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summary: five times new york's friendly neighborhood spiderman (who is also your roommate) needs saving, plus the one time you needed it instead.

wc: 9.83k

cw/tags: spiderman!hansol, biochem major!hansol x gn nursing major!reader, reader is gn pronouns but written with fem!reader in mind, superhero!au and university!au, friends to lovers, 5+1 fic, mild angst/peril/brief whump but almost all fluff and a whole lot of crack, mutual pining, idiots in love (they're so stupid chat...SO stupid), allusions/discussions of weed and stoners (not reader or hansol), mentions of cheating and open relationships (again not reader or hansol), hansol fights the green goblin and also the lizard and a lil surprise cameo at the end hehe :), based loosely off this drabble i made a while back

note: chat i've done it again (i photoshopped a svt head onto a marvel character's body)...this is the first time i'm writing a 5+1 fic so hopefully i did it right lol. yeah this is again and especially for @noniesgummysmile love you eia and here's the spidersol you've been waiting for. hope you enjoy!

reblogs, likes, and replies are always appreciated <3

Save #1, a.k.a The Power of Empty Soup Cans

You don’t talk to Hansol for three days after he tells you–or rather, shows you–that he is Spiderman. It’s nothing against him, you tell yourself. It’s just the fact that you weren’t prepared to walk into the other room of your two bedroom apartment to find the other tenant standing…on the ceiling. The next twelve hours were the most awkward period of your entire lifetime, excluding puberty, including when you had to hold the hinges for him as he helped you reinstall the front door after you’d broken it trying to flee from your apartment. It’s totally fine, you keep trying to tell yourself. Your roommate is Spiderman. Normal. So normal.

Completely normal.

On the third night of avoiding him like the plague, you wait until you know he’s out on patrol to begin your routine of studying at the dinner table. The distant honking of New York traffic acts as your soundtrack as you settle onto one of two rickety wooden chairs and open your laptop, only for your nose to immediately wrinkle in disgust. You whirl around at the trash can and find it overflowing with garbage. Hansol, as clean of a roommate as he was, tended to forget to take out the trash until your entire apartment smelled like a subway station. Not wanting to talk to him and tell him to take it out when he got back from patrol, you make a mental note to throw it out after you finished up the assignment that was freshly on your mind. One assignment turned to two, which turned to five, which turned to reviewing for your upcoming exam until several hours had passed with you hunched over the table and muttering chemical formulas to yourself like a witch. Your hand smudges the ink of the notecard you’ve been writing on and you crumple it up to toss it in the trash.

The trash!

You curse colorfully under your breath and push away from the table, shoving the boxes of macaroni and cheese and empty soup cans down until the plastic bag is on the verge of tearing. It’s ridiculously heavy, so much so that you’re not able to tie the two bright yellow handles, and your arms are aching by the time you haul it down the stairs and into the alley with the dumpsters. At the end of the dark walkway are a handful of people that you can see throwing punches and kicking at something in the corner, and you move a little more hurriedly to toss the bag and escape back inside. It takes you a few tries to lift the bag enough to get it high enough to clear the edge of the dumpster, but something you hear down the alley makes you pause when you successfully get it hanging over the edge like a gross wet blanket.

“This is what you fucking get, you web-slinging asshole!”

“Yeah, we’re gonna beat you until you bleed the same color as your ugly-ass suit!”

Hansol. Your stomach drops and your hands are moving without thinking, reaching up to tear open the bag and allow the contents of the garbage bag to spill onto the wet asphalt. The noise catches the attention of one of the attackers, and he turns just in time for an empty can of chicken noodle to hit him square in the nose. He shouts more in anger than pain, but you’re already slinging more cans by the time he gets his buddies to turn around, too. You silently thank your local bodega for having a buy-one-get-three deal on soup cans, because you’re hurling them at the speed of a shotgun and barely into half the bag. The attackers swear in outrage and charge at you, but you keep on throwing whatever your hand grabs in the bag. The trash is light enough to be harmless but solid enough to be inconvenient; you fight the urge to laugh when the nearest guy running at you slips on a can of tomato soup and faceplants in the concrete.

As the guys that were once attacking Spiderman now approach to corner you, you scramble backward until you collide with the wall of another dumpster. One of the attacker’s hands moves in slow motion to grab the collar of your pajama shirt when he’s violently thrown to the side, a glob of webbing gluing his wrist to the opposite wall. Hansol becomes the target of aggression once more, but he leaps between the walls of the alley to avoid hits and watches in delight as his enemies roll their feet over soup cans and scramble around in a panic. Pressed against the dumpster, you stand frozen as every guy attacking Hansol is webbed up with a healthy amount over their mouth to shut them up. Only when the last attacker trips backward over a soup can and falls unconscious on the ground does your roommate turn to you, carefully kicking away any trash that might catch your slipper-covered feet.

“Are you hurt?” Hansol asks and you shake your head, staring at him in slight bewilderment. “Are you sure?” You nod slowly, still not saying a word. He sighs and winces as he places pressure on his left foot. “Can we go inside? I need to pop an Ibuprofen and explain some things.” You swallow and nod again, reaching out on instinct to catch his forearm as he stumbles. He lets you help him up the fire escape and clamber into your living room, where he finally tugs off his mask as you pull the curtains for good measure. “Can I–”

“Nope,” you interrupt shortly. “Shut up.”

“But–”

“Lay there and be quiet while I get you painkillers,” you order and he obeys, his arms flopping against the rug until he’s sprawled out like a sea star. You scrub your hands in the kitchen sink until they feel raw and surely contain no more traces of garbage. After retrieving a few pills from the medicine cabinet and a glass of tap water, you sit cross-legged on the floor next to him and hold out both. “Here. Drink.” He sits up with a groan and your hand steadies his shoulder immediately while he gulps down the medicine and places the glass on the coffee table.

“Can I apologize now?” Your eyebrows pinch.

