“Ohhh, look at this,” Spiderman’s voice pulls you out of your reverie. You shake your head, and direct your attention to his hands where he’s holding a stack of documents, neatly filed and color-tabbed. Next to the print, Auntie Aecha’s chicken-scratch marks barely decipherable notes. 

You take them from him with interest, but after skimming through the first few lines, you drop the stack on a nearby table with a sigh.

“It’s just her inventory list.”

“What?” Spiderman cries, and reaches for the documents to look at them again. “I swear to God, I saw—oh, shoot. Right. ‘Don’t forget blood orange’,” he says, dejected, and throws the documents back onto the table.

“Yeah,” you say reproachfully. “She usually made Fresh Berry Delicious on Thursdays.”

“Ooh, right. Yeah.” Spiderman nods, and continues rummaging through the chest. After examining each thoroughly, he places a few candles and other sorts of random knick-knacks that he deems uninteresting on the floor.

You furrow your eyebrows as you watch his back, broad shoulders clad in tight, red-blue latex. 

“You’ve been here before, Spiderman?” 

“Ehh? Noooo,” he answers without looking at you. It’s not lost on you how his hands froze hovering over the chest. “It was just a, you know, general acknowledgement of your statement. Like, ‘ooh, right, yeah—I’m sure she did’, I meant it like in that kind of way.” 

“Okay.”

“I’ve never been here before,” Spiderman stresses, fingers frozen over the chest.

You shrug, and walk over to a cabinet near the chest. “Well—that’s your loss, dude.”

You’ve never thought about how weird it is that Auntie Aecha had chests in her living room. Or anywhere in her house in general. It’s very Victorian. Or pirate-y. Which were also very Victorian. Or were pirates later than the Victorian era? You wish all of your friends didn’t think you were batshit crazy, and so you could’ve asked Namjoon to tag along. He knows shit like this. 

Looking through the cabinet, all you find is china, untouched, nothing sort of interesting. It’s also not the expensive kind of china either, you know this precisely because you’ve asked Auntie Aecha yourself, and she’s told you she collected them throughout the decades from various charity shops for a couple spare pennies. But they look refined enough to fool someone. You wonder why a burglar would leave all of them behind without even checking them out, pocketing just a few on the off-chance. 

With a sigh, you step back, and mentally catalogue this information. You doubt it’s worth actually noting down. 

You take a look around the room, searching for what to examine next, when you notice Spiderman is sitting on his heels, eyes intent on something small in his hands. He’s completely static, maybe even zoned out behind his mask. 

“Oh, you found the murder weapon already?”

“What?!” Spiderman’s head snaps in your direction, and boy, how you wish his mask could convey expressions. 

You can’t help but snort as you step closer to him.

“It’s just a corset busk,” you tell him, and take it out of his hands to look at it yourself. “I wonder why she even has stuff like this lying around. . .” 

“Oh.” Spiderman visibly relaxes, and you imagine he must be giving the weird object another curious look now that he knows what it is. 

Why did you know what it is? Why, of course because of the phase you went through in high school where you were obsessed with 18th century Europe. Every girl had that. 

Right?

With a hum, you throw the object back into the chest. Now, almost empty, it lands inside with a loud cling. 

You put your hands on your hips, and look down at Spiderman. Still sitting, hands in his laps and shoulders slack, eyes on you. Well. At least you imagine that he meets your imploring gaze head-on. 

“Be honest, Spiderman. You’ve never investigated before, have you?” 

Spiderman splutters. He crosses his arms in front of his chest, and rather defensively, might you add, turns the question back around, “As if you’ve made so much progress. Have you, Miss?”

It’s your turn to snort in indignation.

“Maybe not at this scale, but yeah. I’ll have you know I’ve solved frickin’ robberies before.” One robbery. Of a piano. With the security tapes clearly showing the face of the culprit. Which you included pictures of in your article, that perhaps someone who knew them read, and was the reason why they decided to tip off the authorities. Maybe you didn’t have as much to do with the solving of that case as you’ve liked to believe. But anyways. “That gotta count for something.” 

“Well, from where I’m sitting, it counts for negative one thousand twenty four!” Spiderman shouts, not loudly, but enough to make the air around him vibrate in rhythm with his frustration. His frustration with you. With the situation at hand, as he gestures around himself. “In case you haven’t noticed, we don’t have anything!”

“And from where I’m standing, you can’t even tell apart a grocery list and an evil masterplan!”

“It was an inventory!”

“Same fucking difference!”

“What, you’re implying that I’m too dumb to solve mysteries?” Spiderman provokes, jumping to stand in a crouch with his arms resting on his thighs. Big thighs. Damn. Anyways. 

“I don’t know, am I?” You tilt your head, arms crossing in front of your chest. You try to look down on him as pityingly as possible. 

“Okay. What’s the square root of 128?” Spiderman fires back. 

You huff. “Really, dude?”

“What?” Spiderman asks innocently. “I calculated it already.”

“You didn’t fucking calculate it.” You shake your head, and begin to take a step towards him, and—

“Sure did. It’s 11.313—___?”

—you stumble, and instinctively, your hands shout out, palms splayed, in a feeble attempt to break your fall.

You never get to hear the end of that answer. 

It’s disarmingly quiet in the room all of a sudden. Only for a moment, though, a small fraction of time that your mind might not even have been able to register otherwise, if it wasn’t so strange, so unnerving, so completely unnatural, but now it’s almost as if you went deaf and blind at the same time down to the exact nanosecond. Your senses fail you, blood rushing to the tips of your ears, and fingers, and temple, pumping loudly with uncomfortable, infinite throbs, and though you still remember your palms meeting the wooden floor of Auntie Aecha’s living room, you’re now floating, weightless, unmoored, in vast nothingness.

Then the opposite; warm, all encompassing, bright light is all you see for a moment, beaming out of you, shining onto you, before the ghosts of a pair of warm palms encircle your waist, your neck, your thighs, your hands, the shadows of a kiss pressed onto your lips and a breeze that’s caught in your hair as you, bodiless, formless, crude and intangible soar through figmental space. You bark and you scream, voiceless and piercing, deafening, and dark, black blood flows like a river from wounds that have not met flesh yet, and it’s cold, so cold, freezing you to the bones as the rain soaks into your skin to fill your lungs, choking you, and you—

No.

No. You’re here. You’ve been here all along — on your back, on the floor in Auntie Aecha’s living room. 

What the fucking hell just happened?

Ears ringing and head throbbing, but you’re here, existing and substantial. Your vision clears slowly as the image of the chandelier hanging above you sharpens. The afternoon sun that’s sneaking in through the windows reflects from the glass and plays with the light around the room pleasantly. Nothing like the burning light from before. 

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.”

Spiderman has one palm on your neck and the other on your cheek, slapping you lightly. You promptly swap his hands away, and somewhat unsurely, but manage to sit up.

“Oh my God, are you okay, Miss?”

“Yeah? I don’t—”

“Dangerously high heart rate detected. Panic mode activated. Alerting Mr. Stark in 3, 2—”

“Ah, no, no, no, Karen, no, there’s no need, don’t alert Mr. Stark! I repeat, do NOT alert Mr. Stark!” Spiderman shrieks, voice octaves higher than normal. Hurriedly, he starts hitting himself on the chest and on the back of his neck to. . . Well. You’re not exactly sure to do what. “How do I turn you off. . .”

“You can’t manually disable panic mode, Spiderman. Monitoring vital signs. If resting heart rate does not return to normal in 10 minutes, I’m dispatching an ambulance.”

“An ambulance!” Spiderman huffs. “Really, Karen, that’s a bit extreme. . .”

You can’t help anymore not interjecting. “Your suit fucking speaks?!” 

“Oh. . . yeah? That’s Karen,” Spiderman says, and in lack of better options, points at his head. He probably does not realise the implications of that. “I kind of forget she’s in there sometimes, to be honest.”

“Hello, ___.” The robotic, female voice greets you. “It’s nice to finally meet you.” 

“The fuck. . .” you mutter. “You have your own AI?”

“Actually, I prefer to be called a natural-language user interface. If anyone gee ay eff.” 

“I’m sorry about that, Mr. Stark started training her from Tiktok to be ‘down with the kids’. She’s usually turned off,” Spiderman says. “Because she’s a bit. . . freaky,” he whispers the last word.

“Aww, Spiderboy. And here I was thinking we’re finally friends.”

Spiderman sighs. “Karen, go turn yourself off.”

“As I’m sure you’re able to recall, I cannot be turned off.”

“Yeah, yeah. Go to sleep, Karen.” Spiderman waves a hand in the air. 

“Sweet dreams,” the robotic female voice says, and you swear you hear a cheeky little chuckle in her tone. 

Spiderman is right. Karen is freaky. 

“She’s gone?” you ask.

Spiderman starts nodding, then decides to simply just shrug instead. “Well—she’s pretending to be, at least.”

“Good enough, I guess,” you say, before looking around yourself. You’re sitting on the floor, not far from where Spiderman previously was. He must’ve caught you before your body could crash with the ground, and laid you down. “What happened?”

