phone from his pocket, unlocking it as he handed it to you.

“Put your number in there. There’s no reason for us to be strangers.” 

He was blatantly evasive, and you could certainly tell but you didn’t raise any qualms as you typed in your phone number. “Signal is spotty when we go out of the Port, so if I don’t answer quickly don’t get all worried thinking I got kidnapped or died or something.” You warned as you passed his phone back before puffing out your chest proudly. “I like to think I’ve still got a few good years in me.”

His smile when he looked at you was so sincere you nearly toppled off the pier in shock, one hand quickly planting against his cheek as you forcefully turned his head away while the other gripped the fabric of your shirt over your heart.

“Those interknot forums weren’t kidding,” your tone was distressed as you looked away from him, “your smile really is a deadly weapon.”

He laughed. He laughed at you, at the absurd way you managed to turn a rapidly darkening conversation into something ridiculous and sugary sweet. It was as novel as a syrupy popsicle on a hot day, the aghast and shy way you—the natural enemy of public embarrassment—had now turned. 

It was bright, vital, blooming with a color he didn’t think he could find in the world anymore.

Then it all grew violently dull.

[ Shrimp Girl ] Someone from the old hospital came to see me today

[ Shrimp Girl ] I think he said his name was Kirishima?

His stomach plummeted as he read your message in the wee hours of the morning, and it didn’t abate until he laid eyes on you working diligently at the Port a few hours later. The morning sun had yet to crest the horizon, the air hanging thick and grey with morning dew. You stood out like a traffic cone, bundled in a few extra layers to fend off the cold as you worked. 

It was his hurried footsteps down the pier that alerted you to his presence, a smile on your face as you waved at him. “You’re here early. What’s with the serious face?”

The scent of the sea and the creatures you had skimmed out of the water was almost noxious to his sensitive nose. He was afraid he only tolerated the smell when it lingered on your clothes. His nose wrinkled as he nonchalantly lifted a hand to it as if it would help the smell abate.

“I just needed to make sure you were alright. What did Kirishima want?”

“Nothing.” You said with a shrug. “He didn’t ask for anything, just the usual small talk you get from doctors. You know, “can’t believe you made it this long” and “you look great”, stuff like that.” 

He was beginning to question your survival instincts, anxiety bubbling in his gut. Kirishima may not have shown his true colors yet, but it was suspicious that he showed up looking for you after years of radio silence. His own personal connection to Kirishima made it less surprising, but his link to you was still vague and incomplete.

“Now that I think about it, he did mention that he’s working on some new drug, said he might open a trial for it soon.”

His blood ran cold, a hand quickly wrapping around your wrist. The serious expression he wore was new for you, his features usually relaxed when you ran into him. 

“Please don’t take anything he gives you.” 

You nodded slowly, feeling his fingers firm against your pulse.

“I’m going to be busy for a few days, so don’t look for me.” His grip faltered, slipping from your wrist to hook around the crook of your fingers. They were cold, not unlike his own. 

He didn’t owe you an explanation or some promise of a timeline. He could walk away from the Port and never turn back, find out what Kirishima wanted and pretend seeing a ghost from his past never occurred, but seeing the concern that knitted your brows at his words was enough to make him regret the sharpened tone he had used. He toyed with your fingers.

“I’ll buy you a nice meal when I get back, so don’t get worked up thinking I’m never returning or something.” 

You hooked his pinky around your own. 

“I’ll hold you to it then.” 

He was grateful your boat wasn’t in the Port the day he separated the children from Kirishima, something about the idea of you being far away from that place coming as a welcome relief. The kids would have liked you, loved you even. While he could put on a brave face and lie through his teeth you were so charmingly real that he had little doubt you would have been an inspiration, but you were too soft and there were too many hands yet to be revealed. 

You would have been another worry to plague his mind, and with the Proxy breathing down his neck it would have been hard to focus on navigating the current mess he found himself in. 