“What do you need to apologize for?” Hansol winces and shuffles himself until he can lean up against the couch. You sit right next to him, stretching out your legs beside him and trying not to think about your bare arm brushing against the fabric of his suit.

“I realized that how I told you about,” he pauses and gestures to himself, “all of this, was not the best way I could have done it.” You shrug. A coil in your chest unwinds itself at the ease of which you can talk to your roommate again.

“I don’t know if there was any way you could have done it without me freaking out,” you admit. “You know me. Freaking out is my superpower.”

“I’d say you have other superpowers, coming from the guy who has actual superpowers,” argues Hansol. “Throwing soup cans with impeccable aim is one of them.” You snort and nudge him as gently as you can with your shoulder. “Really, though. I’m sorry I freaked you out. I know all of this is overwhelming, especially since it’s happening literally in your own home.”

“Or the alley outside of it,” you add and he nods.

“Exactly. I wouldn’t,” he sighs, gathering his words, “I wouldn’t blame you if you kicked me out.” You frown and shake your head so adamantly, your neck hurts.

“I’d never do that,” you promise. “How would I live with myself if I knew I was the one who made Spiderman homeless?” He laughs and immediately hisses in pain, grabbing his side. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. A gnarly bruise is worth it if you’re joking with me again,” Hansol says. “What can I do to make it up to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I feel like an asshole for making you uncomfortable in your own place,” he continues. “Anything, really. Just name it and let me absolve my guilt.”

“Okay, drama queen,” you scoff. You think for a moment and look at him with a soft smile that makes his ears turn pink. “Replace the bag for the trash can and we’ll call it even.”

He leaps up from the floor with a burst of speed that you’re sure is gonna bite him the ass the next day, but you can’t help but chuckle when he replaces the bag and starts making a list of all the soups that need to be restocked in your pantry.

—

Save #2, a.k.a. Masquerade Mayhem

Diamond Technical University, despite its reputation for being a school bursting with STEM freaks, knew how to throw a damn good party. That’s about all you can think about as you arrive at the expansive plaza of Carat Central, the area of campus containing the recreation center, a food court, and the bookstore. Sparsely populated during the day except for your average gym-going college student, the plaza is now swarming with students, staff, and faculty from the school of health sciences for its annual masquerade gala. Scalloped banners of fabric hang from nearby balconies, string lights glow above you, and a jazz band is tucked in the far corner. Sparkles of every color imaginable bounce off the glittering masks of the gala’s guests and you swipe a simple black mask from the registration table as you enter the fray of people, scanning for your roommate in the crowd. Hansol had texted you ten minutes ago saying he’d checked in and was gonna swipe some snacks from the refreshments table, but he was almost impossible to find in the sea of suits and masks. Almost.

“A red and blue mask is a little on the nose, don’t you think?” You tease as you find him at a standing table with a plate of cheese, meat, and crackers. His face lights up behind the mask as you join him, his eyes not-so-subtly running over your body and the nicer outfit you’d donned for tonight. You push away the way your cheeks are heating under the scratchy paper mask.

“Only if you look too far into it,” your roommate replies with a smirk playing on his lips. “How was your exam?”

“A hot load of ass,” you deadpan, rolling your eyes and popping a cracker into your mouth. “At least a third of the questions were things that weren’t in the lectures or the readings.” Hansol frowns sympathetically.

“Did you at least pass?”

“We’ll see next Wednesday, though if I don’t you might have to avoid saying ‘adenosine triphosphate’ ever again within my presence,” you conclude as nonchalantly as you’re able. You gesture around vaguely at the people milling about and avoid the eyes of professors you would recognize from ten miles away. “For now, I’m counting on this to distract me from finals.”

“You’ll be okay,” Hansol states confidently. “Sometimes you study until I come back from patrol at 4:00 in the morning. That’s not all for nothing.”

“I’m glad one of us believes in me,” you sigh and shrug half-heartedly.

“Have you asked your professors if patching up Spiderman counts as internship hours?” He asks so suddenly that you can’t help but laugh.

“Our apartment doesn’t count as a hospital, so I never bothered,” you reply and he nods.

“A shame. I bet you have more practice giving stitches than any student here,” asserts Hansol and you grimace.

“Let’s not consider that a good thing, please,” you plead and he chuckles. “Shall we do our rounds?”

“Lead the way.”

For the next couple of hours, you and Hansol move as a set as you make small talk with some classmates, wave to people from his biochemistry courses, and eavesdrop on internship opportunities opening up the following semester. At some point, your hand finds the crook of his elbow and stays there, and you try not to think about the muscles in his arm that flex every time you stray too far and he pulls you back toward him. The clock nears midnight and the party is approaching its end when the dean of the health sciences college taps the mic with a manicured finger.

“It’s that time, everybody! Please remove your masks and reveal your identities to those around you!” She announces with a blinding smile and the people around you undo the ties of their masks. Hansol unties his and tosses it over his shoulder; it disappears somewhere on the floor and words become stuck in your throat at just how good he looks in the glow of the string lights.

“Need some help?” He inquires when you just stand there, staring at him like an idiot. You stammer something that sounds like an assent and go nearly catatonic when he gently undoes the ribbon tying your mask behind your head. He pulls it off carefully and places it in your hands with a small smile, tying the ribbon around your wrist so you don’t lose it. “There. Now I can see you.”

“Aw, did you miss me?” You joke and you hope he can’t tell how your voice is shaking.

“You know it.”

“You talk a whole lot of rizz for getting no girls,” you scoff, even though those three words made something in your chest stop working for a second.

“Who said I wanted ‘em?” You don’t reply and somehow drag Hansol onto the dance floor, your arms winding around his neck as naturally as breathing. He’s a little stiff while his hands find your waist until you brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead and he nearly melts. It’s all platonic, you convince yourself. Don’t think about the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only person in this room.

“Something on your mind?” His soft voice pulls you from your thoughts.

“Just exams,” you fib, even though he can most definitely sense the way your heart is rattling around in your ribcage. Hansol hums.