“What happened?! What happened?! I should be asking you what happened!” Spiderman cries. “You fell, and suddenly, you were all—” 

He stops speaking, so you guess he must have made a face here to demonstrate. 

“I can’t see your face through the mask,” you remind him. 

“Right. So, you were all ehh-eehhh-ehhh, like, frickin’ death growling, and your eyes went crazy and wide and entirely white and you started, like, vibrating? I don’t even know, I thought you were having a seizure or something.”

“I’m not sure that’s what a seizure looks like,” you say.

“How the frick should I know what a seizure looks like?” Spiderman asks. 

“I don’t know.” You shrug. “You’re the one who, like, fights crime and saves people and shit every day. Wait. Have you ever called 911?”

“Have I ever—huh?” Spiderman sways as he shifts his weight to the other leg, playing with his fingers. “What does that have to do w—?”

“‘Cause I never had, and sometimes when I remember that, I get scared that if I ever had to call them, I’d mess up.” 

“I’m—I’m sure you’d do fine, Miss?” Spiderman asks more than he says.

“Thank you. Do you really think so?”

“I’m. . . We’re getting so off track here,” Spiderman states.

You sigh. “I’m sorry. I ramble when I’m nervous,” you admit, and direct your gaze over Spiderman’s shoulders, where a few framed paintings hang on the wall. Pictures of the sea, and Holland tulip fields with white mills in the background. They’re a pretty kind of melancholy. “That was. . . man. That was just really scary, I suppose.”

Spiderman hums sympathetically. He sits down on the floor next to you, properly this time, at a respectful but still comforting distance. Resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze is directed on his feet as he asks. 

“Yes. Yes, it was really scary. What. . . what did you, like, perceive?”

You can’t help but snort. “What did I perceive? Seriously?" You mock him with a chuckle. 

“C’mon, you know what I mean,” he mutters. 

You’re silent for a moment or two. You really don’t know how to answer this question. 

What did you perceive, really? Whatever just happened to you can be hardly expressed in words. It was as if you entirely stopped existing for a moment. Like you weren’t here. But you weren’t anywhere else, either. Everything simply just. . . stopped. And in existence’s wake was neither bliss nor torment, or maybe somehow both came at the same time. 

How do you say this without sounding like a crazy person? 

You suppose there’s no helping it. You guys live in a world of Norse Gods, and evil aliens, and genocidal robots with consciousness. Spiderman himself sticks to walls, and his body may be organically producing spider webs (well, you’re still on the fence about this — currently, you’re leaning towards the Synthesised Webs Theory, but the point is: anything is possible). 

“I think,” you begin unsurely, turning your head to look at him. “I think. . . my consciousness. . .  left my body?”

Spiderman looks back at you. “Why are you asking me? I wouldn’t know.”

“I’m not asking you, dude,” you protest, throwing your hands up into the air helplessly. “I’m just, like, saying, maybe my consciousness left my body, maybe an evil spirit tried possessing me, maybe I did have a seizure, I don’t fucking know!”

“Okay, okay, all right. I’m sorry,” Spiderman says, raising his palms in a small gesture of genuine surrender. “Of course, you don’t know. I’m just. . . freaked out, too. I haven’t seen anything like this before.”

The admission somehow makes you feel more beaten down than you already were. You smother a frustrated, little sound in your throat, before shooting him a soft but nonetheless cocky smirk. 

“I can imagine. Don’t think it’s lost on me that your supersuit almost had to call an ambulance for you, Spiderman.” 

Spiderman’s head snaps away, gaze examining the ground in front of him. If only he didn’t have his mask to hide behind, you’d think you’ve embarrassed him.  

“Well,” he says unwillingly. “Even superheroes have their weaknesses.” 

“Yeah, but fainting damsels?" you tease him. “How very cliché.”

With a chuckle, Spiderman shakes his head faintly, but does not respond. Instead, he asks, “Did you—I don’t know. See anything?” 

“Yeah. In a way, I guess.” You nod. “But it’s not something you could easily describe. Like, I didn’t see with my eyes. I’m not sure I even had eyesight. But I think I saw. . . time, maybe? But I wasn’t a part of it. Like now, how I perceive” (here, you send him a funny look) “that seconds pass, and we sit here, together, talking. I’m experiencing this. What I just saw there, for the smallest fracture of a moment, I feel like I was an outsider to all of it. Like, I was simply just passing through the fabric of time. And it wasn’t, like, a moment, either, in the same way a moment is now. It was longer, like entire lifetimes, but it didn’t. . . feel that long? Does any of this make sense?” you ask, glancing at him from the corner of your eyes as you finish your monologue. 

Spiderman snorts. “Not even a little bit,” he says, not unkindly, before adding. “Doesn’t mean it wasn’t real, though.”

You move to push him by the shoulder playfully. “Wow, gee, thanks for not invalidating my experie—” 

Your sentence is cut short when something you could only describe as something like an electric shock goes through you; fingertips, tail bone, up your spine, the top of your head and the ends of each strand of hair. You straighten up as you sit, and the hand that you put on the ground behind you to balance your movement jerks up, as if burned. 

It felt just like before. 

“Are you—”

“What the hell?” you mutter, turning around to look behind yourself.

The wooden floor is empty, dusty, but empty, save for something small and metallic hidden in the shadows in front of the chest. The light glints off the jade stone in the casing of the silver ring, which you immediately recognise as the one Auntie Achea is always wearing on her index finger. 

Did this—?

You move to pick the ring up, but no sooner than your skin meets metal, another electric shock goes through you, and you flinch back. 

“What is it?” Spiderman asks. He’s now crouching behind you, looking over your shoulder at the jewellery in interest. 

Dumbly, you mutter. “It’s a ring. . .”

“Yeah.” Spiderman nods dutifully. “I can see that much.”

“It’s Auntie Aecha. . . Aecha Park? The lady who lives here?” you clarify. Spiderman nods again. “It’s her ring. She was wearing this, like, all the time. My friend, Hari, complimented it once. Auntie said it’s a family inheritance. She wouldn’t take it off. . .”

“And no ordinary robber would leave it behind,” Spiderman finishes. 

“Yeah. Exactly. Unless. . .” You try to pick up the jewellery again, but, as expected, the same thing happens. 

“You can’t touch it?” Spiderman asks. 

“No. That’s not it.” You eye the ring curiously. “I think—Okay, this is crazy. I think the ring is what sent me into the seizure.” 

“Wow.”

“Yeah,” you agree with the sentiment. “Wow.” 

Spiderman reaches over you for the jewellery. With bated breath, you wait for the moment he makes contact with it, to see if something happens. Anything. 

Once it’s in his palm, Spiderman’s fingers close around the ring once, before spreading them once again to examine the ring. Now that it’s in his hand, you allow yourself a closer look again; it’s a pretty piece, that’s for certain. The stone is small, but tasteful, perfect for such delicate, elegant fingers such as Aecha’s. It’s visibly old, but looks no less valuable. A once in a lifetime find, something you’d stumble upon by mistake at a vintage dealership and keep as a prized piece of your collection forever, wear to church, and pass on to your daughter on her wedding day after forbidding her from playing with it as a girl. 

Spiderman throws it up in the air a couple of times, catching it in his hand, twisting it this way and that as it plays with the afternoon sunlight. 

“Hm. I don’t feel anything,” he says.

“Maybe it needs to make contact with skin.”

You pull the sleeve of your shirt over your hand, and carefully place your wrist into Spiderman’s palm, the ring trapped between the two of you.

Nothing. 

“Yeah,” you confirm. “I don’t feel anything now, either.”

“What an odd little thing,” he comments. 

What an odd little thing, indeed. 

There’s something else that won’t let you rest, though. 

“Auntie wouldn’t have left this behind. Dude, this is it.”

“What?” 

“What we’ve been looking for,” you tell him. “Our lead.” 

You feel your phone buzz in your pocket, and just a moment later, a series of pings resound in the room just as Spiderman scoffs incredulously. “A ring?”

“Hey!” You chide him while fishing the device out of your jeans. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

Looking at the screen, notifications of new messages in your group chat unthread over your wallpaper. 

Yoongles [17:43]: mario kart party at our place this evening

Seokjin [17:43]: everyone come, bring booze

Seokjin [17:43]: neighbour toms cats missing again so use the back staircase cus he’ll hiss at you

Yoongles [17:43]: @___ u better show up i’ve got some tea for u 

Seokjin [17:44]: @jungkook u better show up too

Seokjin [17:44]: i’ve got nothing for u i just know u have the notifs silenced lmao

“I’ve gotta go,” you say as you lock the screen, but on a second thought, you do not pocket the device yet. You unlock the screen again, and shove your phone under Spiderman’s nose. “Hey! You should give me your number. So we could, y’know, regroup sometime. Don’t worry about me leaking your number or anything, you’re protected by GDPR.” 

“Yeah, leakers famously care about GDPR.”

“They don’t,” you agree. “But journalists do.”

“Do they?” Spiderman retorts.

“I don’t think journalistic exemption applies to phone numbers,” you tell him, shaking your phone in front of him. “Unless, y’know, you wanna work on this separately. But in that case, you should know two things beforehand. One, this becomes a competition in my head, and I don’t have a habit of ever losing, and two, you won’t be able to solve this case without me, anyways.”

