pairing: jungkook x reader (afab + she/her pronouns)
word count: 33k/?
chapter count: 5/?
summary: by your junior year of university, your five-year plan looks something like this: graduate summa cum laude from your journalism programme, get a job at the new york times and a sunlit apartment in manhattan with your best friend, yoongi, and secure the spot of best man (best woman? maid of best?) at namjoon’s future wedding to hoseok before jungkook does.
the key to all of that? an interview with spiderman for the university newspaper that could not only catapult your thesis onto the next level, and make you an established name in the field of journalism, but also make namjoon literally piss himself. (from joy, of course).
so there you go, spending every bit of your free — and not-so-free — time chasing a web-slinging vigilante around the streets of new york, hoping for the answers of four simple questions from the masked arachnid hero.
(getting tangled up in the webs of a mystery that you’re not quite ready to find answers for was not part of this aforementioned five-year plan, by the way.)
rating: M [for violence and sexual content]
tags: spiderman!au, friends-to-lovers, college!au, comedy, fluff & angst, slow burn, eventual smut, crime mystery (we all know who spiderman is, so where would be the fun in that mystery hehe), descriptions of violence, gore, body horror, guns, character death (not MCD!!), bam (you’ll get it ;))
jungkook x reader, friends to lovers, spiderman!au — link to masterlist
chapter summary: Curiosity might just prove to be a very dangerous trait. According to some, at least.
wc: 6350
warnings: mentions of weed, sexual references, mentions of kidnapping, allusions to domestic violence & child neglect
a/n: hello all! happy reading! i'll yap and life update at the end, so if you don't gaf you may just get right into it and skip my yapathlon. love you all so much, and as always, thank you for the interest in this story. i have just one public service announcement! after the last chapter, i cross posted this story to ao3, so if that's more your jam, here you go: link to ao3
taglist: @kooko009 @mirinaeii @tatumrileyslover @rpwprpwprpwprw @kookiesgiggles (if you want me to put you on the taglist, just lmk in the comments/asks!)
Open [Secret_Investigation.docx]
*
This document is password-protected
Enter password to open file
Password: **************
Password accepted!
Opening [Secret_Investigation.docx]. . .
*
10/04/202X
Called number daniel walter washington the third (hereafter: d2w3 or rando danny) gave me for claire. First time: unanswered. Second time: declined. Promising start. Will try again tomorrow.
No contact found yet for family/friends for other missing persons.
*
10/06/202X
Tried claire repeatedly yesterday. All calls declined. Left voicemail + text. Slight concern may now qualify as stalker.
Spiderman joined contact-searching mission. Suspecting him of abusing stark industry resources. Actively trying not to think about legal ramifications if true.
*
10/07/202X
Stupid school commitments hindering secret investigation efforts. Unfortunately, must maintain GPA. Tragic burden of brilliance.
Nothing from claire. Feeling slightly dispirited. Must not spiral.
Tested freaky magic ring in comfort of own room.
Immediately felt unsettled. Possibly blacked out.
However experience less intense now than I remember last time.
*
10/08/202X
Spiderman came over for emotional support during light internet stalking. Scolded me for testing freaky magic ring alone.
Weird feeling in left kidney having masked vigilante in bedroom. Possibly nerves. Maybe consider scheduling abdominal ultrasound.
Found possible source on facebook. Sent friend request. Profile picture hopefully welcoming enough to inspire acceptance.
Do not know how to insert picture so must describe: on brooklyn bridge. Wearing giant hoodie crocheted by hari. Hair perfectly styled thanks to dyson dupe. Holding corn dog and beer. Also being held upside down via ankles by jungkook.
Unfortunately yoongi arrived unannounced. Emergency superhero-evacuation via window. Fortunately: web-slinging — so survived fall from 7th floor.
Yoongi aware of connection yet am not comfortable with possible meeting. Mood: conflicted, guilty, but also weirdly exhilarated.
Got into small argument over subject of present document. Yoongi remains of opinion that dumb idea. Also: possibly mildly hurt by keeping connection with masked vigilante secret from him :( What to do? :(
*
10/11/202X
Consumed approx. 523mgs of caffeine, 2 instant ramen + donuts — generously supplied by jungkook. Homemade.
Presented x-rats project for class. Not disaster but not exactly crowd-pleaser either. Jungkook insisted should not feel bad because of rats. Agree.
Arranged coffee after class. Had to abandon coffee-rendezvous due to new facebook friend.
Sent Yoongi reconciliation cat gifs. He replied with picture of monkey crying in shower. Good sign. Feeling optimistic.
*
10/12/202X
Apparently sent friend request to wrong person.
Am not investigative genius. Feeling crushed.
*
10/13/202X
Claire replied to text with: ?
Replied: “Can I interest you in an interview about your missing friend Laura?”
Claire: “Sure.”
Am investigative genius after all. Confidence: restored.
Spiderman found correct person to add on facebook. Struggled opening profile link sent via imessage but heroically overcame struggle.
*
10/14/202X
Jimin’s birthday celebrations. Woke up to text from Yoongi in gc suggesting to go out clubbing after birthday dinner. Readily agreed because must return to good graces.
Whole gang went to sketchy but cheap nightclub in brooklyn. Cried in the all-gender bathroom with yoongi after five delicious LIITs. Best friendship officially mended.
End of night report:
Hoseok and namjoon left early together. Still suspecting secret relationship. See more about it here: [backlink to: Signs Our Good Friends Namjoon and Hoseok are Dating/Fucking.docx — document owned by [email protected] — [email protected] has editing access to this document] Will report observation to jungkook.
Hari kissed man with mullet and pornstache to give me everything by pitbull feat nayer. Sensing trouble.
Piper wasted. Possible alcohol poisoning. Escorted home by jungkook.
Jimin and taehyung doing just usual shenanigans. Not worth noting. Everyone aware two are engaging in exclusive but noncommittal intercourse. Weird individuals.
Went to grab five guys with yoongi and jin at 4am. Amazing milkshake. Feeling revived.
Sent spiderman drunk selfie at some point. No reply. Feeling mortified. Minus aura points.
*
10/15/202X
Spiderman replied to drunk selfie: “:)”
Huge hit to dignity.
Maybe due to stubbornness + slight offendedness : tested freaky magic ring again.
Reaction: head dizzy, skin prickly, but no loss of consciousness. Overwhelming sensation of deep confusion and mind fog. Definitely less intense than previous occasion tho.
*
10/17/202X
Correct person accepted my friend request. Will not agree to in-person meeting. Hesitantly agreed to correspondence via electronic mail. Great progress.
10/21/202X
Will copy transcription of interview with claire here for future reference.
*
[audio file: laura d_claire.mp4]
[file created: 10/20/202X 16:46]
View transcript of [laura d_claire.mp4]
Copy transcript of [laura d_claire.mp4]
Paste — Match formatting.
*
ME: Is this—oh okay, it’s. No. What the f— wait, yes. My apologies, it’s on.
CLAIRE: Spectacular.
M: So. Claire. Thank you for agreeing to meet with us today. So, as I have previously informed you in our text messages, Spiderman and I, we are investigating the missing persons cases in our city. Recently, it was brought to our attention that friends suspect foul play in Laura Danbrook’s disappearance that the authorities are currently overlooking.
C: What did Daniel tell you?
M: I am interested in your opinion on things today, Claire.
C: You realise Daniel and Laura were fighting when she went missing, right?
M: I—well, I hardly think it’s—
C: Of course, he wouldn’t mention that. Why would he? [scoffs] I am of a rather indifferent opinion about him, and though I don’t doubt he genuinely cares for Laura, he certainly seems to enjoy the role of weeping relative of tragedy. That’s what his Facebook feed tells me, at least.
M: So I take the two of you, are. Well. I suppose the two of you are not in contact?
C: Not when I can help it! Horribly annoying guy. But I always make the effort to at least be genial. Can’t say the same for him.
M: Right. They say tragedy brings people together but I guess. . .
SPIDERMAN: That’s a kinda insensitive thing to say, ___.
C: Yeah, dude. Not cool. I am in the depths of despair.
M: I apologise. So Claire, you don’t think Daniel is a, uh, a credible source, so to say.
C: Yes but also no.
[silence]
M: Can you, like, elaborate on that, please?
C: I mean that Daniel has a tendency to hang up on and overdramatise the wrong thing. I bet he went on and on and on and on about Ray.
M: Depends on who Ray is.
C: Girl, I’m begging you to please use context clues. Aren’t you a trainee journalist or some shit like that?
S: Hey!
M: Right. Laura’s new boyfriend.
C: Duh. Although I wouldn’t exactly call him “new.”
M: Daniel told us they started dating only a few weeks before Laura disappeared.
C: That he knows, at least. Ray has already been coming over for months when she told Daniel about him. She thought he would disapprove, and she was right.
M: What do you mean?
C: Daniel is a bit of a mama hen. He never likes Laura’s boyfriends, always finds something to disapprove. He’s gay as a maypole but also a little bit in love with her, don’t ask me how that works though. Whenever she’s in a relationship, he’s pissy and jealous and tries to turn Laura against the guy she’s dating. This sounds like I’m painting Daniel a villain but to be fair Laura is just the same when the roles are reversed. Whatever they have going on, it’s not healthy, per say.
M: Daniel told us that according to you, and I quote, “[Ray’s] vibes are rancid”.
C: Yeah, cause he’s like forty with a kid. Like, hello, can he not find girls his own age that can stand him? Weirdly enough though, he’s the most okay guy Laura has brought home in the four years we’ve lived together but I’m still gonna call his weird shit out, you know?