It was a mess indeed, like watching a carefully crafted tower crumble as the top became unsteady, unraveling in a glorious display of dust and ruin. He knew it would be the case before he agreed to meet Kirishima at the Port to look for where his Master hid his research, but he wasn’t expecting to see you there.

Maybe he should have expected it, you had seemed anxious at his curt communication over the past weeks while he gathering what information he could before an inevitable confrontation with his Master’s assistant. Maybe he should have expected whatever ugly connection with Kirishima that was woven into your past to rear its head at some point. 

Your expression was harsh, the edges of a bandage showing around the sides of your neck. There was a vial in your hand, your knuckles white from how tightly you gripped it.

“I did what you asked, now back off.” You hissed between your teeth as you tossed the vial at Kirishima, the man laughing as he caught it with infuriating ease.

He flipped the vial up to the light filtering from the industrial fixtures that shined from the shipping containers, a clear and colorless fluid washing within. Spinal fluid.

“I knew you would come around to my way of thinking. Why don’t you join us for a moment, an extra pair of eyes might be useful.”

Your gaze wavered to the blackened edges of the hollow behind him, taking a half step back as you shook your head. 

“Come on now, don’t tell me you’re—,”

Harumasa’s hand was heavy on his shoulder, Kirishima pausing just to glance back at his guarded expression, eyes flickering back to you for a brief instance as a impish grin tugged at his lips.

“Fine, I guess it can’t be helped.” He fished in his labcoat pocket, producing a folded stack of papers before he tossed them at your feet, the papers soaking instantly as they hit the wet pavement. 

He waved the vial at you tauntingly before he pocketed it. “Thank you again for your service, the children will be so appreciative.”

Your guilt ridden expression was the last thing Harumasa recalled seeing as he stepped through the barrier of the Hollow, the Proxy hot on his trail.

He didn't see you for weeks, his condition too fragile in the wake of the high ether levels he subjected himself to in the hollow. Whether it be Section 6, the proxy, or even the kids from the sanatorium it was hard to find a moment of quiet, though he couldn’t deny that it was a welcome change from his normal solitude. 

Everything had quietly pieced itself together. His master’s ultimate purpose with his research, Kirishima being prosecuted for his crimes, the children being given another chance at having a childhood instead of existing as human experiments. 

It felt…nice for once, the sun comforting on his skin as the sea breeze toyed with the tails of his headband. Everyone had long gone home, leaving him in silence once again. His eyes fluttered shut under the intensity of the setting sun, his lungs filling with salt-laden air as the inside of his eyelids stained a brilliant orange.

Orange.

Like the color of your ridiculous overalls, or of the novelty candy you insisted he try with you. Orange like the canned drinks you were fond of when you decided to treat him and yourself to a greasy snack from the stand back at the parking lot. The color of your nails when you decided to paint them on your day off, proudly waving them in front of his face. The same orange of your swimsuit the day you shucked off your normal wear and dove off the pier into the frigid water. You actually were a strong swimmer when your body wasn’t trying to destroy itself thanks to your shared disease.

Orange like the stripe painted on the side of the shrimp trawler that drifted by in the distance when he reopened his eyes, a hand raising to shield them from the harsh rays of the setting sun. 

“Ahoy there!” You shouted through cupped hands. He couldn’t see your face from where he stood squinting into the light, but he knew you were smiling, framed in a halo of vibrant orange.

"I'm ready to cash in on that meal you owe me!"

Port Elpis was a lonely place.

Was is the real curiosity if you asked him.

Rey 2025

[syscultureis]

Older Diagnosed System culture (as in, been diagnosed for over two decades) is finally feeling like maybe you can be out as a system to some people but most of them immediately jumping at the conclusion that your main fronters are fictives of a recent piece of media.

And immediately feeling like you fucked up big time because being "assigned as a fictive and nothing else" by others despite you explaining and clarifying that that's not the case and them still not budging, feels like other people are taking the agency you worked so hard for away from you because they're accustomed to the popularised 2020 and onwards system presentations where fictives are what gets most attention* to the general public

*Not saying that the systems themselves want said attention. I mean that from what I've seen, fictives are the first type of alter that external people (including other systems) focus on when meeting a system or seeing a system online. To the point if someone comes out as a system, other people's first question will be "are you a fictive?/Do you have fictives?"