Spiderman laughs. “Someone’s really cocky.”

“Please. I know my capabilities,” you say. As an afterthought, you add, “You’re also absolutely hopeless, Spiderboy.”

Spiderman looks at your extended hand with your cell phone in it, then at your face. “Okay. But let me take your number instead.”

“Good call,” you tell him. “Gimme your phone.”

“I don’t have it on me.” 

You nod in appreciation. “That’s actually really smart. Evil people could probably hack it to trace you.” 

“Right.” Spiderman nods. “That’s totally why I don’t carry it.” 

“Should I not just take your number instead, then?” 

“I don’t know my number.”

You falter. “You don’t. . . know your own phone number?”

“It’s a work phone. Haven’t memorised it yet.” Spiderman rushes to explain. “Just tell me your number, and I’ll remember it.”

“You haven’t managed to memorise your own number, but will remember mine if I tell it to you once, out loud?” You raise your eyebrows dubiously. “Are you trying to fucking ghost me?!”

“My mind just works in mysterious ways.” Spiderman shrugs nonchalantly. 

“Spiderman,” you tell him. “You are an extremely odd individual.”

₊✩。🕷˚🕸⋆。

Seokjin screaming bloody murder echoes all the way into Yoongi’s bedroom from the living room. Which is not a particular shock, their apartment is tiny, so Seokjin is really just, like, 30 feet away from where the two of you are lying around on Yoongi’s bed, and the walls are drywall, really fucking thin. But it still sounds way more serious than a simple Mariokart showdown with Taehyung calls for. 

Well. Or maybe not. Taehyung plays dirty. Half of the reason why you and Yoongi decided to slip away to hang out in his bedroom the moment he started hoarding items.

You shove another handful of popcorn into your mouth from the bowl in your lap as you listen to Yoongi finishing his retelling of his newest side thirst quest. 

“—so I tried to comfort him, y’know, but for a while he was crying so hard that he couldn’t even get a word out. So we were just standing there, my dick out in the open, in the basement laundry room,” Yoongi says, also popping a few pieces of popcorn into his mouth. He’s moving rather awkwardly to reach into the bowl again, what with his bandaged arm resting over his stomach, so you take pity on him, and hand-feed him the next few pieces like a mama bird. “The RA was about to break the door down because she thought there was an emergency, so what else could I do?”

“I don’t know, dude, but not climb into a fucking washing machine?!” You burst out laughing, bumping your shoulder against his as he also cracks up at his own stupidity in retrospect. “Like, you could’ve just put your pants back on or something.”

“My pants were in the washing,” he tells you. “I’m not gonna put on wet pants. Anyways, so I—”

“Wait, hold up,” you stop him, needing some clarification. “So this was after he sucked your dick?”

“Of course this was after he sucked my dick!” Yoongi cries, flicking your forehead with his unharmed hand. You shoot him a rather unimpressed look as you press a palm against the sting. “I’m not gonna have a guy crashing out about his missing friend suck fucking my dick! Would you??!” 

You shrug with barely contained laughter. “I don’t have a dick, dickwad.”

“Right, that’s totally the fucking point,” Yoongi says monotonely. 

He sits up to fix the pillows behind himself before leaning back down besides you, trying to get comfortable again. He lets his bandaged arm fall on the bed next to him to rest, his other arm stuck between your bodies. He opens his mouth, and you oblige by throwing a few pieces of popcorn into it. 

“Is your arm okay, though?” you ask him when you have calmed down from your previous laughter. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Yoongi says, happily chewing. “Just bruised. Seokjin was the one who insisted on wrapping my arm for a few days in the first place for some reason. He’s rewatching Grey’s Anatomy again so I’m indulging him.” He nods his head noncommittally, before a smirk sneaks onto his lips. “D’you think he’d wipe my ass if I told him I’m too injured to do it myself?”

“I definitely wouldn’t fuck around and find out with that.” You snort. “He might just actually do it.”

Taehyung’s purely evil, victorious laughter resounds no sooner than Seokjin starts screeching like those weird plants in Harry Potter. Truly, it’s a wonder to you how Seokjin and Yoongi have not been evicted yet for disturbing the peace of their apartment complex. It must be almost midnight by now. 

“I sent him your number, by the way,” Yoongi says. 

“Who?”

“Santa Claus, dumbass. Congrats, you won a trip to the North Pole,” Yoongi drawls, popcorn in mouth. “Who the fuck do you think?”

“I dunno asshat, that might be the reason I asked.”

“Daniel,” Yoongi clarifies. Which, admittedly, doesn’t help your case much. Seeing your furrowed eyebrows, Yoongi decides to help you out without picking on you this time. “The guy from the laundromat. I told him my best friend is a journalist interested in the kidnappings.”

“I am?” Your eyebrows remain furrowed. “Or, oh my God, are you cheating on me?!”

Yoongi sits up fully this time. He turns as he sits on one of his ankles to face you. Wordlessly, he just watches you for a moment, then another, with a solemn expression on his face. 

It’s unnerving when Yoongi does that. 

When meeting the two of you for the first time, many find it strange that you and Yoongi would be best friends. A bubbly girl without any filter on her mouth who never shuts up nor is able to sit still for longer periods of time, and the guy who keeps quietly to her side, as if to keep her guard with his bare, serious expression and the light taps on her sides when she says something generally deemed ‘rude as fuck’ or ‘way too much information’. 

They question why someone like you would be so attached to someone so cold. 

But that’s because they don’t know Yoongi. Like, really know him. There’s a select few who share your privilege; your group of friends (and even they weren’t instantly allowed this glimpse of the real Yoongi Min — you’re lucky, in that sense: your five year-old self did all the heavy lifting to peel back his layers before you could even retain adult memories), and maybe the occasional boyfriends and girlfriends Yoongi finds worth keeping. 

Because the Yoongi you know never shuts up. Goes into tangent after tangent after tangent, and calls you up randomly during the day because he just went on a four-hour Wikipedia deep dive and can’t fight the urge of telling someone all about it, because isn’t it crazy that sharks existed way before trees did, ___? In reality, he has even less of a filter than you do, and God save anyone who has the misfortune of going up against the two of you during Truth or Dare or Charades or just a simple argument. In the humble opinion of your friends, you and Yoongi together are awful, weird, and exhausting, and simply just annoying on a good day. 

So Yoongi taking his time to stare into your soul before he finds the way to tell you something? The same guy who asks you to pop the zits on his ass in all seriousness?

When he eventually does speak, though, it’s a bit of a let down. He really managed to build suspense. 

“Well. A little birdie told me you are.”

A sigh escapes you as your head drops back against the pillow (and accidentally hits the wall, too). “Fucking Jungkook.”

“C’mon, ___,” Yoongi chides. “He’s just worried about you.”

“The fucking snitch!” You continue boiling in your frustration. 

Jungkook knocked on Yoongi’s bedroom door not fifteen minutes ago with Piper in tow, to pop their head into the room and bid a quiet good night to the two of you. Maybe you could still catch up with them, and. . . well. Jump him? Something like that. 

Nevermind. Piper would never forgive you for barging in on their ‘alone time’ like that. Let alone for killing the guy.

“You could’ve told me, you know,” Yoongi says matter-of-factly. If he’s hurt by you not involving him, he hides it well in his tone. Which means he’s probably not offended by it. Your friendship is way above tiptoeing around your own and each other’s feelings. “I wouldn’t have been mad.”

You size him up for another quiet moment, playing with the hem of your sweater absentmindedly. “You don’t think it’s a good idea, though,” you state the obvious. 

“Please, ___.” Yoongi snorts, lightly kicking your thighs with toes. “I rarely think your dumbass has good ideas. I want to hear them regardless.” 

“I’m interested in Aecha’s kidnapping. Not Rando Danny’s rando friend’s,” you say, quickly adding when you realise you’re probably being very insensitive right now. “No offense.”

Yoongi shakes his head as if to ask ‘What are you telling me no offense for?’, before saying, “Hari says you’ve been glued to your laptop and the TV all weekend, though. There’s not that much material on Achea. You obviously think there’s a connection. Even if, you know, the fucking authories seem to think otherwise.”

“And you think that’s silly?”

Yoongi shrugs. “I wouldn’t have arranged the interview for you with Rando Danny if I really did. You usually think outside of the box. Sometimes it works, sometimes you’re onto complete bull. There’s no telling until there’s an answer.” 

“Wow,” you say in genuine marvel. “That was a really diplomatic way to say you lowkey still think I stink.”

“I’m just keeping it real,” Yoongi says. He leans back on the bed, putting his weight onto his unharmed arm as he does so. A content smirk curls his lips, super villain-y and cheshire cat like. “Jungkook was suuuuper pissy when he called me to tell me, and I quote, to ‘rein in my best friend somehow’. He’s only ever like that when he’s, um,”( Yoongi coughs like he’s being choked by invisible hands) “like, he’s never like that. What the hell did you tell him?”

“Nothing.” You shrug. “He just sensed that I was up to something, I guess.”

“What?”