M: I see. I’m sorry I pose every question with Daniel told us that blablabla, but I’m trying to see the whole picture, and currently you two are giving me very different descriptions of it.
C: Sure.
M: Did you notice a change in Laura’s behaviour after she started seeing Ray?
C: Huh. I can see how Daniel’s timeline would lead him to that conclusion. Out of curiosity, did he mention anything about Laura’s parents?
M: Just that she’d been raised by her grandmother and she’s no-contact with her parents.
C: Laura Danbrook you sneaky skank! She didn’t tell him??!
S: Uhh—
C: She’s my friend. I can say that.
M: Valid.
C: Not long before she disappeared, Laura’s behavior did change. But it had nothing to do with Ray. Well, or maybe only indirectly.
M: How so?
C: About two months ago, Laura received a letter from her parents. Nothing crazy, just their information, and a note for Laura to call them if she’s ready. Understandably, Laura initially just wanted to throw it out. She hasn’t talked to her folks since she was 9, and had no mind to start now. But Ray. . .
M: Yes?
C: Ray was really supportive of the idea. Some shit about how he’s a parent too, so he can better empathise with how they feel, and people change, yaddi yaddi yadda. He got into Laura’s head.
M: Did she reach out to her parents, then?
C: I don’t know for sure. [sighs] The day she went missing, she looked ready to burst into tears any minute. But if I asked, she just evaded the question, so I just. . . Shrugged it off. I mean, it could’ve been anything, right? School, work, relationships. . . People have bad days.
M: I haven’t heard anything about this letter before. Did you tell anyone about it?
C: I didn’t. Like, it’s not my shit to tell. And then the police. . . I don’t know. I know I should’ve told them, I know, but when they called me in for an interview, I— I don’t know how to describe it. Their question felt more like prompts. Like they’re trying to get confirmation, not information. I mean, they couldn’t track Ray, and apparently his background is spotless, and lots of friends, powerful friends showed up to vouch for him. If I told them about the letter, and how Ray supported this reunion, I felt like they would have even more reason to think Laura is the runaway type. And she’s not. Does this make any sense?
M: Why are you telling me about it now, then?
C: Well, when you reached out, I thought you’re full of shit. No offence. But really, a university newspaper? But then you were so persistent and stalker-ish, and then you showed up here with Spiderman of all people. . . I don’t know. This is so trippy I can’t help but feel like you might have a shot.
M: Oh, I get that often. [laughs]
C: That does not surprise me.
M: You just mentioned Ray has powerful friends. Can you tell me what you mean by that?
C: Just a bunch of suits. Local government workers, Futureworks executives, someone from the DA’s office. . . I don’t know for sure, just the glimpses I caught.
M: Do you know what Ray does for a living? That’s a really impressive company to keep.
C: No, unfortunately. I assumed some office job, he dresses business cas. And then again, I was particularly curious, so. . .
M: Don’t worry, you were more than really helpful already. Can I have one last question before we wrap this up? Or maybe more like a favor.
C: Shoot.
M: Do you happen to have access to this letter from Laura’s parents?
C: Ahh. I can look around? Maybe it’s still in our room. I don’t have a habit of going through Laura’s stuff.
M: Understandable. If you happen to, you know, just come across it, I would greatly appreciate it if you could just text me its content.
C: Sure. Can I also have one question before we leave?
M: Sure?
C: Has anyone in your private life ever put together that you’re Spiderman?
S: Oh, question for me? Uhh, yeah. Just once. My family knows, and two of my friends, too, but I told them myself, so.
C: Do you know who he is?
M: That’s two questions now.
Important to note: conflicting accounts of claire and d2w3. Who tells truth, me wonders.
Waiting on claire to send letter from laura’s parents. Reminder to self: send polite follow up o—
A knock on your bedroom window snaps your attention from your laptop screen, open on a Google Docs document cleverly titled Secret Investigation. Well, yeah, that’s the best you could come up with. At some point during the past weeks, you have realized if your suspicions are correct — suspicions you still hesitate to confide even to Spiderman — and there’s more to see here that initially meets the eye, it will be impossible to keep everything in mind. Every minute, slipable detail could count. So, a good old password-protected document, the solution to that is. Much to learn, you still have, my young padawan . . .
You turn towards the sound of the knock, and spot the masked head of your favorite vigilante in the twilight cityscape. Getting up from your bed, you walk over to turn the latch, and with the support of one of his arms — the other is used to hold himself up on your windowsill — you manage to crack your window open just enough for him to slip through and inside.
“You didn’t text,” you tell him in lieu of a greeting.
Instead of going back to your previous place on the bed, you move towards your desk. A few used tissues, a granola wrapper, and dirty makeup wipes — not incriminating, but all in the trash bin they go anyways.
“Do I need to?” Spiderman asks, a hint of amusement in his voice. He closes the window after himself, and perches on the edge of your bed, his backpack next to his legs on the carpeted floor.
You gesture around yourself, as if there’s nothing to say. It should speak for itself. There are a few jeans that did not go with your outfit today — or the day before that, or before that, or before that, or. . . before that, times infinity — in your hands, ready to be shoved back into your closet. It doesn’t do much for the mess, but at least you managed to sneak your undies between the jeans, and got them out of sight, too. “I would’ve cleaned this place up a little, you know.”
“Oh, you flatter me, ___,” Spiderman says. With surprising familiarity, he leans back on his hands as he watches you move around the room. Despite being here only once before, he is seemingly comfortable in your space already. “I thought you were the type that loves when friends come over randomly. Sitcom-like expectations of adult life, and such, y’know.”
“Since when are we friends?” you retort playfully, glancing at him over your shoulder as you walk over to the hanger on your door to return your bathrobe to its proper place.
“I don’t know.” Spiderman shrugs. “I mean, we just text basically everyday, we meet up several times a week, you send me cute selfies from your night-outs. . . Sounds like friends to me, no? Maybe best friends, even.”
You huff, and thank every god — you’re still undecided about which ones seem legit, so you’d rather be safe than sorry — you are turned with your back to him, so he has absolutely no chance of seeing the heat that rushes to your cheeks. How embarrassing!
Cute?!
The picture in question is burnt to your retinas from the amount of times you’ve opened your text thread with the arachnid hero in utter mortification. And let me tell you, it’s anything but cute. Eyes blurred and slightly crossed from the haze of alcohol, baby hairs sticking up as if you were just electrocuted, and milkshake glossing the corner of your lips. And that stupid, stupid smile on your face. . .
Cute. . . As if! Embarrassing, maybe. Exposing, definitely.
Somewhat satisfied with the state of your room — really, it barely passes ‘acceptable’, but you had no notice, so in context of that, it’s okay — you jump onto the bed next to him, only to then crawl a bit up towards your headboard, fingers intertwined over your abdomen.
“I think of you more as a coworker. Sorryyyyyy,” you joke.
And he laughs at it, the sound of it a bit muted under the mask.
“What were you just doing, anyway?” he asks as he lounges on the bed, laying parallel to you on his side, legs still on the floor, and his head propped up on one elbow and angled to look up at you.
The position doesn’t do him any disfavors. Under the skintight latex of his suit, his bicep tightens to support his weight. It’s almost sensu—nevermind. You are not going to finish that thought. His head is heavy, because it’s full of dumbness.
“I was editing our interview with Claire from the other day into my secret investigation document. Or diary. Or whatever you wanna call it.” You reach for your laptop, and turn it for him to see its screen.
“Of course you have a secret investigation document.”
“What can I say, I like to be thorough.” You shrug. “Do you want me to give you editing access?”
“Hm. I dunno. Can you edit Google Docs with an Outlook account?” Spiderman asks. With his suit on, he can’t scroll on the trackpad with his fingers, so he’s looking through the document by hitting the arrow buttons in quick succession.
You wonder if it would be too forward to tell him it’s okay to take it off.
Just off of his hands.
Would that be more than he wants to give?
“I think so,” you snap out of it, and reply. Then ask, just to mess with him, “Who should I invite, [email protected]?”
“Uh. . . Yeah.”
“What?” You burst out laughing, sending him an incredulous look. “Your business email is seriously [email protected], dude?”
You think he’s smiling under the mask when he says, “Business email would be a stretch. I don’t really get work emails. It’s just for my Twitter account. So people can’t, you know, trace it back to me? Like, me-me, my real name and stuff.”
Me-me. My real name and stuff.
Unwanted, your mind flashes with images of your interview with Claire yesterday. You don’t think you’ve even realised, or at least consciously admitted to yourself, that you are curious about him, the real him, until Claire asked if you were one of the people who knew who Spiderman really was. Two friends and his family, he said. And probably, like, Tony Stark and his trusted personnel.
In the back of your mind, you’ve been taking a collection of what you know — he’s a student, he lives with family, born and raised in the city, dorky but also really cocky, and a just painfully, painfully good person — and wondering who it is who is under that mask, sitting on your bed right now.
What color is his hair? His eyes? Does he smile with his teeth, and do his eyes crunch up when he laughs? Does he have any tattoos? Piercings? Probably not. It would make him identifiable. What is his style like — streetwear? Elegant? Sporty? Maybe he’s part of some subculture. Is Spiderman emo?
The possibilities are endless, and as you watch him, his eyes seemingly glued to the screen of your computer, a cold realization washes over you: you will likely never, ever, ever know the answers to any of these questions.
As a journalist, that frustrates you. As ___ ___, though, it just makes you feel. . . crestfallen.
“If we’re on the subject, anyways,” Spiderman starts as he pushes the laptop back to you, and shoots his webs to get his backpack into his lap (what a lazy motherfucker. Or a show-off. Or both). He pulls out a red file folder, branded with the Stark Industries logo on the front, and hands it over to you. “I came bearing goods. It’s the contact information of friends and family of three more missing persons from the past few months.”