“Anything else you wanna talk about?”

“Anything you wanna know?” You counter with a sly smile.

“I always wanna know what’s going on in there,” he says, nodding toward the top of your head. “There’s a lot, but it intrigues me.”

“If you looked in my brain, it’d be like that one episode of Spongebob where everything’s on fire and there’s filing cabinets toppled over,” you inform him seriously and he snorts.

“Sounds good to me.”

You open your mouth to reply again but are interrupted by the sensation of the floor rumbling beneath your feet. The ground is humming. Hansol’s hands are immediately on your forearms to steady you as the world shifts over and over again. The shaking becomes more violent, so much so that a few guests around you trip onto the ground and you dash to help the people nearest to you. Hansol’s hand remains on your back as you do so, his head snapping side to side to locate the source of the disturbance. As you steady a classmate you recognize from one of your ethics classes, an explosion of concrete blasts into the air with a sound that leaves your ears ringing. Something has collided with the welcome building of Carat Central a few yards away and sent debris flying in all directions. Your body automatically wraps around the person to shield them from oncoming pieces of concrete, and your breath catches when you register that Hansol is shielding you the same way. The person you helped darts away and Hansol’s grip is firm as he yanks you away from the stampede of people, all while the dean is screaming on the microphone for people to remain calm and evacuate the area.

“What the hell is happening?” You shout over the chaos once Hansol corrals you into the corner of a nearby walkway. Panicked guests knock his shoulders and run into his back, but the way his body cages yours against the corner protects you as they pass.

“I don’t know!” He yells back. “I heard someone say a professor’s turned into a lizard!” You gape at him, not sure if you understood correctly.

“A what?”

“A giant-ass lizard! Experiment gone wrong, or something!” Hansol replies, looking severely conflicted. He looks at the gargantuan green reptile emerging from the dust of the ruined building, back at you, then back at the monster that might be one of your professors. “I need to–”

“It’s okay,” you reassure him, your voice straining to be loud enough over the screaming. “Go be a hero!” He spins around to leave, but you catch his wrist at the last second. Untying the black masquerade mask that had been on your wrist, you secure the knot behind Hansol’s head and effectively hide his identity. “Please don’t die!”

“I’m not planning on it!” Hansol lingers for barely a second longer as the giant reptilian continues its warpath across the plaza, eyes searching yours. In a moment so quick you think you imagined it, his lips lean forward to brush your forehead and shoot electricity down your entire body. You freeze and watch as he disappears into the dust, webs shooting from his wrist and sending him flying toward the danger.

Your feet remain rooted in place for what feels like forever until someone grabs your arm and ushers you behind a police brigade that has been set up just outside the plaza. Dodging EMTs and trying your best not to look back at however Hansol is faring, you collapse onto the couch of your apartment several minutes later, feet aching and heart still racing. After kicking off your shoes, anxiously grabbing the first aid kit, and pacing until there’s surely a path worn into your floorboards, you wait on the fire escape for him to come back.

You’re stuck in a worried spiral with your legs swinging off the edge of the escape when the tell-tale thwip of webs finally reaches your building.

“Holy shit, you’re okay,” you breathe when he lands on the creaking metal platform. There’s countless tears and rips in his suit, scuffs on his shoes, and a cut on his left cheek, but he’s not bleeding out or in need of a hospital. You don’t bother rushing him into the apartment immediately; your arms are around his neck and pulling him close before either of you can think much of it. His breathing is heavy and there’s a slight tremble to his hands from excess adrenaline, but he makes no effort to let go until you pull away and tug off the black mask that you’d given him before you were separated. Your thumb runs over the angry red scratch and his throat bobs as he swallows. “Is the professor…?”

“He’s alive,” Hansol answers and you exhale in relief. “Some of his students raided his lab and found the antidote gas, so all I needed to do was stall and then make him sniff it.”

“Did anyone see your face?” He shakes his head.

“They didn’t, thanks to you. I was about to rush in there with no plan, no suit, and no mask.” The corner of your mouth turns down.

“Yeah, you’ve had better ideas,” you remark.

“I wasn’t thinking about Spiderman, just keeping you safe,” he reveals and your heart stutters again. “I guess thinking about you makes me a little stupid.”

“Well, I hope you don’t do it too often,” you conclude, turning and pushing open the window before you start thinking too hard about how tightly he held your hips. He follows you into the apartment after some delay, and mutters something under his breath that you think you might have hallucinated.

“Too late.”

—

Save #3, a.k.a. The Power of Persuasion (And Eavesdropping on Private Conversations)

You didn’t intend to eavesdrop, not really.

You were truly in the right place at the right time, or wrong place and wrong time depending on who you ask. As if final exam week couldn’t get any worse, the restroom located next to your classroom is under maintenance, meaning you had approximately five minutes to haul ass to the second floor bathroom, haul ass back to your classroom, hope that it’s still unlocked and your professor didn’t start on time, and mentally prepare yourself for what might be the worst test in your academic career…on top of waiting for a certain web-slinging hero to bring you your calculator. It should have been a blessing in disguise that Hansol was also in the class with you; he’s brought you stuff you’ve forgotten several times since he’s usually getting a few winks of sleep by the time you leave for campus. But now, he’s nowhere to be found five minutes before exam time, you’re calculator-less, and you need to pee so badly that your legs are shaking. What a great day to be you.

“Deborah, listen to me! It’s possible to have two soulmates, and therefore it wasn’t cheating!” You stop in your tracks as you exit the restroom, your ears picking up on a voice that sounds suspiciously like your professor that should already be in the classroom. Ducking quietly behind a vending machine, you continue to listen as your professor rants to whoever was on the phone. “No, you need to stop being in your head about this. I was involved with Debra–yes, the other woman’s name is also Debra but with a different spelling–because I believed you two would get along well. You’re the one who’s always going on about opening up the relationship.” Your jaw is hanging open while your professor tries to convince his wife that a divorce lawyer is not needed and that a family counselor (including the other Debra) was what they should get. The conversation drops to a level that has you craning your neck to hear while also staying hidden, and you nearly jump out of your skin when a message from Hansol buzzes on your phone.

| CONTACT ID: hansol ✌️|

[9:59 A.M.]