Biting your lips, you look up to the plastic stars — arranged in the Pisces constellation, the work of yours truly — glued to Yoongi’s ceiling before telling him, “I went to the Seoulite earlier today. To gather evidence.”

“Ohhhhh,” Yoongi perks up in interest. “And? You find anything?”

The ring, wrapped into three layers of paper tissue, sits somewhere in the front compartment of your backpack, thrown down in the entrance hall next to your pair of Converse upon arrival. You think of a certain arachnid hero and the new phone number in your cell, a text that arrived some twenty-minutes after you arrived at home, reading only ‘Spiderman here’. You think of Karen, and your freaky magic-induced LSD trip on Aecha’s livingroom floor, and—

“No. Complete deadend,” you say. 

The first lie you’ve ever told Yoongi since the secret, two-week long crush you’ve had on him in the second grade. 

(Which he totally knew about. So, technically, this really is a first.)

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

A/N: so. y'all. haha. what do we think?? is the spideyreader banter cute? cringe? and if we're at it, when else does get jungkook so pissy, i wonder. . .? and mannnn, why did we lie to our bestie yoongi? ;-(

piper and jungkook walked home alone, ouhhhh, i bet piperkook shippers would be cheering if they only existed

“Excuse me, sorry,” you mutter as you fight your way through the crowd, trying to secure a nice spot around the edge, towards the closer side. People don’t really mind you, looking awestruck with their mouths slightly open as Spiderman’s hands steadily encircle the torso of the man who was previously plummeting towards certain death, very heroic indeed. And anyways — you’re a native New Yorker. Meaning you’re not above a little elbowing here and there when the situation calls for it. “Sorry, I’m coming through, excuse me.”

The crowd spits you out at the edge. 

After stumbling a little, you huff, fixing the straps of your backpacks on your shoulders, and ruffling your hair. 

You walk a little closer, just in time to hear the crowd erupt in a loud cheer as Spiderman touches ground, the loan shark looking man in his forties held bridal style in his arms. God, now that’s a sight. You should’ve brought your camera — if only you didn’t catch the report on Spidey-Watch so last minute while stepping off the subway.

OK. Approximately 25 seconds, now. That’s what you have.

You lean down to retie the shoelaces of your trainers. Tightly. With a double knot, and all. 

Spiderman sets the man on his feet. Tentatively, the man, too, releases the hold he has around Spiderman’s shoulders. 

He looks shaken, understandably. Face pale, clearly on the brink of vomiting, legs shaking as he takes a few tentative steps. The reality that his bones didn’t end up cracking into a million little pieces seems to sink in for him as he cries, hands flying back to grip onto the vigilante’s shoulders. “You saved me, Spiderman.”

“Yeah.” Spiderman nods. He pats the man’s hands on his shoulders — maybe in a show of comfort, maybe in an awkward attempt to get them off. “Please make more responsible deals in the future. Preferably not with the, y’know, uh. . . the mob.”

“I didn’t know they were the mob, Spiderman.” The man shakes his head, voice very utterly serious, before giving himself away by swallowing. 

“Of course you didn’t,” Spiderman complies.

“Of course I didn’t,” the man affirms. He gasps, taking his hands off of Spiderman’s latex suit clad shoulders to rummage through the inner pockets of his suit jackets. “Wait a second.”

You take the chance to walk closer to the scene on the sidelines while the crowd is busy watching intently as the man produces a 5$ Starbucks gift card. Some gasp, some sigh in awe. Personally, you just think he’s a bit of a cheap ass loser as you grip your voice recorder tighter, fingers hovering ready over the buttons. 

“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly—” Spiderman shakes his head as he declines the generous offer, holding out his palms in rejection.

“Please, take it,” says the man, pushing the gift card into the vigilante’s chest before swiftly letting it go, so that the other has no chance but to grab it before it falls to the ground. “Let me repay you. Thank you, Spiderman.”

“Thank you, Spiderman,” the crowd echoes. 

The scene is a bit funny. In the same way it’s funny when people clap when a plane lands.

OK. About 10 seconds now. 

Spiderman quickly says his goodbyes to his impromptu audience, throwing up a few peace signs here and there while shooting a web behind him, ready to take off. 

“Goodbye, you people. Drink water and, uh, stay safe!” Spiderman starts walking backwards as he speaks, gradually gaining speed. “Oh, and wear sunscreen!”

The crowd answers, “We will, Spiderman!”

And just like that, Spiderman is off. 

It’s your time to shine. In your comfortable running trainers, you take off on the pavement, right under where he swings, attention divided between evading fellow pedestrians and keeping an eye on the arachnid vigilante. 

“Spiderman! Hey, Spiderman!” you shout. For a moment, you swear you see him teeter. “Spiderman, I’m ___ from the NYU Weekly, I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?”

Nothing. 

Spiderman keeps swinging. So, what to do, you keep running.

“Spiderman!” you continue, “I study journalism with a minor in communications and am writing my thesis on the presentation of superheroes in the media, and I think an interview with you could give great insight on the subject to the academics!”

Spiderman keeps swinging. 

In your heedlessness, you faintly crash into one of the green, metal bins out on the street with your hip, letting out a painful yelp as you press a palm against the most likely forming bruise to soothe the pain. 

But still, you keep running. 

“Miss!” you hear someone shout. Snapping your head up, you see Spiderman looking down on you as he glides through the air, expression hidden behind his mask but voice a bit desperate. “Miss, please stop doing this, it’s very dangerous.”

“Give me an interview?” you try, starting to get out of breath. 

You’ve never gotten this far before. Usually, he manages to shake you off pretty quickly at the first approaching street corner. This is a bit more than what you’ve been working out in the university’s gym for. 

This might just be your chance, though— Spiderman actually acknowledged your presence, it’s been like half a minute and you’re still hot on his trail, and your new running shoes, although very, very fugly, are holding up great so far. 

But before you have a chance to give it another try, a few — unexpected to your calculations — things happen in quick succession. 

You hear Spiderman let out an uncharacteristical squeak, and the next thing you know, you’re falling back on your ass, some of the textbooks in your backpack painfully digging into your back as you collide with a news stand by the crosswalk. 

A few metres from you, cars start speeding down the road as the lights turn green. 

“I’m really sorry, miss!” Spiderman shouts once more. “Soak it in one part water and one part vinegar overnight! And be more careful watching where you’re going, please!”

And with that, Spiderman turns the corner, and away he swings above the New York traffic. 

Well. There’s always next time.

Groaning, you push yourself up into a squat with both hands on the ground, before massaging the strain in the top of your neck where your head has jerked back upon impact with the news stand. 

All over your chest, are slimy, gooey, sticky white spiderwebs. You try not to cry.

The sweater is cashmere.

₊✩｡🕷˚🕸⋆｡

“Where the hell have you been?” Yoongi Min, a short, mint-haired communications major senior with cat-like tendencies and an endless temperament, (and your best friend since the diapers, but that’s worth mentioning only on the margins), whisper-yells as you slide into the seat next to him during the ongoing lecture. 

Eyes on the presentation screen, you pull your laptop and water bottle out of your bag without any haste, trying to get an idea of which lecture of yours you are even sitting in on right now. You catch a few buzzwords like defamation, source credibility, Johnny Depp, and deep fakes on the presentation. 

Introduction to Media Law, is the most feasible conclusion you can come to.

“I had a lead,” you mutter to Yoongi as you power up OneNote on your screen. 

“You mean you stalked him on Twitter,” Yoongi corrects. He drops his stylus in favour of tugging on the sweater you didn’t have time to change out of, curiously touching the gooey remains of spiderwebs before wiping it back into the material from his fingers with a scrunched up face. “Ew. You look as if someone depraved just came all across your tits. What the fuck did you do this time?”

“As you can see, I had an actual interaction with Spiderman this time.” You smirk. Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “Details are unimportant. The point is, now I’m sure he knows who I am, and the next time he sees me he’ll—”

“Wait,” Yoongi interrupts. “What do you mean next time? Namjoon told you to give up on the article.”

“That’s only because Namjoon’s been dumped again and became a defeatist.” You shake your head. The lecturer asks a question, so you start randomly typing on your keyboard. Old man Professor Hendersson’s a softie, he wouldn’t call on a student busy in the making of the perfect lecture notes. Some person in the third row answers him, and so you continue to do the same to Yoongi. “Dude’s gonna be kissing my feet when I make him the first NYU Weekly editor who signs off on an Avengers feature.”

“Avengers-adjacent.” Yoongi corrects.

“Spiderman wouldn’t appreciate you saying that.”

Yoongi snorts. “What a relief Spiderman won’t hear shit of what I say.”

“Hey guys,” whispers a third voice. 

Jungkook Jeon — shy, giggly, fellow journalism major junior with a long haircut that makes him look like a triangle kimbap — slides into the other seat next to Yoongi, only a notebook and a branded cup of coffee in hand. 

He looks slightly out of breath, cheeks aflame, and clothes messy, his large black t-shirt hanging inside out on his lean figure. It’s 11:42, which might as well be the ass crack of dawn in Jungkook-terms. He must’ve slept in. 