You enthusiastically take the folder from his hands, and open it in your lap. In it, you find a notepad — also branded — with a few names and phone numbers scribbled onto it.
Stupidly, your first thought is: is this Spiderman’s handwriting? Second: if so, he has really characteristic handwriting. The way he writes his m-n-u-w-v’s reminds you of someone, but you cannot really put a finger on it. It’s probably just a common type of handwriting, like the ‘that one girl taking notes’ meme, you know. Only every other girl in high school had that handwriting. Only third: this shit could probably be auctioned off on Ebay for a fricking fortune!
“Oh, I could fucking kiss you right now, dude,” you say, trying not to concern yourself with the legality of all of this and the ways he had acquired this information. “I sent an email to Rebecca Owens — Frankie Meyer’s sorority sister, y’know — and she still hasn’t replied. I had nothing else to go on.”
“C’mon, that’s not true. We still have, like, Aecha’s documents to go through, and a freaky magic ring, and uh—” Spiderman trails off, clicking his fingers (which, by the way, how is he able to do that? He cannot use a trackpad with the suit on, but he can click his fingers? Admittedly, though, you’re not the best at. . . physics? But it feels weird, so just a side-note) as the words escape him.
“Gimme a hint.”
“Like, fricking, Hannah Montana’s dad—”
You snort. “Ray?!”
“Yes!”
“You’re such a fucking idiot, oh my God.” You cover your face with your palms and rest your head against the headboard as unwanted laughter shakes your body. You look at him through your fingers, and snort again. “It’s too late to call ‘em now, right?”
There’s still a little giggling in his voice as he confirms, “The new contacts? Yeah, ___, I think 10PM is not the most appropriate time to phone a stranger.”
You flip through the folder, but there’s nothing more. Just the single sheet of a notepad, tucked inside safe and sound.
Well, beggars can’t be choosers, you suppose. He has already brought you more material than you could’ve dug up by your lonesome.
“So. . . how was the other night?” Spiderman asks.
You groan, letting the folder fall into your lap. “Seriously? You’re asking me for a life-update?”
“What? I was on your mind, apparently. It’s only polite that I ask. . . friend.”
You drag your palms down your face as you sigh, a handy tactic to hide your reappearing blush. “Sorry, it was really embarrassing of me to send you that picture, wasn’t it? It was a friend’s birthday dinner, we went out clubbing after, and, well, I got a bit wasted, admittedly,” you start, speaking not exactly to him, but to The Cranberries poster behind him on the wall. Dolores O’Riordan gives you this moody but weirdly supportive look as you power through the embarrassment, and try to steer the conversation towards a regular-degular catch-up session with your good pal, Spiderman. “Me and Yoongi. . . when you were here the other night, and he showed up, remember?” Spiderman nods. “After you left, we just kinda. . . got into it, I guess. . .”
“Oh no.” As opposed to you, he’s looking (at least, you feel like he is, you can still never know with that stupid mask) right into your eyes as he answers, still laying on his side. “You guys fought?”
“You sound surprised.”
Spiderman shrugs, and averts his eyes at your feet for a moment, before explaining. “I dunno. I mean, from what you’ve told me, I got the impression that you guys are thick as thieves.”
“We are,” you confirm. “I literally tell him everything. I mean, Jungkook,” a small laugh escapes you as you suddenly remember it, and Spiderman valiantly restrains a cough that was about to erupt from him to listen to your story, “he’s one of our friends from university, and he literally ran to Yoongi when he suspected I was up to something here. Which is, touché, because meeting you I think was the first time I didn’t immediately run to tell Yoongi something. For some reason.”
“For some reason?”
“Yeah, I didn’t tell him about you, for some reason.”
Spiderman huffs, and falls to fully lie on his back. “Yeah, ‘for some reason’.”
With furrowed eyebrows, you exchange the gorgeous sight of Dolores O’Riordan for the side of his masked head. “Now, what is that supposed to mean?”
“Just that I think you know why.” He just shrugs again. “I know why. The same reason you still did not tell him.”
His tone, so fucking absolute. So matter-of-fact.
“I was just about to tell you the really emotional and touching story of how we have hashed things out in the club bathroom while we were drunk as skunks.”
“So, did you, then?”
“Did I what?”
“Tell him? What we are doing here?” Spiderman asks. “Or did you just placate him with the same lie you told Namjoon about finally getting your ‘Spiderman interview’?” he says, using air quotes. “You are not getting a Spiderman interview.”
You look at him wordlessly for a moment. Well. He’s not not right.
You did tell Yoongi that you met Spiderman. Very plainly, not much elaboration on your part. Because Spiderman is right, you did not tell Yoongi how you met Spiderman, and why exactly you’re still in contact with him.
(And he’s also wrong. You are getting a Spiderman interview. He just doesn’t know it yet.)
“You’re so fucking annoying, dude.”
“Hey!” Spiderman exclaims. “I do support your decision to lie, you know. If you told him the truth, there’s no way in hell Yoongi would be content to just sit on his ass, and then I’d have him to look out for, too. No offense, but you are handful enough.” He flicks your shin playfully, and cranes his neck up to look at you. Then, sounding a bit worried, he asks, “Wait, does that sound like I’m a bad superhero? Really, I’m glad to save anyone, but do I wanna babysit the two of you? Hell nah.”
“Only if I don’t sound like a bad friend.” You amend. Spiderman agrees with a nod. You guys also fistbump. Here’s to not being bad superheroes / friends. You have to correct him on some details, though. “Although I’d prefer to say omission, not lie. And for the record, I don’t need saving, either.”
“I know,” Spiderman confirms. “But you have to admit, your behaviour is enough to give a man a heartattack.”
“You know what? Valid.”
₊✩。🕷˚🕸⋆。
That night after he leaves, and you’ve showered, and Hari, Piper and you have said your goodnights (it’s usually a 30-minute happening, with all three of you standing in your respective doorways, and coming up with more things to say) and you are finally alone in the safety of your bedroom, you try again.
You walk to your bedside table, sit on your bed, and as a slight detour, apply lotion to your legs and dry spots. Once done with that, you slide open the drawer of your bedside table, and from between old chargers, lube, tissues, a vibrator, and the user manual of your microwave, you pull out a small bundle wrapped in an old print-issue of the NYU Weekly.
You open the wrapper, and for a moment, just stare at Aecha’s ring sitting in your palm, the newspaper a safe barrier between your skin and the jewelry.
The last time you have tried it on, just a few days ago, won’t let you rest.
It was just like this. You were sitting on your bed, carefully unwrapping the bundle, and following a sudden wave of bravery, determination, you’ve closed your fist around the ring.
It was as if waves crashed over your head, and the winner of their primal power struggle swept you away with itself. Your limbs dissolved, no longer attached to your body, no longer anything. Laying on the current, the sound of rushing water put a heavy pressure on your ears, fighting its way straight into your brain to burst it open from the inside. The sound of rushing water, and in it, a voice. Confused, scared, and distant at the same time.
You didn’t comprehend a word. But you know it called for you. It must have, because ever since that day, the ring sang for you like a siren, tucked away in your bedside table, wrapped as if trapped in Pandora’s box.
You didn’t comprehend a word. But you know you must answer its call.
You take a deep breath—in, hold, exhale. And as it leaves your lungs, your hand reaches out, and the ring slips onto your finger.
₊✩。🕷˚🕸⋆。
“I’m just saying that the DODC is part of a bigger systemic issue that has been going on for a long time, and you cannot view this case in isolation. Even a minor fight involving the Avengers causes 5 to a 100 millions of dollars worth of urban damage, and then Tony Stark is contracted by the city to clean it up. Like what the fuck?”
“Technically, the Department of Damage Control is a government agency.”
“Of course you would say that, Jungkook. Yeah, a government agency set up with the aid of Stark Industries. Tomato-tomato, he still makes a ton of money off of rebuilding the shit he fucked up in the first place!”
“What, so it would be better if he just left things fucked up and walked off?”
“No! It would be better if the city instead hired independent contractors to clean up after the battles, and finally it wasn’t only Big Superhero who profited off of stuff but the little people who live in constant fear of the Hulk throwing a fucking BMW through their office window!”
“That is a bit of a stretch now, isn’t it, are scared right now that Thor will come and—”
“Guys.” Taehyung interrupts your heated discussion when he has finally swallowed the huge bite of his sandwich. Yes, reader, me, author means that things escalated just as fast as it took Taehyung to eat one, albeit very big bite of his Subway sandwich. “I just said the new Washington Square Arch looks a bit off in my opinion. Not ugly, just meh.”
You drop the fry you were about to eat for fuel back onto your plate, and turn to Taehyung, who you have blissfully forgot brought about this whole debate with his comment. Apologies, you have reached a flow state, as one does when it’s time to be anti-capitalist. “Well, yes, of course it looks a bit off, when a megacompany—”
“Sorry, y’all,” Yoongi pipes in. “We just watched that new docu, Under the Cape last night. The wound is fresh.”
“Ohhhhh, Hoseok and I saw it at the cinema, I loved that film.” Namjoon says. “Really puts into perspective how the superhero industry has gotten out of touch with broader social discourse over the years, and the blurred lines between superheroes and law enforcement following the Vigilante Act. And let’s not even get started on the still unclear ethical standards of institutionalizating the sector. Is it okay for them to work for the government, like that whole Sokovia Accords debacle? But if not, then who should they work for, for corporations? I think The Boys clearly highlight it’s not a good idea. Like what’s up with Spiderman, for example? Does he work for Stark now or what? Or should they remain independent, but then what about accountability? Or take Jungkook for example, he has been an underpaid intern for Stark Industries for almost a decade, what are the career opportunities for the regular people if they corporatize?”