DID HE DTART YET IM RUNNING OVER MY ALARM DIDNTGO OFF I COULDNT FIND YUOR CALCUALTOR WHY DID YOU PUT IT IN THE FRIDGE

[10:00 A.M.]

DUCK STALL FO RME PLS PLS PLS I NEED TEN MINKS MINS

You nearly reveal your position from giggling at the prospect of your roommate being in dire need of ten ferret-like animals, but quickly remember the seriousness of the situation if you didn’t get your calculator and Hansol was locked out of the classroom for being late. Following your professor’s footsteps as he stomps down the stairs and towards the classroom, you slip into the room behind him and wedge a pencil in between the doors in the event that they lock on their own upon closing. The room is eerily silent save for some nervous coughs and the rustling of bags as everyone tucks away their phones and pulls out their pencils. Your professor, however, looks like he would rather be anywhere but there while you settle into your usual seat and stick your bag on the seat adjacent to you for Hansol.

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” mumbles the student on your other side, Dez, who had a knack for getting the professor riled up and yapping for an ungodly portion of class time. “What do you think made him all grumpy today?” You bite your tongue and shrug, checking the clock and the classroom doors every few seconds to see if Hansol made it in.

“I don’t know, but he seems pretty pissed,” you add. “More pissed than when you had him on a tangent about the reliability of government that one time before break.” Dez smirks at the memory.

“How long did he go on for, again?”

“42 minutes and 39 seconds exactly,” you recount and he nods like a grandfather remembering his youth while sitting in a rocking chair.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” Dez asks, pointing over at the empty chair on your other side. You shoot him a look.

“He’s my roommate, not my boyfriend.” He shrugs.

“Yet.”

“Don’t get me started, Dez,” you warn and he lifts his hands in surrender.

“Sorry, professor. Didn’t mean to get you all prickly,” he apologizes and an evil idea occurs to you while you take in your professor at the front of the room still furiously texting on his phone, even though the exam should have started three minutes ago. You need to buy yourself and Hansol time, so you throw caution to the wind and drop your voice to a conspiratory volume.

“Say, Dez,” you assert. “You’re familiar with the, uh, specialty herb trade here on campus, right?” He thinks for a moment, his mouth gaping open like a fish, and then the realization of what you’re referring to hits him like lightning.

“No way,” he gasps. “Are you looking to buy?”

“No, not me. I’m just wondering how prices have been looking since campus police have been cracking down on dealers,” you hastily explain and he purses his lips in thought.

“Now that you say that, prices have been going up lately. Like, for example, I’ve got a guy that experiments with adding basil and rosemary to his shit, and–” You wave your hands and cut him off.

“Dez, I don’t care. The market is a shitshow, is it not?”

“The shittiest show,” he confirms gravely.

“Great,” you say. “30 dollars if you ask our professor what he thinks about soulmates. Or open relationships. Or both. Actually, 50 if you do both.” If all goes right, it should be enough time for Hansol to get his ass over here. Dez’s eyes go as wide as bowling balls and he grabs your hand to shake it aggressively. You would be down some dollars, but at least you could literally buy time. As your professor finally puts down his phone and steels himself to address the class, Dez’s hand shoots up.

“Professor!” He yells loud enough to make you cringe. At least a hundred eyes in the busy lecture hall turn toward you at once and you’re grateful that Dez has no sense of social anxiety. The professor at the front of the room sighs tiredly.

“Yes, Dez?”

“Do you think it’s possible for someone to have multiple soulmates, or does one person just get left out in open relationships?” You know your gamble has paid off when your professor completely dismisses the proctors of the exam and then begins recounting the entire history of his relationship with Deborah #1, his run-in with Debra #2, and the subsequent issues that followed with both women. By the time Hansol has finally dropped into his seat and slid your calculator over the desk, you’ve long realized that your bet has worked a little too well, as now he’s been talking for the last twenty minutes and shows no sign of stopping. “Do you have a preferred payment method?” Dez whispers. “I take Venmo, Cashapp, and cuts of beef. I also have payment plans. Here’s a QR code.” He procures a screenshot and you scan it, still partially in shock that this even worked.

“What’s the stoner on about?” Hansol murmurs to you as he watches you type in $50 on your phone.

“Just send me $25 when you get the chance,” you request and he nods unsurely.

“Do I even wanna know?”

“Probably not. Just don’t ever ask the professor what he thinks about open relationships.”

“I see,” Hansol says even though you know he’s far from understanding what’s going on. “Fifteen more minutes and it’ll be far past the time he can give us on the exam, so we won’t take it. If he’s still talking after fifteen minutes, wanna go grab breakfast?”

“I could fuck up a waffle right now,” you muse. “Are you paying?”

“I’ll pay for $25 worth of your food, if that’s an equal transaction.” Dez leans his head into your conversation.

“That’s like, totally a filet mignon amount. You should take the deal,” he advises. You stare at him for a long moment until he stares back longer and it unnerves you.

“Thanks Dez, I’ll take that into account.” Dez gasps like you’d just told him he was pregnant.

“Yo, are you guys going on a date? I’ve got some recommendations if you want them.” Hansol blinks at him and tries to hide his grin.

“We’re good, man, but thanks for letting us know.”

“Of course, dude. You and your sweetheart are so cute,” Dez gushes and you keep your eyes trained on the professor, though you see Hansol has gone stiff from the corner of your peripheral vision. “And hey, if you ever wanna get some good stuff, just let me know, ‘kay?”

“Sounds good, Dez,” you smile. “Enjoy the $50.”