Jungkook settles in the seat, taking a sip of his coffee with the straw as he turns the pages of his notebook to the next blank. That is when he seems to remember something. 

Before he could even look over and ask, you reach over Yoongi (who scratches your arm that blocks his sight of his iPad, HayDay opened, which is not very nice of him, is it, but see — the aforementioned cat-like tendencies) to hand him the pen you’ve fished out of your bag the moment Jungkook sat down.

You know him too well.

Cheeks going a bit pinker, Jungkook huffs, accepting the pen as he whispers, “Thanks, ___”

“Welcome, as usual.”

Yoongi pipes up, his interrogative gaze turning to Jungkook this time. “And you? Been on a coffee date, debating existentialism and forgot time exists? Why am I the only one taking my education seriously?”

You can’t help but scoff at that. “No offence, dude, but the only thing I see you taking seriously is trying to hack into Seokjin’s farm to sell his raspberry cupcakes to yourself.”

“I need to sell some to Greg.” Yoongi shrugs. “And I, unlike you dipshits, was here on time, wasn’t I?”

“I was at my Stark internship,” Jungkook whispers, before mumblingly adding, “In case it was genuine curiosity.”

You sigh. You look at this boy, with a hint of pity in your eyes. So young, so bright, way too cute for his own good, but just a bit too easy for this big, bad world. “Jungkook?”

“Hm?” he hums.

“Do you think you’ll ever get hired?” you ask. 

“What do you mean?”

“Just that, didn’t you say you’ve been interning for him since junior year of high school?” you continue. In your years of friendship with the guy, steady since the freshmen camp in Upstate NY he ditched after a day and a half, you’ve heard your fair share about this internship at whichever branch of Tony Stark’s company, both from Jungkook and his childhood friends, Jimin and Taehyung alike. “It sounds like the old Ironbag is exploiting your labour for me. Go somewhere you’re appreciated. And is relevant to your studies.”

“Damn, I just realised it.” Yoongi pipes up.

You didn’t dignify him with asking the question. Yoongi’s eyes are screaming bullshit. You’ve known your own childhood friend for a bit too long to fall for an obvious bait like that. 

Jungkook, who has been looking at you with a nervous glint in his eyes, though, is seemingly not as seasoned as you are. “Realised what?”

“Thank you so much for asking, Jungkook,” Yoongi pats the younger boy’s arm, before turning to you. “I’ve realised that you’re exhibiting extreme levels of jobless behaviour and should take your own advice first.” Next, he addresses Jungkook again. “Can you believe she was chasing Spiderman down the city this morning, too? That’s jobless. Jungkookie can at least put the Stark stuff on his resume.”

“I can, too,” you protest. The only reason you’re doing any of this is for the good of your academic advancement, after all. And if you get some brownie points with Namjoon for it, too… well? 

“Yeah, you can put ‘stalker psycho’ as a previous position,” Yoongi says. “Will open lots of doors for you.”

“You’ll be singing a different tune when I become the first journalist to get an interview with Spiderman, like, ever, and get hired to The New York Times straight out of college, but you do you, Yoongles.”

“Correction. Put ‘delusional stalker psycho.’”

“I—”

“Why do you want it so bad, anyways?” Jungkook interrupts, quickly averting his eyes when you look over at him again and catch him staring at your chest, and. . .  right. Spider goo on your sweater. As already stated, he interrupted your bickering, but good thing he did, because you already have one hand in the air ready to whack Yoongi, and killing him might not be appropriate behaviour during lecture. Even if none of you are paying attention to it, and skinning Yoongi alive would be much more beneficial to your career in the long run. “You could just get an interview with Daredevil for the thesis. I think he gives out interviews from time to time.”

Yoongi snickers. “She’s scared of Daredevil.”

“I’m scared of Hell’s Kitchen,” you correct. “That’s very different.”

“It’s understandable, though,” Jungkook says, smiling sweetly at you while he doodles on the corner of his notebook. “The crime rate is a bit high there. I get it.”

“Oh, no Jungkookie, you don’t.” Yoongi shakes his head. He has a shit-eating grin curling on the edge of his lips, looking you up and down coyly as he whispers to Jungkook in dramatics. “She’s afraid of Hell’s Kitchen because she used to think Gordon Ramsey was Daredevil. Wanted to avoid him at all costs.”

It’s silent for the while — well, silent between the three of you. Professor Hendersson has started playing some video on the screen and that’s pretty loud. 

Poor man has no clue on how to control the speaker system. 

“I’m… pretty sure he’s not,” Jungkook says tentatively.

“Tell that to an 8 year-old me who was awfully confused by Hell’s Kitchen, the neighbourhood and Hell’s Kitchen, the television show.”

Jungkook looks at your best friend. “You’re right, Yoongi, I don’t get it.”

Yoongi pats his arms. “No problem, Jungkook. Being weird as fuck is her only charm.”

Jungkook looks ready to either confirm or fight that standpoint, but you interrupt.

“Anyways, I want the interviewee to be Spiderman, because… Lots of reasons, actually.” You sigh, thinking about how to put it into words. “First of all, most signs point towards him being young, like, around our age. He’s part of the digital native generation so he probably has different and potentially more complex views on social media and how it affects his job than the old farts and defrosted chickens in the Avengers. We could also assume he’s very media conscious, judging by how extremely lowkey his direct presence on the internet is, and yet he has a very unique relationship with the Spiderheads.”

“And who the fuck are those?” Yoongi asks.

Surprisingly, it’s not you, but Jungkook who answers for him. “His fans.”

“Please, not you, too,” Yoongi sighs, looking at Jungkook in horror.

The younger boy is very quick to shake his head. Vehemently. “Nah, nah, it’s not like that, I’m just very. . . uh, chronically online, you know.”

“You might wanna fix that, then.”

“Also,” you butt in. If you’ve started explaining, you want to finish explaining. Men, and their short attention span, God. “He just seems like a genuinely nice guy, you know? Other superheroes tend to end up in all sorts of scandals, and despite being high-profile and being around for years now, Spiderman’s slate is spotty clean. So he either has a killer PR team or he’s really just, like, a really nice and responsible guy, y’know? But it makes him a bit. . . well, impersonal when it comes down to it. I don’t wanna do an exposé or anything like that, of course, but I think people would like hearing his thoughts on stuff.”

“And you have the hots for him.” Yoongi adds.

Jungkook squeaks, and your hands shoot out to smack Yoongi on the chest. It’s a reflex, at this point.

“I do not have the hots for him,” you protest.

“Jesus Christ, how did I not realise,” Yoongi bemoans. “You so wanna fuck him, you samaritan-sexual freak.”

“You say that like being attracted to good people is a bad thing,” you hiss.

“Okay, here we go.” Yoongi points at you with his stylus. “Fuck, marry, kill: Hulk in Hulk form, Gordon Ramsey, Spiderman.”

“Dude, that’s so rigged!” you object.

“That’s what you get.” Yoongi shrugs.

“Kill Gordon Ramsey, fuck Hulk Hulk, marry Spiderman.” You give in, listing them on your fingers. “Obviously.”

“Knew you were a monster fucker. Freak,” Yoongi says delightedly. You hit him in the chest again, but he pays you no mind — probably has a dent in the shape of your fist on his chest at this point to soften the blows — as he turns to Jungkook. “Okay, let’s move on. Jungkook. Fuck, marry, kill: Megan thee Stallion, Rihanna, and ___.”

Jungkook looks at your best friend with wide eyes, cheeks already aflame a deep scarlet as he anxiously chews on his now soggy paper straw. 

“C’mon, Gigi, don’t tease him,” you scold him.

“What?” Yoongi protest. “It’s a good line up.”

“Ignore him, Jungkook.”

“— could give us an adequate answer to that, right, Mr. Jeon?” Professor Hendersson’s voice breaks through your little bubble as the rest of the heads in the auditorium turn towards your little trio in the back in unison. 

Uh oh. Busted.

Jungkook gapes a little as his eyes flit between the presentation and his blank notebook, swallowing nervously before clearing his throat. “Um. . .” 

“You might wanna answer him, though.” Yoongi mutters. Utterly, utterly unhelpful. 

₊✩｡🕷˚🕸⋆｡

Hari’s playlist of 5 Seconds of Summer — a nostalgia mix, strictly made up of their first three albums’ repertoire — is blaring through your student apartment. 

Sitting in front of the mirror in your room, you can hear them singing along in the living room as Hari carefully braids Piper’s hair, and you have to stifle a smile during their terribly off-key high notes as you perfect your eyeliner. 

Half an hour ago, all three of your cell phones pinged in unison while watching Love Island on the couch as Seokjin messaged the big communal group chat a simple, ‘seoulite @ 9? who in?’ and a quick follow up of ‘reply or like this at least if you coming fuckers’. 

Which brings you to the current scene: quickly getting ready as you wait for Taehyung and Jimin to pick you guys up since they live in the same off-campus student apartment complex you do, and Taehyung doesn’t drink, but drives. (Like a maniac, really. He drives as if he did drink.)

The quickly getting ready part elongated a little bit somewhere between Hana settling on the green corduroy flares and you brushing your teeth as your phones lit up with a short additional message in the thread. 