Wow. One thing begs the question: is this what lust feels like?
Seriously, this monologue did so much more for you than regular college frat boy dirty talk.
“Namjoon, I fucking love you. We will continue this later. Me, you, weed, and the rooftop of your apartment building, this Friday,” you tell him. You will contemplate whether you are now attracted to your friend Namjoon, and what it means for your mission to marry him off to your good friend Hoseok, later. You turn to your next addressee. “And Yoongi. I will beat your twig ass up if you excuse me like you are the husband of a crazy person again. Do you not remember Liz from middle school? Her dad was hired to clean up after the Battle of New York, he invested his savings in equipment, and was then ditched in favour of the DODC last minute. She had to start a GoFundMe for her college tuition! It’s my duty to wake the people up!”
Which is an ambitious goal, because the people look fucking done with it all.
Not with you or this conversation. Just life in general—which is to be expected when it’s a dreary Monday afternoon, and you have to come to the dreadful realization that it’s too late into fall now to have lunch at your usual table in the university yard without freezing your asses off. Look at Seokjin, he’s shivering like a leaf! What point is there to life when you can’t even enjoy a silly little chat and fries and sunlight with your friends out in the open before getting holed up in a basement classroom for a four-hour long seminar, or leaving for your minimum-wage work, or editing freshmen’s pseudo-intellectual opinion pieces?
Exactly. Nothing. No point. You hate fall. And winter. And the beginning of spring. Really, when you think about it, there’s only like four good months in a year, and then the rest, it’s all shit.
You look at Jungkook, who is sitting across the table from you, between Piper and Jimin, with that endearing, huffy pout still on his lips. Aww. You talked meanly about his big boy job. Big bad ___.
Look at Piper, for example. Her dad is the CEO of like the 20th biggest, but 7th most evil company in the United States, and she did not get all offended and argumentative about your anti-corporation rant. But that could easily be due to the fact that she’s staring in front of herself with a dopey grin (Jungkook’s and her elbows are touching), so she might not comprehend what’s going on.
Wait. Let’s rewind a little bit. The weather is shit. Jungkook is pouting. Cold months suck. Jungkook loves winter. On the other end of the table, Namjoon, Hobi and Hari have struck up their own conversation, and a smirk curls your lips as the idea strikes, but you are sadly beaten to it.
“But ___, where does your precious Spiderman fall into all of this?” Jimin asks suddenly. He’s got the straw of his drink between his lips, his arms interlinked with Taehyung’s, and Jungkook giving him an incredulous side-eye, most likely annoyed that this fiend is digging up the hatchet already.
You admit, you are biting on the obvious bait, but you actually have an answer ready for this one.
“Well, for one, Spiderman is socially conscious.”
Jimin looks to the side, then back at you with a challenging glint in his eyes. “Oh, is he really? Last I checked, he’s proudly repping Stark Industries. You know, Big Bad Superhero.”
“Which is to be expected when the biggest superhero in the fucking world takes advantage of you when you are 15 and catapults you into the big leagues from a small-time neighbourhood wonder to do his political bidding,” you retort. Jungkook looks like he’s about to join the debate again, but you stay focused on Jimin and that self-satisfied look on his face, as if he thinks he’s got you cornered (as if!), and don’t let him have a word. “With this in mind, I really commend how humane and in touch with the people Spiderman has managed to remain despite everything, and believe he has bright things in his future that don’t involve corporate allegiance once he has matured.”
Before answering, Jimin looks at you silently for a moment or two, his confident smirk unwavering. Taehyung looks between the two of you, chewing on another bite of his sandwich. Seokjin stopped shaking, and possibly froze to death.
“Shit, Yoongi, dude, you were right,” Jimin says finally. “She does have a crush on the guy! ___, you are biased as fuck!”
“Yoongi, what the fuck?!” you exclaim. Yoongi receives your accusatory look with his palms in the air in surrender, and a giggling Jimin pats a coughing Jungkook on the back amiably before continuing.
“Just because you wanna fuck him, he’s still upholding this system willingly. He’s 21, for God’s sake—or so. Give or take 21. Grown-ass man.”
“I mean, you can just scroll his Twitter. Or search his name on Youtube. Or read the accounts of people who have met him. Or you can just believe me, because I think I can be a better judge of what kind of a person he is, now.”
Jimin huffs in amusement. “Sure. Right. You guys are hanging out a lot now.” Jimin nods, quirking an eyebrow as he comments, “Long interview. What are you writing, his biography?”
“You will be able to read it in NYU Weekly,” you tell him, and make a motion with two fingers to imitate zipping your mouth. “Until then, journalistic confidentiality.”
“That’s not what that word means, I really hope you know it.”
₊✩。🕷˚🕸⋆。
You are new.
You feel new. You sound new. You are new, right?
You sound just like she used to. Kind, curious. You sound just as dangerous as she was.
I would say it’s nice to meet you, but I’m not stupid. If you’re here, that can only mean that she’s gone. And if she’s gone that is as bad as the end of the world. There is no point talking to you.
PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER
A/N: hello all! I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Would love to hear your thoughts, because frankly I don't know how to feel — but that might just be due to the fact that I definitely put a ton of pressure on myself to deliver this one :/ exam season is starting soon, and I really, really wanted to put out what I've been working on before having to turn into a hermit and revise :<
but then summer comes, and with that, my first time seeing bts live!!!!!!!!! y'all, i am SO excited!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
jungkook x reader, friends to lovers, spiderman!au — link to masterlist
chapter summary: Curiosity might just prove to be a very dangerous trait. According to some, at least.
wc: 6350
warnings: mentions of weed, sexual references, mentions of kidnapping, allusions to domestic violence & child neglect
a/n: hello all! happy reading! i'll yap and life update at the end, so if you don't gaf you may just get right into it and skip my yapathlon. love you all so much, and as always, thank you for the interest in this story. i have just one public service announcement! after the last chapter, i cross posted this story to ao3, so if that's more your jam, here you go: link to ao3
taglist: @kooko009 @mirinaeii @tatumrileyslover @rpwprpwprpwprw @kookiesgiggles (if you want me to put you on the taglist, just lmk in the comments/asks!)
Open [Secret_Investigation.docx]
*
This document is password-protected
Enter password to open file
Password: **************
Password accepted!
Opening [Secret_Investigation.docx]. . .
*
10/04/202X
Called number daniel walter washington the third (hereafter: d2w3 or rando danny) gave me for claire. First time: unanswered. Second time: declined. Promising start. Will try again tomorrow.
No contact found yet for family/friends for other missing persons.
*
10/06/202X
Tried claire repeatedly yesterday. All calls declined. Left voicemail + text. Slight concern may now qualify as stalker.
Spiderman joined contact-searching mission. Suspecting him of abusing stark industry resources. Actively trying not to think about legal ramifications if true.
*
10/07/202X
Stupid school commitments hindering secret investigation efforts. Unfortunately, must maintain GPA. Tragic burden of brilliance.
Nothing from claire. Feeling slightly dispirited. Must not spiral.
Tested freaky magic ring in comfort of own room.
Immediately felt unsettled. Possibly blacked out.
However experience less intense now than I remember last time.
*
10/08/202X
Spiderman came over for emotional support during light internet stalking. Scolded me for testing freaky magic ring alone.
Weird feeling in left kidney having masked vigilante in bedroom. Possibly nerves. Maybe consider scheduling abdominal ultrasound.
Found possible source on facebook. Sent friend request. Profile picture hopefully welcoming enough to inspire acceptance.
Do not know how to insert picture so must describe: on brooklyn bridge. Wearing giant hoodie crocheted by hari. Hair perfectly styled thanks to dyson dupe. Holding corn dog and beer. Also being held upside down via ankles by jungkook.
Unfortunately yoongi arrived unannounced. Emergency superhero-evacuation via window. Fortunately: web-slinging — so survived fall from 7th floor.
Yoongi aware of connection yet am not comfortable with possible meeting. Mood: conflicted, guilty, but also weirdly exhilarated.
Got into small argument over subject of present document. Yoongi remains of opinion that dumb idea. Also: possibly mildly hurt by keeping connection with masked vigilante secret from him :( What to do? :(
*
10/11/202X
Consumed approx. 523mgs of caffeine, 2 instant ramen + donuts — generously supplied by jungkook. Homemade.
Presented x-rats project for class. Not disaster but not exactly crowd-pleaser either. Jungkook insisted should not feel bad because of rats. Agree.
Arranged coffee after class. Had to abandon coffee-rendezvous due to new facebook friend.
Sent Yoongi reconciliation cat gifs. He replied with picture of monkey crying in shower. Good sign. Feeling optimistic.
*
10/12/202X
Apparently sent friend request to wrong person.
Am not investigative genius. Feeling crushed.
*
10/13/202X
Claire replied to text with: ?
Replied: “Can I interest you in an interview about your missing friend Laura?”
Claire: “Sure.”
Am investigative genius after all. Confidence: restored.
Spiderman found correct person to add on facebook. Struggled opening profile link sent via imessage but heroically overcame struggle.
*
10/14/202X
Jimin’s birthday celebrations. Woke up to text from Yoongi in gc suggesting to go out clubbing after birthday dinner. Readily agreed because must return to good graces.
Whole gang went to sketchy but cheap nightclub in brooklyn. Cried in the all-gender bathroom with yoongi after five delicious LIITs. Best friendship officially mended.