—

Save #4, a.k.a. The Amazing Spider-Seamstress

If Hell ever froze over, you imagine it would look something like winter in New York. You’ve been running the heater in your apartment for so long that your nose is starting to feel dry, and stepping outside is like walking naked into the world’s largest Costco refrigerator. Your roommate isn’t faring much better, coming home with chattering teeth and skin that is nearly the color of the frozen lake a few blocks down from your apartment. After a heated metaphorical debate about whether spiders hibernate during winter (because why go out on patrol when it’s too cold to commit crime anyway?), you’d come to the conclusion that Hansol needed layers if he was going to survive swinging through winds that were frigid enough to leave icicles hanging from his webs.

Hansol, by virtue of being Hansol, was rather lazy at his first attempt of saving the city in warmer clothes. The week after your argument about him freezing to death in his regular Spiderman suit, you’d watched him cross the living room in his suit and throw a jacket over himself as he ducked out onto the fire escape. As you’d predicted, he came back with a torso nice and warm, but legs that each needed heat packs. The next night, he wore a jacket and sweatpants, and then lamented that his ears and his toes were going to freeze and fall off. When Friday came and you were watching the same routine from the dining room table, Hansol looked less like Spiderman and more like one of the burglars from Home Alone. He arrived back at the apartment a few hours later with snow heaped on his clothes, a hole in his beanie, and missing one of his boots.

That’s when you decided to intervene.

“What’re you doing?” He asks as you lay out his suit on the kitchen table and examine it with all the precision of a neurosurgeon.

“If you freeze to death, no one’s gonna be covering half my rent,” you decide, disappearing into your room and bringing back a stack of fabrics you’d picked up after your classes. “So, I would like permission to insulate your suit.”

“You don’t need to do that; I’ll just keep using the thermal layers,” he reasons, running his fingers over the red and blue fleece. “They’re scratchy, but they work.”

“You hate those because they make your suit not feel like skin,” you remind him. “Granted, this won’t feel like skin either, but at least it’s one less layer you need to have. Easier to swing, too. See?” You grab a corner of fabric and stretch it. “It’ll move with you. It’s not perfect, but it’s warm.”

“This is pretty soft,” he agrees. “It’s like I’m a sheep.”

“You’d be warmer than a sheep, at least for the areas that you said get the coldest. I’m not gonna put fleece around where your joints are, since those are gonna need the most flexibility.” His eyes follow your finger as you trace on the suit where you would install the fleece panels–wrapping around his arms and legs, his chest, and his neck, specifically. Hansol looks at you so softly that you forget just how close you are together, hunched over the kitchen table.

“You’d really do this for me?”

“Of course,” you confirm. “Plus, didn’t you say you’ve been wanting to design a winter version and a summer version of your suits? Let this be the winter one so you don’t freeze to death.”

“Okay, I trust you. I didn’t know you knew how to sew,” he remarks and you bite your lip.

“I know how to stitch. Everything else, I was gonna figure out as I go,” you admit sheepishly and you thank the heavens that you have a chill roommate, because he just shrugs and gives you an encouraging pat on the back.

“You got it. I wouldn’t trust anyone else with this job.”

“Well, yeah. That would require someone else to know your identity,” you point out and grin at his pout.

“Can’t you just let me compliment you?” He pokes his finger into your side and you yelp, pushing him away with a laugh.

“Fine, I surrender! Now go away and let me work,” you dismiss and drop into the dining room chair.

Turns out, sewing pieces of fleece into the inside of Hansol’s suit is easier than you thought, but takes forever to stitch by hand. On top of that, you’re trying to make sure your stitches are as secure as possible and in a straight line, if you can help it. It’s well past midnight by the time you finally finish tying off the last knot. Hansol has been quietly loitering for the past hour, watching you work and taking cat naps to the sound of your humming in lieu of being on patrol.

“Done?”

“Done,” you beam, holding up the finished suit that, to your delight, looks exactly the same. “I also stitched up a few tears and rips you had in it, just while I was in the area.” He leans over the back of your chair, his chin close enough to brush your temple, and you hope he can’t tell how much your breathing has picked up.

“You sure you actually did something to it? It looks like nothing’s there,” he comments, gently taking the suit from you and feeling around the newly insulated areas. “Oh. There it is.”

“Exactly. It should keep you a little warmer while still feeling the same as before,” you explain proudly. “Now, you don’t need to wear itchy thermals or bundle up like you’re braving a snowstorm.”

“Can I go take it for a test run?” You shrug.

“It’s your suit. Do what you want with it as long as you don’t die.” He whoops in excitement and runs into his room, reappearing a few minutes later smoothing over his arms in awe.

“This feels amazing,” he exclaims. “It’s like I’m a sheep, but also have blubber. So like a whale-sheep. Sheep-whale. Shale.”

“Perhaps a Whasheep?” You contribute, smiling.

“A whasheep,” he agrees. He stretches in the suit and does a backflip for good measure. “Feels great. I can flip so easily in this.” His legs bend in preparation to fly backward again, but you stop him with a noise of concern.

“I’m happy you’re happy, but I don’t think our downstairs neighbors will be enthused if you keep doing gymnastics over their living room,” you reason and he flinches with embarrassment.

“Right, right. I’m gonna go take it for a test run, then. Want anything from the store?”

“Hot chocolate mix, if you can,” you request, though you’re covering your mouth with a yawn.

“Dark?”

“You know it.”

“Be right back, then. I won’t be long.” True to his word, Hansol is back less than fifteen minutes later, but you’ve already migrated to the couch and curled up against the cushions, fast asleep. Something in his chest warms seeing that you’ve used the spare fleece as a scrappy blanket, not wanting to bother getting one from the closet. You barely stir as he grabs a throw blanket for you and replaces the scrap fabric with it, ultimately deciding to just scoop you up and carry you to your room. You hum contentedly during the few seconds it takes to transfer you from the couch to your bed, pulling the blanket closer as soon as you’re on the mattress.