Jungkookie [20:34]: me too ^^

To his credit, Jungkook is a pretty faithful lecture-goer, and due to some cosmic coincidence, semester after semester, you guys end up in almost all of the same classes, so you, who is enrolled in the same programme he is, cannot complain about a lack of Jungkook in your life. 

That cannot be said about the others, though. Piper, for one, is pretty fond of complaining about a severe Jungkook deficiency. 

To put it fairly, Jungkook is not the most. . . reliable guy you know. Lacks a little bit of consistency. Too scatter-minded. 

Because sometimes, the man cannot be shaken off for days on end even with some super high-tech Stark Industries scraper (for the hyperbole to work properly, please imagine that they’re producing handy tools instead of, like, weaponry). 

Then, there’s the other times, the admittedly much more frequent times, when there’s just simply no sight or sign of Jungkook until he conveniently decides to pop up out of the blue again. 

But to be honest, it’s the dynamic your little group always had since forming. 

The first time it happened, you were worried, though. Mostly because the two of you were partnered up for a group project that was rapidly coming up all the while you couldn’t get a hold of this guy you’ve known for like three weeks at that point, but the worry, of course, extended to his person, as well. 

Although, after some time, seeing how nonchalant Jimin and Taehyung — friends who have known Jungkook since the dawn of time and are thick as thieves with him — are when faced with worries over Jungkook’s where- and howabouts (‘He’s just home tending to his aunt,’ / ‘He had to travel for the Stark Internship, happens sometimes’ / ‘He sprained his ankle in the gym, no biggie’ / ‘He’s probably helping out his aunt at their restaurant for the week,’ / ‘He just travelled back to Korea for Chuseok with his family to visit relatives,’ / ‘He’s fostering a stray cat, can’t leave her alone,’ and such) you decided there’s surely no reason for you to sweat about it too much.

(And anyways, Jungkook made it up to you tenfold for that one instance. He showed up to your dorm one night with two bags of takeout from their family restaurant — amazing jajangmyeon — and braved through the assignment with you in one sitting on your shitty, spring mattress. Volunteered to hold the Q&A segment following your presentation, and stayed over late into the AMs to watch the first two Star Wars prequels with you. It really solidified your budding friendship.)

It’s probably not that easy to be all cool about any of it when you have a big fat fucking crush on the guy, though. Like Piper does, for example.

These past few weeks were also ones that have seen very little of Jungkook, so the excitement bubbling in all three of you at his message is quite understandable — it means all ten of you in the groupchat have RSVP’d Seokjin’s invitation, after all. And it’s been way too long since a get-together with everyone present. 

The levels of excitement only differ where Piper got struck by a desperate need to change into a tighter pair of jeans, put on some highlighters over her eyelids, and braid her blonde hair into something called a waterfall braid.

But it’s okay. After finishing your own makeup and jumping into a looser pair of pants, you gladly join Hari and Piper in the living room to line the latter’s lips with a dark red colour. Her crush is cute. 

Fifteen minutes later, Jimin and Taehyung blast up Hari’s phone with announcements of their arrival and even more messages urging the three of you to make haste. They throw in a few threats of leaving you guys to fend for yourselves in a cab if you’re not down in 10, as well, but after all this time of being friends with them, you know they’re just shooting blanks. 

Grabbing your coats for the chilly September nights, the three of you lock up your apartment and make your way down from the fourth floor, and into the waiting Hyundai by the sidewalk in front of the complex.

“6.34 after the first message.” Taehyung turns to Jimin who’s sitting in the passenger seat as the three of you file into the back. “Chim, can you believe that?”

“Can’t say I do, babe. It has to be a new record.”

“Do you know who edits the Guiness’? I’m gonna call them on the way.”

“Har-har-har, hello to you, too, brothers and in-laws,” Hari chirps, poking a finger through the gap between the seat and the headrest to prick the back of Jimin’s neck with her acrylics. The boy yelps, trying to snatch his younger sister’s hand, but he’s too late. “Nice evening we have here.”

“Yeah, yeah, nice evening, pleasant breeze, picturesque light pollution,” Taehyung drones on, one hand on the steering wheel while he fiddles with the radio with the other. “Let’s get a move on, are you guys ready? Have everything, all in one piece, et cetera? I have serious business to deal with Jungkook.”

“Yeah, we can leave,” you answer him, while Piper pipes up:

“What’s up with Jungkook?”

“Got a new dog,” Jimin supplies.

“And the asshole refuses to send me a picture of him,” Taehyung huffs as he drives out of the parking lot, before pointing a thumb at Jimin. “And this asshole refuses to hack Kookie’s iCloud gallery for me.”

“After all these years, which part of ethical hacking do you still not get?” Jimin sighs.

“What kind of dog did he get?” Piper follows up enthusiastically, and that conversation entertains the three of them for most of the ride. 

(Jungkook got a doberman.)

Sitting by the window on the driver’s side, you drone out their conversation and occupy yourself with the city view and your thoughts.

You’ve washed your sweater. Spiderman’s washing tip has, surprisingly, worked. Which could be a nice opener for the next time you see him. 

It’s been a few days since there was any sighting of him that you could catch, though. 

Two days ago, Reddit was buzzing with a store robbery the vigilante has managed to stop while you slept, and yesterday, you got an alert from a Twitter account you follow called the Spidey-Watch while eating lunch in some burger joint close to campus with Seokjin and Hoseok, but it was on the far edge of Queens and you doubted you’d even get there in time to witness anything. 

But never mind. Ever since you took this on the mission at the beginning of the previous spring semester, there’s one very important lesson you’ve learned: serious journalism requires patience.

And hell, if you’re not the epitome of patience by now. (Yeah, there might’ve been some problems with your inner zen in the past, but you took up yoga over the summer).

Even if just unwittingly, you lose track of the conversation in the car as you drive through Queensboro Bridge, but then a few moments later, it’s the radio playing faintly in the background that inadvertently gets your attention.

The music on the station ends in favour of the 8PM evening news, a female voice with a bit of an irritating intonation covering a few economic and political reportings your brain doesn’t quite retain, before — “. . . so with the disappearance of Amanda Porter, we urge the young population of New York City to be particularly cautious in the upcoming weeks as the number of missing person cases increases all over the city. Especially people in their late teens to early twenties are advised to avoid remote areas and travelling alone at night. The New York Police Department’s Missing Persons Unit has yet release a follow-up statement since their press conference on —”

“Jesus Christ,” Taehyung mutters as he quickly turns the volume down, sharing a concerned look with Jimin from the corner of his eyes.

The rest of the ride over to Queens passes quietly.

₊✩｡🕷˚🕸⋆｡

The Seoulite is a small, Korean hole-in-the-wall type of bar, except it is not as much of a bar as just the owner, an old woman commonly just called Auntie Aecha’s street-front apartment with a second-hand bar from Ebay dumped into her kitchen in the place of an island, and a couple of tables and chairs scattered around her entrance hall and living room. 

Don’t ask. You’re not quite certain of its legality, either. 

A few things to know about Auntie Aecha:

She’s a compulsive hoarder, and the decoration (or maybe, at this point, with its excessiveness, the lack thereof) proclaims it loudly. The place is packed with rugs, vases, paintings, magazines, lamps, biblical figurines, blankets, pottery and a wide array of trinkets laying around everywhere. 

She has three cats, a dog, and a parrot freely roaming around the place. You’ve never learned their names, but that’s because their names keep changing every time you're here and not because your lack of trying, even when Auntie Aecha, despite her impressive age of 70 and some mystery as she says, doesn’t display any of the typical symptoms that usually come with old age, like forgetfulness. She just simply keeps calling them different fucking names, so you’ve stopped trying to keep up. 

And lastly included in this list that obviously lacks completeness — she’s a self-proclaimed psychic. No other comments on that. 

Namjoon found this place accidentally (distraught from heartbreak, he was trying to go over to Jungkook’s — the only problem with that plan was that this is not the area of Queens Jungkook lives in) last year after getting dumped. 

Ever since Auntie Aecha has personally nursed Namjoon’s broken heart into beating again with imported peach soju, your little group took up frequenting this bar/apartment any time the urge to get together somewhere arose. (And that was only partly because Auntie Aecha gives alcohol to those of you — Piper and Hari — who are twenty-but a little short on-one). 

By the time the five of you get in tonight, everyone else is here, already sitting around your usual table by the decorative fireplace. 

There’s a bit of commotion as they all stand up and everyone tries to greet everyone, before you file back into your seats. Somehow, you end up on the bench seat with Jungkook — even if you distinctly remember seeing him in the armchair, the most coveted seat, by the other side of the table — and shoot Piper an apologetic look as she dejectedly takes a seat on the puff between Namjoon and Hari. 

“Congratulations on becoming a father,” you mutter to Jungkook, playfully elbowing the guy on his side.

He shoots you a confused look, eyes impossibly bigger as he peers down on you. Sitting on the small bench just enough for two people, your shoulder is pressed against his biceps. The material of his large, black hoodie is nice against the bare skin of your arms.

“Don’t look so scared, I meant your dog,” you scoff at him, teeth biting into your bottom lips as you smile. Jungkook’s gaze wanders, and you wiggle your eyebrows, “Unless there’s something else I don’t know about?”