End of night report:
Hoseok and namjoon left early together. Still suspecting secret relationship. See more about it here: [backlink to: Signs Our Good Friends Namjoon and Hoseok are Dating/Fucking.docx — document owned by [email protected] — [email protected] has editing access to this document] Will report observation to jungkook.
Hari kissed man with mullet and pornstache to give me everything by pitbull feat nayer. Sensing trouble.
Piper wasted. Possible alcohol poisoning. Escorted home by jungkook.
Jimin and taehyung doing just usual shenanigans. Not worth noting. Everyone aware two are engaging in exclusive but noncommittal intercourse. Weird individuals.
Went to grab five guys with yoongi and jin at 4am. Amazing milkshake. Feeling revived.
Sent spiderman drunk selfie at some point. No reply. Feeling mortified. Minus aura points.
*
10/15/202X
Spiderman replied to drunk selfie: “:)”
Huge hit to dignity.
Maybe due to stubbornness + slight offendedness : tested freaky magic ring again.
Reaction: head dizzy, skin prickly, but no loss of consciousness. Overwhelming sensation of deep confusion and mind fog. Definitely less intense than previous occasion tho.
*
10/17/202X
Correct person accepted my friend request. Will not agree to in-person meeting. Hesitantly agreed to correspondence via electronic mail. Great progress.
10/21/202X
Will copy transcription of interview with claire here for future reference.
*
[audio file: laura d_claire.mp4]
[file created: 10/20/202X 16:46]
View transcript of [laura d_claire.mp4]
Copy transcript of [laura d_claire.mp4]
Paste — Match formatting.
*
ME: Is this—oh okay, it’s. No. What the f— wait, yes. My apologies, it’s on.
CLAIRE: Spectacular.
M: So. Claire. Thank you for agreeing to meet with us today. So, as I have previously informed you in our text messages, Spiderman and I, we are investigating the missing persons cases in our city. Recently, it was brought to our attention that friends suspect foul play in Laura Danbrook’s disappearance that the authorities are currently overlooking.
C: What did Daniel tell you?
M: I am interested in your opinion on things today, Claire.
C: You realise Daniel and Laura were fighting when she went missing, right?
M: I—well, I hardly think it’s—
C: Of course, he wouldn’t mention that. Why would he? [scoffs] I am of a rather indifferent opinion about him, and though I don’t doubt he genuinely cares for Laura, he certainly seems to enjoy the role of weeping relative of tragedy. That’s what his Facebook feed tells me, at least.
M: So I take the two of you, are. Well. I suppose the two of you are not in contact?
C: Not when I can help it! Horribly annoying guy. But I always make the effort to at least be genial. Can’t say the same for him.
M: Right. They say tragedy brings people together but I guess. . .
SPIDERMAN: That’s a kinda insensitive thing to say, ___.
C: Yeah, dude. Not cool. I am in the depths of despair.
M: I apologise. So Claire, you don’t think Daniel is a, uh, a credible source, so to say.
C: Yes but also no.
[silence]
M: Can you, like, elaborate on that, please?
C: I mean that Daniel has a tendency to hang up on and overdramatise the wrong thing. I bet he went on and on and on and on about Ray.
M: Depends on who Ray is.
C: Girl, I’m begging you to please use context clues. Aren’t you a trainee journalist or some shit like that?
S: Hey!
M: Right. Laura’s new boyfriend.
C: Duh. Although I wouldn’t exactly call him “new.”
M: Daniel told us they started dating only a few weeks before Laura disappeared.
C: That he knows, at least. Ray has already been coming over for months when she told Daniel about him. She thought he would disapprove, and she was right.
M: What do you mean?
C: Daniel is a bit of a mama hen. He never likes Laura’s boyfriends, always finds something to disapprove. He’s gay as a maypole but also a little bit in love with her, don’t ask me how that works though. Whenever she’s in a relationship, he’s pissy and jealous and tries to turn Laura against the guy she’s dating. This sounds like I’m painting Daniel a villain but to be fair Laura is just the same when the roles are reversed. Whatever they have going on, it’s not healthy, per say.
M: Daniel told us that according to you, and I quote, “[Ray’s] vibes are rancid”.
C: Yeah, cause he’s like forty with a kid. Like, hello, can he not find girls his own age that can stand him? Weirdly enough though, he’s the most okay guy Laura has brought home in the four years we’ve lived together but I’m still gonna call his weird shit out, you know?
M: I see. I’m sorry I pose every question with Daniel told us that blablabla, but I’m trying to see the whole picture, and currently you two are giving me very different descriptions of it.
C: Sure.
M: Did you notice a change in Laura’s behaviour after she started seeing Ray?
C: Huh. I can see how Daniel’s timeline would lead him to that conclusion. Out of curiosity, did he mention anything about Laura’s parents?
M: Just that she’d been raised by her grandmother and she’s no-contact with her parents.
C: Laura Danbrook you sneaky skank! She didn’t tell him??!
S: Uhh—
C: She’s my friend. I can say that.
M: Valid.
C: Not long before she disappeared, Laura’s behavior did change. But it had nothing to do with Ray. Well, or maybe only indirectly.
M: How so?
C: About two months ago, Laura received a letter from her parents. Nothing crazy, just their information, and a note for Laura to call them if she’s ready. Understandably, Laura initially just wanted to throw it out. She hasn’t talked to her folks since she was 9, and had no mind to start now. But Ray. . .
M: Yes?
C: Ray was really supportive of the idea. Some shit about how he’s a parent too, so he can better empathise with how they feel, and people change, yaddi yaddi yadda. He got into Laura’s head.
M: Did she reach out to her parents, then?
C: I don’t know for sure. [sighs] The day she went missing, she looked ready to burst into tears any minute. But if I asked, she just evaded the question, so I just. . . Shrugged it off. I mean, it could’ve been anything, right? School, work, relationships. . . People have bad days.
M: I haven’t heard anything about this letter before. Did you tell anyone about it?
C: I didn’t. Like, it’s not my shit to tell. And then the police. . . I don’t know. I know I should’ve told them, I know, but when they called me in for an interview, I— I don’t know how to describe it. Their question felt more like prompts. Like they’re trying to get confirmation, not information. I mean, they couldn’t track Ray, and apparently his background is spotless, and lots of friends, powerful friends showed up to vouch for him. If I told them about the letter, and how Ray supported this reunion, I felt like they would have even more reason to think Laura is the runaway type. And she’s not. Does this make any sense?
M: Why are you telling me about it now, then?
C: Well, when you reached out, I thought you’re full of shit. No offence. But really, a university newspaper? But then you were so persistent and stalker-ish, and then you showed up here with Spiderman of all people. . . I don’t know. This is so trippy I can’t help but feel like you might have a shot.
M: Oh, I get that often. [laughs]
C: That does not surprise me.
M: You just mentioned Ray has powerful friends. Can you tell me what you mean by that?
C: Just a bunch of suits. Local government workers, Futureworks executives, someone from the DA’s office. . . I don’t know for sure, just the glimpses I caught.
M: Do you know what Ray does for a living? That’s a really impressive company to keep.
C: No, unfortunately. I assumed some office job, he dresses business cas. And then again, I was particularly curious, so. . .
M: Don’t worry, you were more than really helpful already. Can I have one last question before we wrap this up? Or maybe more like a favor.
C: Shoot.
M: Do you happen to have access to this letter from Laura’s parents?
C: Ahh. I can look around? Maybe it’s still in our room. I don’t have a habit of going through Laura’s stuff.
M: Understandable. If you happen to, you know, just come across it, I would greatly appreciate it if you could just text me its content.
C: Sure. Can I also have one question before we leave?
M: Sure?
C: Has anyone in your private life ever put together that you’re Spiderman?
S: Oh, question for me? Uhh, yeah. Just once. My family knows, and two of my friends, too, but I told them myself, so.
C: Do you know who he is?
M: That’s two questions now.
Important to note: conflicting accounts of claire and d2w3. Who tells truth, me wonders.
Waiting on claire to send letter from laura’s parents. Reminder to self: send polite follow up o—
A knock on your bedroom window snaps your attention from your laptop screen, open on a Google Docs document cleverly titled Secret Investigation. Well, yeah, that’s the best you could come up with. At some point during the past weeks, you have realized if your suspicions are correct — suspicions you still hesitate to confide even to Spiderman — and there’s more to see here that initially meets the eye, it will be impossible to keep everything in mind. Every minute, slipable detail could count. So, a good old password-protected document, the solution to that is. Much to learn, you still have, my young padawan . . .
You turn towards the sound of the knock, and spot the masked head of your favorite vigilante in the twilight cityscape. Getting up from your bed, you walk over to turn the latch, and with the support of one of his arms — the other is used to hold himself up on your windowsill — you manage to crack your window open just enough for him to slip through and inside.
“You didn’t text,” you tell him in lieu of a greeting.
Instead of going back to your previous place on the bed, you move towards your desk. A few used tissues, a granola wrapper, and dirty makeup wipes — not incriminating, but all in the trash bin they go anyways.
“Do I need to?” Spiderman asks, a hint of amusement in his voice. He closes the window after himself, and perches on the edge of your bed, his backpack next to his legs on the carpeted floor.
You gesture around yourself, as if there’s nothing to say. It should speak for itself. There are a few jeans that did not go with your outfit today — or the day before that, or before that, or before that, or. . . before that, times infinity — in your hands, ready to be shoved back into your closet. It doesn’t do much for the mess, but at least you managed to sneak your undies between the jeans, and got them out of sight, too. “I would’ve cleaned this place up a little, you know.”
“Oh, you flatter me, ___,” Spiderman says. With surprising familiarity, he leans back on his hands as he watches you move around the room. Despite being here only once before, he is seemingly comfortable in your space already. “I thought you were the type that loves when friends come over randomly. Sitcom-like expectations of adult life, and such, y’know.”