When you murmur a sleepy love you, Hansol as he’s shutting your door, it takes him an hour to stop his heart from racing.

—

Save #5, a.k.a. The Therapeutic Properties of Cable TV

Hansol has been off for the past week. He won’t look you in the eye, he won’t answer you in more than two-word sentences, he’s been eating dinner in his room, and he’s disappeared after his classes when he usually comes straight home. You know you shouldn’t feel so affected–he might just be feeling under the weather, after all–but it’s still causing a significant disturbance to your routine. Eating dinner alone feels extra empty. Watching TV feels extra boring. Studying might as well be pointless if he’s not beside you muttering chemical formulas under his breath.

It finally reaches a breaking point when you’re awake and staring at the ceiling one night, unable to sleep. You’re awake long enough that you hear Hansol come back from patrol, close the door to his room, and open it again. You sit up and strain your ears, barely catching the sound of him creeping around the kitchen and the microwave beeping. The clock reads almost 3:00 in the morning; he should be dead asleep by now. Part of you wants to mind your own business and let him be, but the better part of you wins over and drags you out of bed and into the living room. When you settle wordlessly on the other side of the couch, wrapped in your blanket, you don’t immediately look at Hansol. Instead, you look at the steaming cup of instant ramen that he hasn’t touched, the TV remote’s faded buttons, and the piercingly bright cartoon show that’s playing at an imperceptible volume. An entire twenty-minute episode comes and goes without a word from either of you, and your eyelids are becoming heavy.

He notices.

“You should sleep,” he says so quietly that you almost don’t hear him.

“So should you,” you counter. He tenses.

“I don’t need it.”

“You say that to a nurse. Smart,” you deadpan and eye him skeptically. “You don’t need it, or you don’t want it?” His silence and clenched jaw tells you all you need to know. “If I did something to upset you, I want to know so I can apologize.” His attention snaps to you and he shakes his head with more emotion than you’ve seen from him for the past six days.

“What? No, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You’ve been avoiding me this entire week,” you insist. “That can’t be without reason.”

“I’m just tired,” he dodges and you see through it like glass.

“If you’re tired, you should be sleeping.”

“I’m fine. Can you drop it?” He snaps and your stomach sinks.

“Yeah. Sorry. Let me know if you want me to leave.”

“Do what you want. It’s your apartment,” is his cold reply and you tuck yourself even further into the corner. Your nose burns as your eyes start to water, but you force yourself to remain stoic. He’d never talked to you that way before and it made something in you unreasonably sad. After another episode and fighting the urge to cry, he sighs and turns TV off, scooting closer to you for the first time in days. “I’m sorry. That was mean.”

“Yeah, it was,” you whisper, staring at your knees tucked under the blanket. You swallow and meet his eyes like one wrong look would blow up the entire building.

“I’m sorry I hurt you, and I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you. It isn’t fair, and I don’t want to make you sad.” The urge to cry comes back like a crashing wave.

“Will you tell me what’s going on?” You manage to say. “I’m worried about you.”

“Nightmares. Every night of last week,” he reveals. “I relive all the mistakes I’ve made since becoming Spiderman. The most recent one, there was a situation where I couldn’t save everyone.” He exhales shakily and you reach to cover his hand with yours. “I couldn’t look you in the eyes for days because all I felt was guilt, even though it was all in my head. I couldn’t save you.”

“Oh.” You don’t realize you’re crying until Hansol makes a noise of alarm and brushes aside the tears that have started running down your cheeks.

“Wait, no–don’t–why are you…?”

“I don’t know why I’m crying,” you attempt to laugh, which sounds more like a sob. “I guess I was so worried about you and all this time, it’s because of me…or I guess not me. Dream-me.”

“Dream-you scared the shit out of me.”

“And you didn’t tell me any of this?” Hansol shakes his head.

“It wasn’t your problem to solve.”

“And so your solution was losing sleep and watching Spongebob until you were exhausted?” You ask incredulously through your blurry vision. “You are an idiot.”

“I know,” he acknowledges. “I know I’m an idiot. And I know I should have told you, but I guess I thought watching Spongebob would fix my issues. Therapeutic properties, you know?”

“No, you idiot. I don’t know,” you disagree. “You should be sleeping. We should be talking.” You squeeze his hand like you’re begging him to stay. “I am not going to walk out on you, no matter what shit you throw at me. I’m not leaving. Period.” Hansol’s gaze softens and his eyes are enough to make you turn to jelly. “Please don’t shut me out again.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise me?”

“I–I promise,” he vows after a fleeting moment of hesitation. He looks like he’s on the verge of saying one more thing, but shuts his mouth decisively and you nod.

“Good. Now, I’m gonna make my own cup of ramen and we’re gonna watch one more episode. Then we’re both gonna sleep, and you’re going to wake me up and talk to me if you have another nightmare.”

You end up stuck on the couch for more than one episode, primarily because you and Hansol somehow get close enough that you can rest your head on his shoulder and he can rest his head on yours. Somewhere between the third and fourth episodes, you drift off to the smell of his laundry detergent and instant ramen powder, along with the sensation of his arm securing you against his side. With you so close, for the first time in a while, Hansol isn’t afraid of letting sleep take him.

—

+1, a.k.a. The Breaking Point

“I’m going to fail and this is going to be my last semester before I go broke and disappear,” you lament, your forehead hitting the wooden table with a thud. You can hear Hansol trying to stifle his laugh from beside you.

“You’re overreacting,” he snorts. “I don’t say that about a lot of things, but this time you are.”

“Hansol, I don’t get it,” you try to emphasize. “I cannot understand calculus, therefore I can’t be a nurse, therefore I might as well just sign up to be jobless for the rest of my life.”

“And you call me a drama queen?”

“Alright, Almighty Math Biochemistry Lord,” you scoff. “You tell me how to find the solution to this.”

“It’s easy. The best way to figure out a problem is to get rid of a variable.”

“Is it that simple?” He shrugs.