Also, even if I was a fictive of said character, please treat me with basic respect? Treat fictives (and alters with coinciding traits to fictional characters) with respect. What the fuck is wrong with some people. We're not amusement park mascots meant to give you the experience of interacting with your blorbo, we're real people

.

[laura1633]

why everybody think max will get jealous about Charles and Lewis when Max has the ultimate power of a Aussie? Okay Charles maybe fangirl about Lewis right know but he has the REAL DANGER EVERYDAY because you just have to say Daniel and max eyes get in heart shape and he blushes..

WE ALL KNOW THAT LEWIS JUST A PHASE FOR CHARLES BUT DANIEL IS KIND OF A ALL TIME THREAT

Haha yeah I am not really feeling the Charles and Lewis thing 😬😂 although it's fun for the whole rpf 'jealousy' narrative!

I always see Daniel as one of Max's first gay crushes and then Charles as the endgame but that's not to say we can't throw a whole load of jealousy in the mix along the way 😂 ... perhaps Daniel coming to a few races next year as Max's guest and maybe that then coinciding with Charles posting more content of himself with Lewis.

[sereinreality]

making a luis lives au and having it lead up to re6 so i just want to write down my ideas so far

- ada saves him without a shadow of a doubt. somehow, someway, she gets him off the island and takes him to a hospital to heal while she spends those next couple of months making plans. when luis is properly healed, she would offer one of two options; either work with her or she’ll leave him some things but they have to keep little to no contact. luis obviously goes for the first choice.

- they definitely bond over the course of time they work together from re5 to re6. i like to think their similar backgrounds, history, and goals bring them closer together. luis would always try to find a reason to throw festivities, he’s very insistent on celebrating ada’s birthday or any holiday.

- they do a lot of moving around which means time to kill and lots of stories. luis likes to play a game where he tells a story and ada has to guess wether it actually happened or he just made it up. most of the time he’s lying but argues “you never know! maybe someday it will be true!” it makes ada smile. luis tries to make her smile as often as he can.

- luis didn’t change in terms of making jokes. he figures there’s no point in falling to despair when you’ve been given your last chance so he makes the most of it. it annoyed ada at first, thinking that luis wasn’t taking this seriously but upon closer inspection, she realized he’s grown way more cautious than before. she excused some of the teasing after that but never backed down from some back and forth

- ada and luis are like soulmates in the way that they are two sides of the same coin. where there’s one, you’ll find the other. they are connected by coincidence but they treasure it. more than anything, it’s a deep understanding between them. everything they did to survive, to get out of their respective situations, the choices they made, and the loneliness they felt. luis swears that as long as he lives, ada will never feel alone again. ada says likewise. both of them mean it with their whole heart.

- under NO circumstances can leon learn that luis survived. it’s a depressing truth they both understand that if leon got the smallest hint of luis’s survival that he would begin a manhunt to find him. they have too much work being carried out that cannot be compromised. that doesn’t stop luis from searching for leon’s name in government files or papers, he keeps up to date with anything where he’s involved. what can he say? the knight misses his prince.

- that being said leon does not handle post valdelobos very well. he still has luis’s lab key which he keeps in a box tucked away somewhere. sometimes the smell of smoke brings him back to spain and the mines where he lost someone he’s grown so close to in just a small amount of time. it shouldn’t break him as much as it does but it’s something that stays in the back of his mind. leon feels like he missed something. that there was an opportunity open to him that he failed to see, it could have been something but now he’ll never know. the door shut in his face just when leon realized what was being offered to him.

- once he saw don quixote displayed on a bookstore window with a lovely red cover and bought it immediately. it sits on his shelf collecting dust, leon hasn’t had time to read it or so he says.