“Since when are we friends?” you retort playfully, glancing at him over your shoulder as you walk over to the hanger on your door to return your bathrobe to its proper place.
“I don’t know.” Spiderman shrugs. “I mean, we just text basically everyday, we meet up several times a week, you send me cute selfies from your night-outs. . . Sounds like friends to me, no? Maybe best friends, even.”
You huff, and thank every god — you’re still undecided about which ones seem legit, so you’d rather be safe than sorry — you are turned with your back to him, so he has absolutely no chance of seeing the heat that rushes to your cheeks. How embarrassing!
Cute?!
The picture in question is burnt to your retinas from the amount of times you’ve opened your text thread with the arachnid hero in utter mortification. And let me tell you, it’s anything but cute. Eyes blurred and slightly crossed from the haze of alcohol, baby hairs sticking up as if you were just electrocuted, and milkshake glossing the corner of your lips. And that stupid, stupid smile on your face. . .
Cute. . . As if! Embarrassing, maybe. Exposing, definitely.
Somewhat satisfied with the state of your room — really, it barely passes ‘acceptable’, but you had no notice, so in context of that, it’s okay — you jump onto the bed next to him, only to then crawl a bit up towards your headboard, fingers intertwined over your abdomen.
“I think of you more as a coworker. Sorryyyyyy,” you joke.
And he laughs at it, the sound of it a bit muted under the mask.
“What were you just doing, anyway?” he asks as he lounges on the bed, laying parallel to you on his side, legs still on the floor, and his head propped up on one elbow and angled to look up at you.
The position doesn’t do him any disfavors. Under the skintight latex of his suit, his bicep tightens to support his weight. It’s almost sensu—nevermind. You are not going to finish that thought. His head is heavy, because it’s full of dumbness.
“I was editing our interview with Claire from the other day into my secret investigation document. Or diary. Or whatever you wanna call it.” You reach for your laptop, and turn it for him to see its screen.
“Of course you have a secret investigation document.”
“What can I say, I like to be thorough.” You shrug. “Do you want me to give you editing access?”
“Hm. I dunno. Can you edit Google Docs with an Outlook account?” Spiderman asks. With his suit on, he can’t scroll on the trackpad with his fingers, so he’s looking through the document by hitting the arrow buttons in quick succession.
You wonder if it would be too forward to tell him it’s okay to take it off.
Just off of his hands.
Would that be more than he wants to give?
“I think so,” you snap out of it, and reply. Then ask, just to mess with him, “Who should I invite, [email protected]?”
“Uh. . . Yeah.”
“What?” You burst out laughing, sending him an incredulous look. “Your business email is seriously [email protected], dude?”
You think he’s smiling under the mask when he says, “Business email would be a stretch. I don’t really get work emails. It’s just for my Twitter account. So people can’t, you know, trace it back to me? Like, me-me, my real name and stuff.”
Me-me. My real name and stuff.
Unwanted, your mind flashes with images of your interview with Claire yesterday. You don’t think you’ve even realised, or at least consciously admitted to yourself, that you are curious about him, the real him, until Claire asked if you were one of the people who knew who Spiderman really was. Two friends and his family, he said. And probably, like, Tony Stark and his trusted personnel.
In the back of your mind, you’ve been taking a collection of what you know — he’s a student, he lives with family, born and raised in the city, dorky but also really cocky, and a just painfully, painfully good person — and wondering who it is who is under that mask, sitting on your bed right now.
What color is his hair? His eyes? Does he smile with his teeth, and do his eyes crunch up when he laughs? Does he have any tattoos? Piercings? Probably not. It would make him identifiable. What is his style like — streetwear? Elegant? Sporty? Maybe he’s part of some subculture. Is Spiderman emo?
The possibilities are endless, and as you watch him, his eyes seemingly glued to the screen of your computer, a cold realization washes over you: you will likely never, ever, ever know the answers to any of these questions.
As a journalist, that frustrates you. As ___ ___, though, it just makes you feel. . . crestfallen.
“If we’re on the subject, anyways,” Spiderman starts as he pushes the laptop back to you, and shoots his webs to get his backpack into his lap (what a lazy motherfucker. Or a show-off. Or both). He pulls out a red file folder, branded with the Stark Industries logo on the front, and hands it over to you. “I came bearing goods. It’s the contact information of friends and family of three more missing persons from the past few months.”
You enthusiastically take the folder from his hands, and open it in your lap. In it, you find a notepad — also branded — with a few names and phone numbers scribbled onto it.
Stupidly, your first thought is: is this Spiderman’s handwriting? Second: if so, he has really characteristic handwriting. The way he writes his m-n-u-w-v’s reminds you of someone, but you cannot really put a finger on it. It’s probably just a common type of handwriting, like the ‘that one girl taking notes’ meme, you know. Only every other girl in high school had that handwriting. Only third: this shit could probably be auctioned off on Ebay for a fricking fortune!
“Oh, I could fucking kiss you right now, dude,” you say, trying not to concern yourself with the legality of all of this and the ways he had acquired this information. “I sent an email to Rebecca Owens — Frankie Meyer’s sorority sister, y’know — and she still hasn’t replied. I had nothing else to go on.”
“C’mon, that’s not true. We still have, like, Aecha’s documents to go through, and a freaky magic ring, and uh—” Spiderman trails off, clicking his fingers (which, by the way, how is he able to do that? He cannot use a trackpad with the suit on, but he can click his fingers? Admittedly, though, you’re not the best at. . . physics? But it feels weird, so just a side-note) as the words escape him.
“Gimme a hint.”
“Like, fricking, Hannah Montana’s dad—”
You snort. “Ray?!”
“Yes!”
“You’re such a fucking idiot, oh my God.” You cover your face with your palms and rest your head against the headboard as unwanted laughter shakes your body. You look at him through your fingers, and snort again. “It’s too late to call ‘em now, right?”
There’s still a little giggling in his voice as he confirms, “The new contacts? Yeah, ___, I think 10PM is not the most appropriate time to phone a stranger.”
You flip through the folder, but there’s nothing more. Just the single sheet of a notepad, tucked inside safe and sound.
Well, beggars can’t be choosers, you suppose. He has already brought you more material than you could’ve dug up by your lonesome.
“So. . . how was the other night?” Spiderman asks.
You groan, letting the folder fall into your lap. “Seriously? You’re asking me for a life-update?”
“What? I was on your mind, apparently. It’s only polite that I ask. . . friend.”
You drag your palms down your face as you sigh, a handy tactic to hide your reappearing blush. “Sorry, it was really embarrassing of me to send you that picture, wasn’t it? It was a friend’s birthday dinner, we went out clubbing after, and, well, I got a bit wasted, admittedly,” you start, speaking not exactly to him, but to The Cranberries poster behind him on the wall. Dolores O’Riordan gives you this moody but weirdly supportive look as you power through the embarrassment, and try to steer the conversation towards a regular-degular catch-up session with your good pal, Spiderman. “Me and Yoongi. . . when you were here the other night, and he showed up, remember?” Spiderman nods. “After you left, we just kinda. . . got into it, I guess. . .”
“Oh no.” As opposed to you, he’s looking (at least, you feel like he is, you can still never know with that stupid mask) right into your eyes as he answers, still laying on his side. “You guys fought?”
“You sound surprised.”
Spiderman shrugs, and averts his eyes at your feet for a moment, before explaining. “I dunno. I mean, from what you’ve told me, I got the impression that you guys are thick as thieves.”
“We are,” you confirm. “I literally tell him everything. I mean, Jungkook,” a small laugh escapes you as you suddenly remember it, and Spiderman valiantly restrains a cough that was about to erupt from him to listen to your story, “he’s one of our friends from university, and he literally ran to Yoongi when he suspected I was up to something here. Which is, touché, because meeting you I think was the first time I didn’t immediately run to tell Yoongi something. For some reason.”
“For some reason?”
“Yeah, I didn’t tell him about you, for some reason.”
Spiderman huffs, and falls to fully lie on his back. “Yeah, ‘for some reason’.”
With furrowed eyebrows, you exchange the gorgeous sight of Dolores O’Riordan for the side of his masked head. “Now, what is that supposed to mean?”
“Just that I think you know why.” He just shrugs again. “I know why. The same reason you still did not tell him.”
His tone, so fucking absolute. So matter-of-fact.
“I was just about to tell you the really emotional and touching story of how we have hashed things out in the club bathroom while we were drunk as skunks.”
“So, did you, then?”
“Did I what?”
“Tell him? What we are doing here?” Spiderman asks. “Or did you just placate him with the same lie you told Namjoon about finally getting your ‘Spiderman interview’?” he says, using air quotes. “You are not getting a Spiderman interview.”
You look at him wordlessly for a moment. Well. He’s not not right.
You did tell Yoongi that you met Spiderman. Very plainly, not much elaboration on your part. Because Spiderman is right, you did not tell Yoongi how you met Spiderman, and why exactly you’re still in contact with him.
(And he’s also wrong. You are getting a Spiderman interview. He just doesn’t know it yet.)
“You’re so fucking annoying, dude.”
“Hey!” Spiderman exclaims. “I do support your decision to lie, you know. If you told him the truth, there’s no way in hell Yoongi would be content to just sit on his ass, and then I’d have him to look out for, too. No offense, but you are handful enough.” He flicks your shin playfully, and cranes his neck up to look at you. Then, sounding a bit worried, he asks, “Wait, does that sound like I’m a bad superhero? Really, I’m glad to save anyone, but do I wanna babysit the two of you? Hell nah.”