“Most things are, when you think about it.”

“Get rid of a variable,” you echo thoughtfully, picking up your pencil again and hunching over your scratch paper.

“Now you’ve got it. It’s how I solve my problems all the time.”

“And what if there’s a variable you didn’t account for?” He pauses, his eyebrows pinching in thought.

“I try to get rid of it and simplify the problem.”

“Huh, maybe I should try that.”

“You should,” Hansol agrees. “It’ll make you stop worrying about things you can’t control.”

“Alright, shut up and let me work,” you laugh.

You’ve never been particularly afraid of heights, but that will definitely be changing if you live to see tomorrow.

Rough rope rubs against your wrists from where you’re tied to a segment of a massive tower crane stretching over a new skyscraper development on the other side of the city. Below you is nothing but a void of open air, and at the bottom lies the streets of New York that, from this perspective, look no larger than ant trails. Your body wants to scream, but the air whipping around you prevents you from taking a full breath. How you ended up here in the first place is foggy; you vaguely remember walking back to the apartment after your last evening class, and then the next thing you know, your entire vision goes black. Pain blooms at the back of your skull, so you must have been hit with something hard enough to knock you out.

A blur of movement below you draws your eye and your mouth goes dry as the glider of the Green Goblin hovers to a stop in front of you, close enough that you can see your reflection in the villain’s mask.

“Brave little roomie, aren’t you? Covering for the Spiderman, patching up the Spiderman,” he taunts melodically and you glare with as much loathing as you can, even as your knees are threatening to give out from fear. “Now you’ve evolved. You’re not only a friend of the Spiderman…you’re bait for him, as well.”

“What’re you gonna do? Kill him?” You hiss.

“No dear, you’re our V.I.P. for tonight, so you get first priority. Only then will it be our good friend Hansol’s turn.”

“Why bring me all the way up here? Why draw him to a place where no one would see you kill him, even if you did manage to win?” Out of the corner of your eye, you catch a single white string connecting two of the nearby buildings, then disappear. Another, carefully in the Goblin’s blindspot, then another, and another until you’re sure that Hansol is hiding behind the building next to you. “You’re never going to beat him,” you stall as your heart rate steadily increases.

“I’m entertained that you believe that. Unfortunately, we both know that he would never let you get hurt, and that is what will be his ultimate downfall. I’d advise against resisting.” He hops down from the glider and a scream tears itself from your throat as he cuts the ropes around your wrists and shoves you forward, toward the edge of the crane’s catwalk. Your feet slip and slide on the damp, rusty metal in an attempt to slow your approach to the end, but it’s no use. The Goblin has an iron grip on your arms and ends up dragging you the rest of the way, spinning you so that both your backs are facing the free fall. You’re stuck in a position where any attempt to throw him off would inevitably tug you with him, so you have no choice but to go deathly still as terror sets deep in your bones.

Seconds later, you recognize the silhouette of Hansol’s suit drop down onto the catwalk and feel your heart nearly stop as it wobbles from his landing. He looks menacing in the dim light of the top of the crane, shadows stretching from his limbs and tracing the rigid structure of his muscles. He takes no steps forward and you can’t see his face under the mask, but his body language is eerily calm–no, calculating–for someone who needed to save their roommate from falling several hundred feet from the sky.

“Let them go, Osborn. Your fight is with me,” he says.

“No can do, Mister Chwe,” the Goblin replies. “You’ve made a crucial mistake that needs correction, and I am burdened with fixing it.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?”

“Falling in love.” Your stomach flips. Hansol stretches his neck to the side and you almost laugh. I’m about to get thrown off a crane by a maniac, and you’re stretching? “A pitfall so many follow. Fortunately, I will take the responsibility off your shoulders.” The Goblin leans backward and you stumble after him with a panicked shout. Hansol takes a few steps forward and stops just short of reaching you.

“Stop!” He yells, extending his arm as if to stop you. “Just let them go. Then you can fight me however you want.”

“Hmm! No, I won’t,” the villain decides with childlike glee. “I’ve come up with a better idea.” You cry out again as you find yourself suddenly suspended over the void below, held by nothing but Norman Osborn’s grip on the collar of your shirt. Your hands instinctively grab the Goblin’s wrist to steady yourself as you dangle there, helpless.

“Let them go, Osborn,” Hansol seethes, but he isn’t listening. “I’m not asking again.”

“I’ll give you a choice. You can either attempt to capture me, or save your little love from becoming a pancake.” Dread fills your body as you realize why Hansol is being so careful. His decision not to swing around and outmaneuver the Goblin like he usually does is purposeful. One wrong move, and you’re dead and his enemy is fleeing into the night. You know Hansol, and you know he’s devised at least a dozen ways he could defeat the Green Goblin in any situation. What he didn’t account for was keeping you alive. “What do you choose, Mister Chwe?”

“Hansol,” you interject before he can reply. An idea has flickered to life in the back of your mind. It might be radically stupid, but radical was what you needed right now. “Remember what you said about simplifying a calculus problem?” You can’t see his face under his mask, but you know by the way his body language shifts that he knows exactly the moment at the dining table that you’re talking about. Get rid of a variable. “I trust you.” He nods once, slow enough for Osborn to miss. “I…I love you.”

Then, you’re tearing yourself out of the Green Goblin’s hold and plummeting into the darkness.

Freezing air rushes past you as you freefall toward the streets below, spinning you in all different directions until you can’t tell where you’re facing or how far you still have to fall. Explosions rattle the crane above you and illuminate the clouds in fire as you keep falling down, down, down, and you have no time to think about Hansol not reaching you on time because you’re preoccupied hyperventilating and tumbling every which way. Another set of explosions rock the sky and the world comes into focus again as your body rotates and you see the ground fast approaching. You squeeze your eyes shut and wait for an impact that never comes, because you’re pulled suffocatingly close to someone as you continue streaming through the air at a much more controlled velocity.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” Hansol whispers next to your ear and you wrap yourself around his body as he swings you away from the burning crane and the approaching cop cars and firetrucks. If he’s hindered by how tightly you’re holding onto him, your eyes still shut tight in the hollow of his neck, he doesn’t comment.