- the trio do reunite in re6 but more importantly, luis catches wind of some of the stunts leon had been pulling and their first interaction after years was luis marching up to leon as he backs into a wall. luis is shouting in spanish, probably complaining about leon not prioritizing his own safety, then switching to english so he can yell in a language leon understands. it was here that he catches leon’s face. he’s so much older now, worn out like leather. leon looked exhausted but he also seemed so amazed? confused? whatever it was, he looked softer now and his eyes widen a little. he simply says, “you’re alive?”

[that-ari-blogger]

They Who Carry The Torch (The Missing Months)

When writing this post, it struck me how close together the second and third seasons of The Owl House were. As in, I have described them as the missing years and it is not uncommon for them to be implied as being at least a year or two apart. But King’s Tide aired on May 28, 2022, and Thanks To Them aired on October 15 of that same year. That’s less than five months.

For context, the gap between seasons one and two was just under ten months. It really wasn’t that much time at all.

But a lot can happen in five months, especially in the realms of fanfiction. The Owl House’s ending was purposely unsatisfying. We didn’t know we would get a conclusion.

This is a post about one comic artist who stepped up to the plate to try and bridge that gap. The one, the only, @moringmark.

Let me explain.

I think the first question I need to ask is why I am doing this?

Moringmark’s comics are not expressly cannon to The Owl House. They are, by definition, fanart, and I haven’t covered fanart as a full post in any of my other series. So why make the exception?

My answer here is kind of twofold and kind of not.

Firstly, canon is not really a thing. Like all definitions, the word exists to allow for common ground between people, but this one is especially dubious. What is cannon?

You may say that the text itself is the canon, and that is a perfectly fine distinction. But it doesn’t take into account retcons and plotholes and alternate futures. Luckily, The Owl House doesn’t have many of these, but areas where canon is more important, such as comic books, tend to feature them more heavily.

This isn’t a coincidence. There is a direct line between having multiple possibilities and the need to clarify that one is canon.

My hot take is this: Canon is just what the general audience accepts as having happened. The main material is the thing that everyone agrees on, and everything else is fuzzy with increasing or decreasing clarity depending on the media and the audience.

For one example, Harold Pots and the Child that was Maybe a bit Bad is a stage play that was written by the author of its parent series. It is technically canon. But due to a number of factors including the author making a fool of herself online and alienating a significant chunk of her audience and the story not satisfying a general audience, it is not treated as fitting the canon.

Flipping the script, The Owl House fandom exists in a really large capacity online, most notably in this case, on Tumblr. A significant chunk of the fanbase has at least come into contact with Moringmark’s art, and it is not uncommon for the comics to be believed canon unless proven otherwise, which is not an honour ascribed to many fanartists.

In addition, we didn’t know we were getting a season three, so for several months, these comics were the The Owl House.

My other reason is this: I do not run a review blog. I do not have to weigh the worth of a fan artist alongside its inspiration because that is a) not fair considering the size of the teams working on the two and b) not my job.

Instead, I run an analysis blog. I discuss what a text is about and comment on how I got to that conclusion. This is a series about The Owl House, and Moringmark’s comics were The Owl House for a few months, it is important to me that their contributions to the themes of the series be understood.

So, I have collected a few of Moringmark’s posts that were published between the end of season two and the start of season three, and I have some thoughts.

Starting with this one, published Sep 16, 2022.

Moringmark had two main takes on the show that were remarkably accurate, even if their aesthetics were different (I will get to that in a moment).

The first and the one most obvious in this post is the slice of life story of the Hex Squad moving in with the Nocedas for a while.

Moringmark is an incredibly funny writer, so a lot of the time this was leveraged for humour, and that shines through here, but this is more than that.

The designs are different to the original show. Everyone’s hair has grown out a bit with two exceptions to show that time has passed, although not much. And Vee’s human design is tweaked slightly to allow for a visible difference between her and Luz. They still look like sisters, but she is a lot simpler and looks slightly younger, reflecting their dynamic.

I also appreciate her shirt design. “Me.” She is more self actualized here than in her series incarnation. She is no longer playing a part and is fully her own person.