“No, no, no, there’s… there isn’t. No,” he protests, shaking his head as spots of red freckle his cheeks. 

It makes you giggle — Jungkook is rather easy to fluster, despite the many eyes that follow him around hungrily anywhere he goes. As it seems, he’s completely unaware of his own allure, when objectively speaking, Jungkook is one of the prettiest guys you’ve ever met. He has these huge sparkling eyes, an elegant nose, an endearing smile overflowing with teeth, and freckled smooth honey-skin with beauty spots to kill for. And that’s just the outside.

All in all, let’s just say that you’re not entirely blind to what captivates Piper so much. 

“He’s. . . Bam,” he continues. “That’s his name. I. . . um, y’know, found him a few days ago. A stray.”

“You’re sweet, Kook,” you tell him. Seokjin with the help of Hoseok has arrived back at the table with drinks, and places your usual orders — a whiskey coke for you and wheat beer for Jungkook — in front of you guys. You quickly thank them and take a sip, fiddling with the straw as you ask, “Bam. Anything particular behind the name?”

“Yeah. It means ‘night’ in Korean,” Jungkook tells you, reaching for his own drink. “My aunt named him. You, um, you wanna see pictures?”

“Sure.” You nod, and hold your drink out of reach when Jungkook leans a bit into you to fish his cellphone out of his jeans pocket. 

With two fingers, you pick the lemon out of your drink to chew on it — you’re between friends with no one to impress, so if you want to rather unflatteringly suck on the garnish, you will, thank you very much — while you watch from the corner of your eye as Jungkook unlocks his phone and starts scrolling through his gallery.

He freezes, and scrolls up and down for a long moment, before hesitantly handing over his phone to you. “This is, um,” he eloquently mumbles as a description to accomapy the picture. 

You take the phone from Jungkook that’s opened on a selfie of him and a dark brown doberman in bed. The focus is clearly on the dog, given that the picture cuts off somewhere above Jungkook’s chin, and you recognise the location as his bedroom, a few Star Wars and Overwatch posters on the wall in the background giving it away. 

He’s a cute dog, Bam. He looks into the camera, deep dark eyes looking weirdly intelligent, his mouth open and tongue lolling out as he’s laid back against Jungkook’s naked torso. That has abs. Like, a fucking six pack. Wow.

You know Jungkook frequents the gym, he has even accompanied you to your treadmill workouts in preparation of chasing Spiderman from time to time, but in the oversized clothes he always wears, it’s easy to forget he's not actually scrawny. Still, wow. So he has abs. Yeah. Good to know.

Jungkook clears his throat awkwardly, so you make the executive decision to zoom in slightly on the dog as you comment, “He’s really cute, Kook. Bam looks like a smart boy.”

“Yeah, he. . . yup, he really is, very smart.”

“IS THAT BAM??!” 

Suddenly, you have a Taehyung-weighted mass thrown across your lap, and two hands wrenching Jungkook’s phone out of your hold. 

Caught off guard, you let out a yelp as you fall slightly over Jungkook, and you would’ve been about to spill your drink, too, if it weren’t for one of Jungkook’s hands fixing around your wrist, while the other balances both you and Taehyung by wrapping itself around your back. Quick reflexes.

“Hey, shithead!” you snap, slapping a palm over Taehyung’s back.

“I can’t believe you’ve been hiding this cutieful little cinnamon roll from me, dude!” Taehyung cries, zooming in and out of the picture with two fingers like a boomer. “Look at Bamie! So, so adorable, look at his ey— wait. Jungkook Jeon, is this a thirst tra—”

“Tsk, children,” an accented voice chides. “Behave.”

You peek your head out behind Taehyung’s shoulder to beam up at the woman who has walked over to your table. “Auntie!”

Alerted to her presence, Taehyung assumed a position with a degree more of civility (he’s now sitting perched on your legs, back straight and legs thrown over your thighs on one side) looking up at Aecha with a toothy grin, telling her something in Korean.

The woman snorts, retorting in the same language. Jungkook fails and tries to stifle a giggle beside you. 

“I brought you children a little something,” Auntie Aecha says, setting a plate of cookies on the table. 

Another thing to know about Auntie Aecha: though she would never admit it to your faces, too big on that tough love shtick she has going on, it’s an open secret that your ragtag group of ten are her favourite customers.

Expressions of thanks echo around the table as all of you latch onto the cookies, Seokjin standing up to offer his seat, but Aecha denies, “No, no, sit back, sit. I won’t stay to bother you young people for long, this old lady just wanted to say hi.”

“You never bother,” Namjoon says between two bites. “Stay, Auntie, please.”

“You kids are too sweet,” she smiles, patting the boy’s shoulder with ringed fingers. Auntie Aecha has the most exquisite collection, full of emeralds and intricate silverwork, unique enough craftsmanship to match her generally eccentric style. Right now, too, she’s dressed in an elegant white blouse and a long, navy blue skirt covered in detailed patterns and a beaded shawl tied around her waist. 

The conversation picks up around the table again, but Aecha lingers. “___?”

“Yes, Auntie?” 

“Have you had your fortunes read lately?”

You smile at her, breaking off a piece of the cookie in Taehyung’s hand. He looks about ready to protest, if only Auntie Aecha’s presence wasn’t holding him back from whining publically. But he decided he could share your seat, so you might as well share his cookie, right? Simple and fair.

“You know you’re the only one who does me readings,” you tell her. 

Sometimes when the group is fewer in numbers, or when you visit in the afternoon for a cup of coffee, you entertain her charade from time to time. You think it’s rather silly — yes, you live in a world with Scandinavian Gods and purple evil aliens, but no way in hell a random old lady in Queens is, like, an actual psychic. Who tells the future from tarot cards, of all things. Right. . . 

Aecha hums. “Right. . . The Wheel of Fortune. What does it mean?”

You’re unsure whether the question is directed on the card’s meaning in general, or on its possible effect on your life. But regardless, the answer to both scenarios is:

“No.”

She does that thing. The thing that chills you to the bone sometimes, the thing when her eyes seem to dim, like there’s no sight or soul in them, and her face looks paler for a moment under the lights. She fixes her gaze on you, before it slips over to Jungkook.

You feel his fingers, that are still splattered across your back, tighten as he stares back.

“So soon?” Aecha mutters, then: she snaps out of it. A smile is back on her face, a bit weaker than before, as she says. “Very well, then. I’ll leave you kids to it. There’s a clue in the night, ___.”

And with that, she walks off.

Slowly, Jungkook retracts his hand from your waist, while Taehyung’s head whips around towards the two of you. “So, that was weird as fuck, huh?”

“Right. . .” Jungkook and you both mumble. 

You break a bigger piece off of Taehyung’s cookie, and then break that into halves again before offering one of them to Jungkook. He seems spaced out, but readily accepts it.

That’s another thing to know about Auntie Aecha: she says weird, cryptic shit sometimes. But that’s how you love her.

“‘There’s a clue in the night, ___’,” Taehyung repeats in a deepened, mysterious baritone. He wiggles his fingers in your face, which you promptly swap away. “Any clue what that might mean?”

“None.” You shake your head.

“Anyways.” Taehyung shrugs, picking Jungkook’s phone back up, and giddily scrolling through his gallery. “Let me look at more of these Bam pictures.”

You sigh. You’ve long since stopped whacking your brain to figure out what Auntie Aecha’s off handed comments might mean. They’re usually just similar nonsense.

Suddenly, Taehyung is yanked off your lap just as abruptly as he came, before Yoongi’s fingers latch onto your forearm next. “Bitch, I need you at the table soccer, pronto.”

“And that’s my cue, guys,” you sigh, before standing up.

After ruffling Jungkook’s hair, you step over Taehyung who’s now splattered on the floor, then take one last sip of your drink, and leave it besides Jungkook’s beer on the table. 

He’s the only motherfucker here you can trust not to drink it while you’re away.

₊✩｡🕷˚🕸⋆｡

The following Thursday evening finds you tucked away in one of the public libraries of Queens, sharing a table with Hoseok who quietly types away on his short story, while you add the finishing touches to your article for next week’s newspaper before sending it over to Namjoon for editing. 

Originally, you guys came over to the neighbourhood because you accompanied Hoseok to pick up these sneakers that he found on Facebook Marketplace, which turned out to be a total scam, unfortunately.

So, in Queens and awfully unaccomplished, the two of you tried to ring up to Jungkook’s (his aunt answered the intercom, Jungkook’s apparently out) and to Namjoon’s (where you guys actually got in, but were promptly kicked out at 6PM because some show Namjoon’s grandmother is obsessed with like a teenager was starting on the telly, and she doesn’t want you kids around to make a rattle) so without any idea of what to do, the two of you decided to retreat to the next best option of a free shelter in Queens, since you’ve already made the commute here. That’s the library. 

“What’s another word for ‘motivating’? As an adjective,” you ask Hoseok, taking a sip of water.

“Duh. ‘Inspiring’,” Hoseok says without even looking up from his laptop. Or stopping typing, for that matter.