You land on something that feels suspiciously like the fire escape to your apartment but still can’t find the courage to let go, not that it matters as he carefully cradles your head and gets you both through the window and into the living room of your apartment. Your feet don’t touch the ground, rather Hansol scoops you up and sits you both gently on the couch with your hands still around his neck and your legs across his lap. He tears off his mask and takes a deep breath, wrapping his arms around your torso to hold you. Neither of you move for a long while until your breathing has evened out and you finally start to feel aware of your surroundings again and not just him.

“Thank you for coming for me,” you whisper.

“Of course.”

“Did you get him?”

“Of course.”

“Are you overthinking that you should leave me because you put me in danger?”

“You know me so well,” he confirms dryly. “Or did you want me to say ‘of course’ one more time to be funny?” A smile ghosts your lips.

“You know, your overthinking’s not going to work,” you declare.

“Hmm? Why not?” His cheek squishes against the top of your head, making the dull pain at the back feel a little less sharp.

“Because I told you that I love you, so now you can’t get rid of me,” you state, craning your neck to look at him.

“You just got kidnapped because of me and you still want to stick around,” Hansol summarizes in disbelief, but you catch the way his ears are becoming redder.

“That depends on if what the Goblin said was true. That you fell in love with me.” He quiets and licks his lips, his eyes flitting to yours and then looking away. “Is it true? Are you in love with me, Chwe Hansol?” A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Hmm, I’m not sure how I want to answer,” he begins cryptically and you frown. “Do you have a good aim when throwing empty soup cans?”

“What? I–I think I do?”

“What about masquerade masks? Do you keep an extra in your room in case a certain superhero ever needs it again?” Your puzzlement increases.

“How do you know I still have that?” He ignores your question and adds more riddles.

“Or, let’s see…Is Dez going to be a stoner for the rest of his life?”

“Oh, fuck yeah,” you attest immediately and things begin to click in your head. “Yes. The answer to all those questions is yes.” Hansol’s eyes sparkle as he continues.

“Was it a bad idea for me to go out in nothing but my Spidersuit and sweatpants in below zero weather?”

“Most definitely,” you quip.

“Are the old episodes of Spongebob better than whatever new stuff they’re putting out?”

“Is that even a question?” You fire back with a grin growing on your face so wide that your cheeks hurt.

“Then you have the answer to your original query,” he concludes, his hand cupping the side of your face. You might be crying again, but you don’t care.

“You’re in love with me?”

“I am so in love with you,” Hansol smiles. “And I won’t ask you to leave, even though I know it won’t ever be safe with me.”

“I don’t care if it’s safe. I just want you,” you promise. He leans in close enough to brush your nose with his, playfully nudging your forehead.

“Can I kiss you now?”

“Are you Spiderman?” You ask in turn. “And the love of my life?” He laughs and ducks forward, muttering his answer against your lips.

“Hell yeah, I am.”

—

The Central Park cherry blossoms are officially in bloom, and Hansol has made it his mission to take you on a date there in the most romantic-comedy way possible.

“Was the picnic basket really necessary?” You laugh, swinging your arms as he takes your free hand in his while the other holds a wicker basket that you’re pretty sure he stole from one of your Pinterest boards. “I mean, the red checkered blanket is already overkill, but–”

“We’re eating tteokbboki and gimbap instead of crustless sandwiches and chips,” he interrupts. “I hope that’s unique enough.”

“I’m just saying, we could’ve used the insulated bag we have at home, and the blanket we have…at home,” you add.

“But then where’s the magic?” Hansol whines, picking a spot he deems suitable and laying out the red gingham blanket that he bought off Amazon last week. You settle down beside him and press a quick kiss to his cheek.

“It’s right here,” you reply, gesturing to the perfect view of the pink flowering trees before you. “Can’t get much more magical than this, can it?” You pull out the containers of food and eagerly break apart your chopsticks, but before you can take a bite, a shimmering noise behind you draws your attention. Hansol, already two bites deep, turns with his mouth still full. You groan, recognizing the source of the orange portal that sparks magical particles like burning coals. “I wasn’t being literal when I said it couldn’t get more magical,” you grumble.

“I apologize for interrupting your date, but the Spiderman is needed,” says the Sorcerer Supreme that has crashed your day with your boyfriend. Xu Minghao, though you’d only met him on a few occasions, intimidated you in a way only the most powerful magical being on the planet could. Wrapped in a red robe with a mind of its own and the Eye of Agamotto hanging threateningly around his neck, he looks like he’d either give you a quest or turn you into a rat. Hansol frowns, looking at you, then his plate full of food, then back at the sorcerer.

“It can’t wait?”

“The fate of the world as we know it is at stake, Hansol. I would hope you’d take this more seriously,” Minghao remarks, though you catch him eyeing the food hungrily. “Is that gimbap?”

“It is,” you answer before your boyfriend can. “Two gimbap for you and a healthy serving of tteokbboki if you let us finish our plates before whisking him away.” Minghao narrows his eyes.

“Four,” he debates.

“Three,” you shoot back.

“Fine,” the Sorcerer Supreme agrees. In the distance from wherever he’s portaling, a loud boom sounds. He exhales, exasperated, and points an accusatory finger at both of you. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

“Thirty,” Hansol attempts and Minghao shoots him a look.

“Fifteen,” he decreases and your boyfriend surrenders, returning his attention to his food. “Good. See you in twenty, Spiderman.” The portal closes with a whoosh and Hansol turns to you in astonishment.

“I can’t believe you just bargained with Xu Minghao.” You shrug, leaning close to his side.

“No big deal,” you reassure him, living in the moment as much as you can before he’s taken away to save the world. “I’ve definitely had to save you from worse before.”

“You have, but I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

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