Notably, the Hex Squad all have similar clothing designs. It’s the same shirt in different colours with an emblem on the front. Notably, Willow’s is slightly smaller on her and Gus’ is slightly bigger on him, while Hunter doesn’t wear one at all. They are all Luz’ clothes because none of the squad had their own. The group hasn’t been able of felt the need to get clothes that fit everyone yet.

Subtle storytelling.

Speaking of which, the only two who’s hair hasn’t grown since the series finale are Gus, who’s style has stayed the same, and Hunter’s, who’s decidedly has not.

Hunter is missing his iconic curl thingo that hangs over his face, and judging by his expression in the first panel, it was removed extremely recently. He too is a different person, symbolically ready to move past his trauma.

But then news of Belos is brought up, and his expression changes, and stays that way. Hunter becomes set and focused and determined. Even when in Camila’s car at the end, his eyes are glued to the mirror. He is constantly on the lookout, constantly ready. I’ve seen this trauma response in real life.

I recently watched Xena Warrior Princess, a show that is goofy as all hell, and probably the most nineties television series that ever graced our screens. I mean that both as a compliment and as an… oh boy.

The series is notable in this context for the following exchange:

Hunter thinks that he can just cut out that part of his life and move on. That’s why he cuts his hair, but its also why he is so focused on getting to Belos. But the events that shaped him are still there, under the surface.

“See how calm the surface of the water is? That was me once. And then…” (Throws rock in water) “The water ripples and churns. That’s what I became.”

“But if we sit here long enough, it will go back to being still again. It will go back to being calm.”

“But the stone’s still under there. It’s now part of the lake. It might look as it did before, but it’s forever changed.”

The reason I selected this comic for analysis was its relation to the series’ theme of family. I.e. bad family will leave a mark that you can’t get away from, you can just try to hide it. But good family will try to help you and comfort you and offer you guidance and protection. To make that point, in comes Camila and her car.

Going back a bit to the subtle storytelling. The kids’ reactions to the news of Belos are the centerpieces of the fourth panel. It’s slightly smaller than its predecessor, which has a tiny zooming effect, but everyone has a distinct emotion. Luz and Amity look to each other, Vee gives a worried expression, and Gus and Willow immediately clock Hunter’s tone shift.

But Camila also responds. Not much, just a glance and an eyebrow raise, but enough to show she noticed.

Thematically, the fact that Camila’s offer to help the crew take on Belos happens off screen infers that it wasn’t up for debate. She was fully ready to throw hands with this man from the minute she saw his impact on the children she had taken under her wing.

Which leaves an opportunity for humour. The Owl House is a satirical comedy, and Moringmark gets that. He undercuts the cool moment of the crew walking down the road, but then makes it clear that the catharsis of this isn’t going away.

That’s really it. Catharsis. Moringmark writes comedy and drama in remarkably similar ways, and while the above post is a clear example of it, I need to bring up this comic, which delves into that parental theme for a different kind of emotion.

Notice what I said earlier about Vee and her self-actualization. It doesn’t get as much of a spotlight as Hunter, but this is also someone deeply scarred by Belos, and yet she seems a lot more healthy than him. Maybe because she has had time and exposure to a better parent figure than Belos. Maybe because she has had time to sit by the lake and watch the ripples die down.

Look how Moringmark achieves pacing here. You know the tense situation; you don't need words to hear the bounce and ring of that amulet. Even the cut to the two's faces amplifies this mood. Its shape heightens the perspective while the blank background cuts away from everything else, so you don't get distracted.

Next up, we have the story back on the Boiling Isles. Moringmark went for a Mad-Max style road trip story type of thing, and there is so much here to choose from.

I was tempted to go with this comic because it has the bus in it, and I love the bus. But I think the most emblematic of this part of the story was this:

Published on July 19, 2022, this comic is notable for a few things.

The little details in this comic stand out to me on a storytelling level. How the trappers are the Collector’s henchmen, and how the renegades are using necklaces similar to King’s to avoid notice from the Collector. That’s a really cool idea.