“It makes me so happy that you hold my intelligence to such high regards, friend.” You kick his shin under the table, but it does little to deter him. “I meant besides that and ‘encouraging’, obviously.”

“‘Impelling’, ‘propelling’, maybe ‘provoking’ depending on the context,” Hoseok lists like the walking thesaurus he is — the pros of having a friend in the English major.

“Thanksie yousie.”

“Bless you.”

You finish typing up the article, and send it over to Namjoon’s school mail inbox. Without anything to do now, you immediately fall victim to boredom.

Hoseok seems to be in the flow, though, fingers rapidly flying over the keyboard as he mumbles under his breath, so you scroll through your newsfeed for a while — someone won the lottery this week, a politician is under suspicion of tax fraud, wow, who would’ve thought, another disappearance happened in Manhattan, a baby giraffe was born in the zoo, nothing about Spiderman since you’ve last checked — before opening up a Watermelon Game with cat pictures on the web to occupy yourself with for the time being.

Some ten minutes pass with that before the silence is broken again. 

“So how’s the Spiderman thing coming along?” Hoseok asks. 

After combining two large, yawning cats into an even larger, screaming and wet one, you meet his gaze over your computer screens. 

“Steady,” you simply say, and it’s vague enough not to constitute a lie. You let another baby kitten fall from the metaphorical sky. “Why?”

“Yoongi told me about the spider cum on your sweater.”

“Ew, it’s not fuckin—” you shriek, earning yourself a few ‘ssh’s and a dirty look from the librarian. You nod your head in apology with an awkward smile. Bending your laptop’s screen slightly, you lean in closer to hiss, “It’s not fucking spider cum.”

“Think about it,” Hoseok argues. “It’s his bodily fluid.”

“Actually, a few people on the forums think it might be synthetic,” you tell him.

“You’re just gonna have to ask him that, too.”

Humming, you take your phone out to make a quick note of it. That’s actually a pretty relevant question — for science. 

“Yoongi also told me that you left class early to try and catch him again yesterday and just ended up falling into Meadow Lake,” Hoseok continues.

“So why are you asking me then, if you already know everything?”

“I’m just curious. Unlike the others, I do kinda think that you’re gonna get somewhere.” Hoseok shrugs. He continues typing as he adds. “All this embarrassment without some sort of a pay-off? Nah. Karma is kinder than that.”

That’s. . . wow, that was actually pretty nice to hear. Impelling, if you will. 

Even if it was a little — a lot — backhanded. 

“Aww. Hobi. . .” You pout, kicking his leg under the table playfully. “My only fan.”

“Lukewarm supporter,” he corrects. 

“Whatever,” you brush him off. “Actually, nothing much happened besides those. Taking the subway back home drenched and stinking was a humbling experience, but I’m just gonna have to keep going. For the pay-off, like you said.”

Hoseok just hums again, and turns back to his writing, his curiosity seemingly running dry. Whatever.

For the next twenty-something minutes, you occupy yourself by playing round after round of Dress to Impress with Yoongi (later joined by Seokjin and Hari, as well) and you have lots of fun downrating each other’s outfits, so you don’t really accomplish anything. But who cares.

‘ur ootd look like smthng drawn on a deflated balloon lol ugly butt @ yunkiboongi’ you type in the chat, whipping out the lame PG-13 insults in consideration of the fact that, you know, Roblox is for middle schoolers, when Hoseok unceremoniously snaps his laptop shut, standing up from his seat.

“I’m perched. A quick drink at Seoulite before we leave the ‘hood?”

₊✩｡🕷˚🕸⋆｡

After consulting Google Maps, the two of you make the twenty-minute walk through Queens to Aecha’s. Sharing Hoseok’s Airpods, you listen to Epic Sax on repeat on the way, while you try to bring up the topic of Namjoon as subtly as possible.

See, you and Jungkook have a running theory. 

It’s not long — it’s just that Hoseok and Namjoon are in love with each other, possibly secretly dating already (this is the point where you guys usually lose the rest of your friends when trying to get them onto the bandwagon, and to be honest, your faith has wavered at this point too, but then Jungkook raised a good point: for the past six months, you haven’t even seen pictures of these people, let alone meet them, that Namjoon is apparently getting dumped by biweekly. Jungkook thinks keeping up the pretence of Namjoon being an unlucky serial dater is part of their elaborate cover-up plan) so Jungkook and you are trying to get any sort of hint or confirmation on the matter, like the nosey little bitches you two are. 

Whatever. You come up empty. After droning on about Namjoon’s chest, like ‘He has really nice tits, doesn’t he?’ and ‘You kinda just wanna suffocate buried between them, am I right?’, which are not at all subtle, you admit, you come to the conclusion that Hoseok must be either oblivious, a damn good liar, or not in love with Namjoon, which you personally refuse to believe. 

When you round the corner to the street of the Seoulite, the two of you step into the flashing of red and blue police lights in the pitch black night. Confused, you hand the borrowed half of the earbuds back to Hoseok, furrowing your brows as you two keep walking closer.

A smaller crowd has gathered around the block that you know houses the Seoulite, some clearly passersby and others most likely denizens of the neighbouring buildings, clad in their pyjamas and a coat in the evening hours. 

“What the fucks going on?” you croak, grabbing onto the arm of Hoseok’s coat with two fingers as the two of you squeeze into the crowd.

The pavement in front of Auntie Aecha’s door is railed off with a police line, officers moving in and out of her apartment through the opened door. 

No. 

No, no, no, no, no. 

Hari and Jimin were here just this morning. 

A weak rumble befalls the crowd as people whisper to each other, too quiet and too much for you to overhear anything. 

You rummage through your backpack, taking a deep breath before noticing two officers engaged in conversation by the police line.

“Excuse me?” you call out.

One of them turns, sparing you a look over his shoulders, before saying. “Not now, kid. Please wait for the official reports.”

“I’m ___ from NYU Weekly News,” you continue, flashing him the press card you have procured from your bag.

“School paper’s covering crimes now, girl?” The officer sighs, but walks closer to inspect your ID nevertheless.  

“Always did,” you reply. It’s a bit of a stretch. 

The most illegal activity you’ve written about was someone stealing a piano from the music room. Which was a fun one, by the way, because how the fuck do you steal a piano without anyone noticing, and yet. . .

“Okay,” the policeman says, not entirely convinced. “The owner’s kids from Kentucky requested a wellness check. We did it. The apartment shows clear signs of struggle, and the owner couldn’t be reached, so the NYPD is opening a missing person’s case, suspecting kidnapping. And that’s all I can tell you, kid.”

You swallow, grip tightening around Hoseok’s wrists, who has gone just as rigid as you did. 

“Thank you, officer.”

The man nods, and leaves the two of you alone as he walks back to his colleague. 

Hoseok looks at you, expression baffled as he reaches for your hand. His tight hold is welcome. You feel like you’re about to vomit.

“Auntie Aecha’s missing?”

he’s always there to the point where it’s almost shocking to see him outside of it. sometimes. since you work as the stem center's student assistant you’ll sometimes offer him snacks to munch on. while you are aware he’s part of the hybe fraternity, he rarely makes an appearance at parties. you decide to head toward him and watch as his eyes grow wide at the sight of you.

he’s always there to the point where it’s almost shocking to see him outside of it. sometimes. since you work as the stem center's student assistant you’ll sometimes offer him snacks to munch on. while you are aware he’s part of the hybe fraternity, he rarely makes an appearance at parties. you decide to head toward him and watch as his eyes grow wide at the sight of you.

“h-hi,” he says as he clears his throat. 

“soobin, right?” he nods and you introduce yourself only to be met with a surprising response. 

“i know.” 

“you do?”

“you’re the stem center student assistant.” soobin’s corner seems like a moment of peace amongst all the party chaos so you find yourself wanting to stay here. you end up chatting with soobin longer than you expect and realize that you have more in common than you expected. somewhere down the line, he asks an odd question. 

“do you wanna meet my pet hedgehog?” there’s a nervous smile on his face that you find endearing. you’re not sure if my pet hedgehog” is an euphemism the same way “netflix and chill” is but soobin seems like a nice enough guy so you follow him upstairs to his room. 

he cradles the hedgehog in one hand close to his chest while smiling up at you. his nose crinkles as his glasses fall slightly and he brings up a hand to readjust them. there’s just something about him that has your heart feeling a warmth you’ve never known before.

“can i pet him?” you ask. “was it odi?” soobin nods, dimples somehow deepening and that’s all it takes.

you’re hooked.

“be careful, he’s prickly,” soobin warns. there’s not much space to sit down so the two of you (three including odi) sit on soobin’s bed. odi seems to have taken a liking to you and settles himself by your side. 

“can i be honest with you?” you ask.

“hmm, yeah?” 

“i didn’t think you actually had a pet hedgehog… i kinda thought you wanted to netflix and chill,” you admit. it takes a moment for the cogs in soobin’s brain to turn and process what your words implies. immediately, his eyes avert from yours with flushed cheeks. 

“i- no! i’m not like that. i like you but i wouldn’t ask you do that.” he mumbles out. you can’t help but laugh and you realize now what it is that has so many people having a crush on soobin.