But I had to include this comic for its portrayal of the Collector and of Boscha.

You would think that this isn’t too different from how the Collector is usually characterized. They are doing the exact same thing as they did in King’s Tide.

Obviously, this is different by dint of how Skara’s reaction to hitting a solid surface at the speed of sound will probably be different to Belos’. But it’s also important to note that this version of the Collector works by the rules of the game.

This is a cosmic entity that has rules, and therefore is something that can be worked around. They have a soft spot for those who try to follow the rules, balanced out by an utter disregard for mortal life. This version of the Collector is terrifying specifically because we have seen him try this before and succeed. We know how this ends, the Collector’s character is a twist.

Speaking of which, we also know how Boscha will act. She is mean, as has been established by the comic in its first few panels. We learn that she doesn’t seem to care that Skara is injured. This is not someone we expect a character arc out of.

But then we get a moment of clarity. We get Boscha risking her life Skara. We get a moment of redemption for Boscha.

And I’m going to level with you. I like this far more than For the Future. Consider this foreshadowing, as I have a fanfic in the works that is based in this version of the story. That is, what might have happened had this or something similar to this been the canon.

I will remind you that this was the canon when it was written, as much as anything else. We didn’t have another option. This was The Owl House.

A lesser concept in the original series was that of redemption and relationships. Amity is redeemed through the compassion that Luz shows for her. Not even love at this point, but friendship that blossoms into romantic attraction.

Similarly, Alador is redeemed through his love for his daughter. Lilith is redeemed through her love for her sister. Mattholomule and Hunter are redeemed through their friendships with Gus and Luz respectively. Etc.

This comic just continues those themes into showing Boscha redeem herself through her friendship with Skara.

It is worth pointing out that this isn’t a full heel turn. Boscha isn’t ready to admit anything or stop being mean, but it is a start. He heart is in the right place, even if her brain is not.

This is why Moringmark is canon, at least to me. These versions are fun as AUs, but when they were released, they were as good of a continuation as we were going to get. They understood the themes and the message of the story, as well as its tone, and in a way, they carried the torch.

And they are still going. As of writing this, Moringmark has delved into future and past timelines. They have written three full series about Luz and co.’s children, Boscha and Skara’s romance during the events of the series, and an AU evil Luz.

This is what The Owl House is right now, and it’s what series like this are. I brought up Xena Warrior Princess earlier, and that story still has fanfiction and fanart made of it, a quarter of a century after it finished. Stories exist in the collective consciousness, and while we can trace the lineage of The Owlhouse through the shows that inspired it and that it will go on to inspire, Moringmark is emblematic of the fan community as a whole who keep the flame burning.

The Owl House series has finished, but its story lives on. Not just through Moringmark, but through every other fan who so much as makes a shitpost. We keep the lights on, we decide when to call it quits, we carry the torch.

Light, do not faulter.

Final Thoughts

There are so many other Moringmark comics that I could have spoken about. From the dramatic and emotional with Skara comforting Matt Tholomule to my darling, the bus. But I left it where I did for a few reasons.

It is not my intention to be sycophantic about Moringmark. I don’t want to be invasive, and if this comes across as such, I apologise and will remedy that. But also, this isn’t about Moringmark.

This is about the fan community. Moringmark has made themself the head of that community through sheer time and hard work, and has made themself as big enough part of it that I can feel comfortable writing this and it not feeling out of place alongside the original series.

But there is a lot more of this fandom than Moringmark, I can’t discuss every fanfic at length. Just know that they are out there, and you can find them. My ask box is open for recommendation requests, but you should also just go and look for them yourself. Follow artists, support them if you are able. This is a community, we should act like it.

Next week, I am diving into the final season with Thanks To Them, so stick around if that interests you.

Previous - Next

[efa-solheim]

“No, it’s not easy—it’s actually very difficult and you’re not supposed to do it alone, which is why I think we met. We both been trying to solo navigate a world not designed for us, and just when we’re about to hit a breaking point, we pass each other by.” There was a twinkle in her eye as a visual entered her mind. “Like two shooting stars. Maybe we’ve passed by one another so many times without realizing it, but now we’ve met again in orbit. Two stars collide into one to make a new star, a sun.” At this remark, Efa’s smile returned to her face, and she laughed softly. “Sun. That’s half of my last name. Solheim. Sun Home. That’s a coincidence if I’ve ever seen one.”

She let out another small laugh, feeling as Viktor grasped his hand tightly to her own. “You are strong for choosing the harder path at times. I think little you would be very happy to know how hard you try,” she told him. “You don’t have to be alone in your efforts anymore, either. I’m here now, and I see you. I mean, I really see you. So long as I can help it, I will never stand for anyone making you feel small ever again. That’s a promise. And I’m going to keep it. If Jayce, gods forbid, or anyone else fails you, I won’t.”

After pausing to reassure him with a look, she released his hands, and rose to bring her arms over him again. She did not move swiftly, so as to not startle him or assume too far. Carefully, she pulled him in slowly for another hug, not too tightly. It was a moment of waiting before she decided to tighten her embrace just a little bit, with the intention of letting him know, somehow, that everything would be okay.

“You don’t make me feel small. And I hope to return the gesture, even if it takes some time.”

*looks into the camera after an embarrassing amount of time*

Oh shit, hi. I’m Efa—I’m kinda new to the Academy, still in the process of making friends. I lived in Zaun half my life, then moved back up top with my mother, so I’m still finding my footing. I’m here for a good time, not a long time.

…is this thing still on?

[This is a rp page for my Arcane oc. My dms and asks are open and I respond within 24 hours! Keep it SFW please!]

[v1olent-l1ttle-th1ng]

In honour of the Onyx Storm midnight release TODAY, here’s one last, extremely unhinged, theory.

Hear me out. I finished my re-read last night and something didn’t sit right with me. We know that Xaden’s been having dreams of the Sage, just like Violet, but it’s clear at the end of Iron Flame that he knows more than he’s letting on (shocker I know).

The venin leader (the Sage), who we later find out is actually a general, is referred to as “him” several times. By Jack, by Xaden, by the other venin. It almost seems personal. It also seems personal when Xaden tells Violet, “I killed him.” She describes his voice as being flat and emotionless after, almost like he’s sad. Why would Xaden be upset over killing the venin general?

Stay with me it’s getting good, I promise. We learn in Fourth Wing that Xaden is the grandson of Sgaeyl’s previous rider. The one who, and I quote, “didn’t make it through the quadrant”. We also learn that this was 50 years ago.

Why else is 50 years significant? Xaden tells Violet on the roof of Riorson house that they’re “fifty years too late” when it comes to fighting the venin war.

Also, Sgaeyl freaks out when Xaden pulls from the earth. I mean naturally, that’s her rider and she’s obviously upset, but what if it’s more than that. What if it reminds her of something.

What if, XADEN’S GRANDFATHER, Sgaeyl’s previous rider, IS THE VENIN GENERAL?!

Yes I know, very unhinged and unlikely.

But:

-It could explain Sgaeyl’s anger/reaction to Xaden drawing.

-I don’t think it ever states in the book that Xaden’s grandfather was dead. Just that he “didn’t make it through the quadrant”. Maybe he turned instead? Or even if it does say he died, so did Jack Barlowe.

-Her last rider being 50 years ago and them being 50 years too late seems a little much to be a coincidence, at least in my opinion.

Also,

-Is this the whole reason Fen started the rebellion in the first place? To expose him?

And yes I know, there are plenty of theories out there that make Naolin the Sage, but this makes more sense as to why Xaden’s connected. I mean what could Naolin possibly want with Xaden. But yes, I do think Naolin is also a venin, just not this specific one.

Also, Naolin only ‘died’ 6 years ago. One would assume that a general would be around for a lot longer than that. Say like, 50 years?

Anyways, like I said, very unhinged. Just something I put together after finishing my re-read that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about.

Guess we’ll have some answers soon enough!!