“Only if I don’t sound like a bad friend.” You amend. Spiderman agrees with a nod. You guys also fistbump. Here’s to not being bad superheroes / friends. You have to correct him on some details, though. “Although I’d prefer to say omission, not lie. And for the record, I don’t need saving, either.”
“I know,” Spiderman confirms. “But you have to admit, your behaviour is enough to give a man a heartattack.”
“You know what? Valid.”
₊✩。🕷˚🕸⋆。
That night after he leaves, and you’ve showered, and Hari, Piper and you have said your goodnights (it’s usually a 30-minute happening, with all three of you standing in your respective doorways, and coming up with more things to say) and you are finally alone in the safety of your bedroom, you try again.
You walk to your bedside table, sit on your bed, and as a slight detour, apply lotion to your legs and dry spots. Once done with that, you slide open the drawer of your bedside table, and from between old chargers, lube, tissues, a vibrator, and the user manual of your microwave, you pull out a small bundle wrapped in an old print-issue of the NYU Weekly.
You open the wrapper, and for a moment, just stare at Aecha’s ring sitting in your palm, the newspaper a safe barrier between your skin and the jewelry.
The last time you have tried it on, just a few days ago, won’t let you rest.
It was just like this. You were sitting on your bed, carefully unwrapping the bundle, and following a sudden wave of bravery, determination, you’ve closed your fist around the ring.
It was as if waves crashed over your head, and the winner of their primal power struggle swept you away with itself. Your limbs dissolved, no longer attached to your body, no longer anything. Laying on the current, the sound of rushing water put a heavy pressure on your ears, fighting its way straight into your brain to burst it open from the inside. The sound of rushing water, and in it, a voice. Confused, scared, and distant at the same time.
You didn’t comprehend a word. But you know it called for you. It must have, because ever since that day, the ring sang for you like a siren, tucked away in your bedside table, wrapped as if trapped in Pandora’s box.
You didn’t comprehend a word. But you know you must answer its call.
You take a deep breath—in, hold, exhale. And as it leaves your lungs, your hand reaches out, and the ring slips onto your finger.
₊✩。🕷˚🕸⋆。
“I’m just saying that the DODC is part of a bigger systemic issue that has been going on for a long time, and you cannot view this case in isolation. Even a minor fight involving the Avengers causes 5 to a 100 millions of dollars worth of urban damage, and then Tony Stark is contracted by the city to clean it up. Like what the fuck?”
“Technically, the Department of Damage Control is a government agency.”
“Of course you would say that, Jungkook. Yeah, a government agency set up with the aid of Stark Industries. Tomato-tomato, he still makes a ton of money off of rebuilding the shit he fucked up in the first place!”
“What, so it would be better if he just left things fucked up and walked off?”
“No! It would be better if the city instead hired independent contractors to clean up after the battles, and finally it wasn’t only Big Superhero who profited off of stuff but the little people who live in constant fear of the Hulk throwing a fucking BMW through their office window!”
“That is a bit of a stretch now, isn’t it, are scared right now that Thor will come and—”
“Guys.” Taehyung interrupts your heated discussion when he has finally swallowed the huge bite of his sandwich. Yes, reader, me, author means that things escalated just as fast as it took Taehyung to eat one, albeit very big bite of his Subway sandwich. “I just said the new Washington Square Arch looks a bit off in my opinion. Not ugly, just meh.”
You drop the fry you were about to eat for fuel back onto your plate, and turn to Taehyung, who you have blissfully forgot brought about this whole debate with his comment. Apologies, you have reached a flow state, as one does when it’s time to be anti-capitalist. “Well, yes, of course it looks a bit off, when a megacompany—”
“Sorry, y’all,” Yoongi pipes in. “We just watched that new docu, Under the Cape last night. The wound is fresh.”
“Ohhhhh, Hoseok and I saw it at the cinema, I loved that film.” Namjoon says. “Really puts into perspective how the superhero industry has gotten out of touch with broader social discourse over the years, and the blurred lines between superheroes and law enforcement following the Vigilante Act. And let’s not even get started on the still unclear ethical standards of institutionalizating the sector. Is it okay for them to work for the government, like that whole Sokovia Accords debacle? But if not, then who should they work for, for corporations? I think The Boys clearly highlight it’s not a good idea. Like what’s up with Spiderman, for example? Does he work for Stark now or what? Or should they remain independent, but then what about accountability? Or take Jungkook for example, he has been an underpaid intern for Stark Industries for almost a decade, what are the career opportunities for the regular people if they corporatize?”
Wow. One thing begs the question: is this what lust feels like?
Seriously, this monologue did so much more for you than regular college frat boy dirty talk.
“Namjoon, I fucking love you. We will continue this later. Me, you, weed, and the rooftop of your apartment building, this Friday,” you tell him. You will contemplate whether you are now attracted to your friend Namjoon, and what it means for your mission to marry him off to your good friend Hoseok, later. You turn to your next addressee. “And Yoongi. I will beat your twig ass up if you excuse me like you are the husband of a crazy person again. Do you not remember Liz from middle school? Her dad was hired to clean up after the Battle of New York, he invested his savings in equipment, and was then ditched in favour of the DODC last minute. She had to start a GoFundMe for her college tuition! It’s my duty to wake the people up!”
Which is an ambitious goal, because the people look fucking done with it all.
Not with you or this conversation. Just life in general—which is to be expected when it’s a dreary Monday afternoon, and you have to come to the dreadful realization that it’s too late into fall now to have lunch at your usual table in the university yard without freezing your asses off. Look at Seokjin, he’s shivering like a leaf! What point is there to life when you can’t even enjoy a silly little chat and fries and sunlight with your friends out in the open before getting holed up in a basement classroom for a four-hour long seminar, or leaving for your minimum-wage work, or editing freshmen’s pseudo-intellectual opinion pieces?
Exactly. Nothing. No point. You hate fall. And winter. And the beginning of spring. Really, when you think about it, there’s only like four good months in a year, and then the rest, it’s all shit.
You look at Jungkook, who is sitting across the table from you, between Piper and Jimin, with that endearing, huffy pout still on his lips. Aww. You talked meanly about his big boy job. Big bad ___.
Look at Piper, for example. Her dad is the CEO of like the 20th biggest, but 7th most evil company in the United States, and she did not get all offended and argumentative about your anti-corporation rant. But that could easily be due to the fact that she’s staring in front of herself with a dopey grin (Jungkook’s and her elbows are touching), so she might not comprehend what’s going on.
Wait. Let’s rewind a little bit. The weather is shit. Jungkook is pouting. Cold months suck. Jungkook loves winter. On the other end of the table, Namjoon, Hobi and Hari have struck up their own conversation, and a smirk curls your lips as the idea strikes, but you are sadly beaten to it.
“But ___, where does your precious Spiderman fall into all of this?” Jimin asks suddenly. He’s got the straw of his drink between his lips, his arms interlinked with Taehyung’s, and Jungkook giving him an incredulous side-eye, most likely annoyed that this fiend is digging up the hatchet already.
You admit, you are biting on the obvious bait, but you actually have an answer ready for this one.
“Well, for one, Spiderman is socially conscious.”
Jimin looks to the side, then back at you with a challenging glint in his eyes. “Oh, is he really? Last I checked, he’s proudly repping Stark Industries. You know, Big Bad Superhero.”
“Which is to be expected when the biggest superhero in the fucking world takes advantage of you when you are 15 and catapults you into the big leagues from a small-time neighbourhood wonder to do his political bidding,” you retort. Jungkook looks like he’s about to join the debate again, but you stay focused on Jimin and that self-satisfied look on his face, as if he thinks he’s got you cornered (as if!), and don’t let him have a word. “With this in mind, I really commend how humane and in touch with the people Spiderman has managed to remain despite everything, and believe he has bright things in his future that don’t involve corporate allegiance once he has matured.”
Before answering, Jimin looks at you silently for a moment or two, his confident smirk unwavering. Taehyung looks between the two of you, chewing on another bite of his sandwich. Seokjin stopped shaking, and possibly froze to death.
“Shit, Yoongi, dude, you were right,” Jimin says finally. “She does have a crush on the guy! ___, you are biased as fuck!”
“Yoongi, what the fuck?!” you exclaim. Yoongi receives your accusatory look with his palms in the air in surrender, and a giggling Jimin pats a coughing Jungkook on the back amiably before continuing.
“Just because you wanna fuck him, he’s still upholding this system willingly. He’s 21, for God’s sake—or so. Give or take 21. Grown-ass man.”
“I mean, you can just scroll his Twitter. Or search his name on Youtube. Or read the accounts of people who have met him. Or you can just believe me, because I think I can be a better judge of what kind of a person he is, now.”
Jimin huffs in amusement. “Sure. Right. You guys are hanging out a lot now.” Jimin nods, quirking an eyebrow as he comments, “Long interview. What are you writing, his biography?”
“You will be able to read it in NYU Weekly,” you tell him, and make a motion with two fingers to imitate zipping your mouth. “Until then, journalistic confidentiality.”
“That’s not what that word means, I really hope you know it.”
₊✩。🕷˚🕸⋆。
You are new.
You feel new. You sound new. You are new, right?
You sound just like she used to. Kind, curious. You sound just as dangerous as she was.
I would say it’s nice to meet you, but I’m not stupid. If you’re here, that can only mean that she’s gone. And if she’s gone that is as bad as the end of the world. There is no point talking to you.
PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER
A/N: hello all! I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Would love to hear your thoughts, because frankly I don't know how to feel — but that might just be due to the fact that I definitely put a ton of pressure on myself to deliver this one :/ exam season is starting soon, and I really, really wanted to put out what I've been working on before having to turn into a hermit and revise :<
but then summer comes, and with that, my first time seeing bts live!!!!!!!!! y'all, i am SO excited!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
jungkook x reader, friends to lovers, spiderman!au — link to masterlist
chapter summary: Investigation officially kicks into high gear by interviewing a himbo with your now official partner-in-crime, Spiderman, in local burger joint. Between establishing a partnership with the local web-slinging vigilante, a viral baddie-moment on Twitter (also known as El*n M*sk's X) and falling for the lies of cable television, the investigation into the missing orphans of New York City (which you swear is connected to Auntie Aecha) gains a new lead.
wc: 5.9k
warnings: talks of kidnappings, one accidental straightphobic joke (god was speaking through me, sorry), thirsting over man tits, one instance of fujoshing out, me making up my own x-gene lore bc this is my earth(-134340) and im god around these parts
a/n: hey y'all, long time no see. hahaha. i have nothing to say about that. i missed this story so much! happy reading <333333
taglist: @kooko009 @mirinaeii @tatumrileyslover (if you want me to put you on the taglist, just lmk in the comments/asks!)
“Wait. I thought you worked at The New York Times?”
Rando Danny’s tone is a mix of disappointment and accusation. He crumbles the wrapper of his burger mindlessly, and throws it on the tray in front of him.
He’s chewing rather angrily, which you don’t realise was even a thing to do until now.
“No.” You shake your head, after taking a sip of your lemonade. Mango and mint, non-carbonated water. Carbonated water tickles your reflux, so no, thank you. “I work at the NYU Weekly. University newspaper. New York University. Which is in New York. But after graduation, I’m planning on applying t—”
Rando Danny puts up his non-smash-burger-holding hand to stop you. “Girl, I’m gonna stop you right there. Sorry, but I really don’t care. I’m pretty sure Yoonmi told me you work for the Times.”
Well, and you’re pretty sure Yoonmi didn’t tell him anything of the sort, seeing that you don’t know anyone by that name.
But alas.
“Well. I don’t, so. . .,” you trail off with an apologetic shrug. You eye your phone, laid on the middle of the table between your trays, the Voice Memos app open and running. This little hiccup does not look great on record. Did Yoongi really tell his guy you work for the Times? Could Rando Danny claim then that he was lured here under false pretences? Ruin your journalistic integrity? Sue you? Huh. “But I am investigating the missing person cases. If that’s any consolation.”
“On what authority?”
You blink. “Huh?”
“I asked, on what authority.” Rando Danny repeats himself, before slurping on his shake. Then, he continues, “I doubt a university newspaper has such ambitions. Like, where is this article supposed to go? Between an interview with a 120-year old professor of some obscure scammy humanities field and a review of the seasonal cafeteria menu?”
Before you could get offended on Professor Convington’s behalf — come on, the guy’s only 92 and paleopathology is a respected and relatively interesting field! — a third voice chimes in unexpectedly.
“Tony Stark.”
“Beyonce Carter-Knowles,” comes Rando Danny’s immediate reply.
Spiderman, after speaking up for the first time since the three of you sat down in the fast food restaurant — him, without a tray in front of him, because, well, mask —, is now staring at what you suppose is Rando Danny, in what you can only imagine is confusion. . . because, again. Mask.
“Ummm. Huh?”
Rando Danny blinks. Shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I thought we were just saying names.”
“No? Why would we—?” Spiderman starts, before he decides to backtrack. “Anyways. Whatever. I was just answering your question. Miss ___ is my partner on this case, so if that helps, you can just think of her as an extension of the Avengers.”
Rando Danny blinks again. “I thought you weren’t officially an Avenger, Spiderman.”
“Well, technically—” Spiderman pipes up, but trails off just as fast. His muscles go rigid under the hand you had just placed on his shoulder to chide him.
You quickly retract it, fight off the freezing feeling of embarrassment that’s creeping up your spine, and instead fiddle with your cellphone, making sure nothing around the table is blocking its shitty microphones.
“Can we circle back, please?” you ask, and without waiting for a confirmation, carry on. “Ra— I mean, Daniel. My friend tells me you have some thoughts about your friend going missing, and that you feel like the police are dismissing your concerns. Could you tell me about it, please?”
“Okay. Fine.” Rando Danny sighs as if he’s doing you a favour — which, he kinda is. He’s suddenly solemn, a bit jarring in contrast to his sort-of agreeable himbo personality of 20 seconds ago. His stare jumps to the table in front of him, a faraway look in his eyes. He slumps back in his seat, swallows tightly.
“They said it’s normal. That young girls get like that when they’re in a new relationship, like, I dunno, as if it’s the fucking 1950’s or something. Misogynistic pricks.” Rando Danny scoffs, shaking his head. You nod. Yeah, that does sound very misogynistic prickly. Rando Danny’s voice is bitter, barely more than a grumble at times. “But unlike them, I actually know Laura. She was not herself. Not for the few weeks leading up to her going disappearance, anyways.”
Leaning forward in your seat, you ask, “What changed?”
“I mean. Everything?” Rando Danny smiles, but it's completely mirthless. “She was a very. . . easy-going person, so to say. Don’t get me wrong, she was absolutely neurotic at the same time; to-do lists every day, her emails automated to be color-coded, separate planners for everything, in bed by 10PM no matter what. But personality-wise, she was very, well, laid-back. Always smiling, never taking anything to heart, honest to fault, always up for everything as long as it was before 10PM. I know how that sounds — like she was full of contradictions to begin with.”
“She sounds like a really nice person,” you tell him.
“She is.” This time, Rando Danny’s smile is genuine. “But then she met this guy? And then suddenly, literally one day to another, it’s like she’s a completely different person. I don’t even know his name, she became so closed off, when before, I even knew the color of the shit she took that day. Pardon my French.”
“Pas de souci,” you wave him off.
Rando Danny pushes his dipping cup of mayo over to your tray before continuing. If your ears are not betraying you, Spiderman hides a laugh of disbelief under the sound of him clearing his throat.
You shrug, dip a fry into the mayo, and listen as Rando Danny carries on.
“They didn’t even take us seriously the first time we called to report her missing, did you know that?”
“Um, no.” You shake your head, voice gently unsure. Rando Danny’s brows are furrowed in a mixture of frustration and outrage, and a hint of expectation. “I mean, this is kinda like my first time hearing about it, you know.”
“Right. Yeah, we called the police the first night she didn’t come home. She lives in the same dormitory building as me, her roommate came up around midnight to see if Laura was over at my room because she couldn’t reach her. Well, obviously she wasn’t,” Rando Danny says. “So, we called the police. Neither of us had particularly good feelings about this dude. Laura’s roommate, Clare, she did meet him, once, in passing when he came to pick Laura up. Clare said his vibes were rancid. And Clare’s— well. How do I say this in a pee-cee way. . .”
“Ummm,” you hesitate. “A. . . bitch?”
“A delinquent?” Spiderman tries to help out.
“A true crime content creator?” you propose.
“Racist?” Spiderman adds.
“Oh! A republican?” you offer.
“Painfully straight,” is what Rando Danny finally settles on. His expression looks genuinely pained at the mention of this. “Her boyfriend wears PVC sandals. She swoons over even guys like that. So if she says Laura’s new guy stinks. . .”
“It’s really bad,” you finish his sentiment, pointing a french fry at him. You’re picking up what he’s putting down — definitely not because coincidentally you, also, have gone out with a guy who wears PVC sandals. Is it appropriate to ask, later, off the record, if Clare’s boyfriend is named Spencer? Sometimes when it’s chilly, you’ve been wondering how he’s faring in the winter.
“Yeah.”
Next to your phone, you tap your acrylics on the table two times in order to spike the recording, and make a mental note to circle back to this strange man that has appeared in and may have completely upturned Laura’s life for the worst. You wipe the corners of your mouth with the pad of your fingers — it has some mayo sauci on it — before asking, “When did the police start actually initiating searches for Laura?”
“When she didn’t turn up the next day for her internship, they finally started taking us more seriously,” Rando Danny says. “That was almost a week ago, now. She has nowhere to go. And until it’s confirmed she ‘left voluntarily’” (here, he uses finger quotes) “like they think, Laura is still legally a missing person. So.”
She had nowhere else to go.
A memory scratches the back of your mind — Taehyung’s car, the radio reporting. A spike in missing person’s cases in the city, all orphans and half-orphans.
So. . . people with nowhere else to go?
As much as the police would like to downplay Laura’s friends’ concerns, she certainly seems to fit the pattern. You know, the dots they, themselves, have connected? And given to news outlets to report? Go figure, dude.
Hanging onto this bit of information, you continue, “Daniel, you said she has nowhere else to go. What did you mean by that? Can I—can I ask you about Laura’s family?”
“Sure, but there’s not much to tell,” he says with a shrug. He plays with the straw in his shake, eyes flitting between you and the masked vigilante in the seat next to you. “Laura was raised by her grandmother — she passed away our sophomore year of college.”
“And her parents?” you follow up.
“Not in the picture.”
“Oh, I’m really sorry—”
“They’re not, like, dead or anything,” Rando Danny interrupts. “But maybe as good as. Laura was legally adopted by her grandma in the second grade. No way she’d go back to them.”
You hum at that, tapping your fingers on the table again.
So Laura’s legal guardian — no, her legal parent is her grandma. Who’s dead. Rest in peace to her, of course.
Where does that bring us, ladies and gentlethems?
Ding-ding-dong.
Yes.
She’s an orphan. Well. Technically.
So definitely fits the pattern.
The only reason you’re not smiling like the Cheshire cat right now is because. Well. That would be, like, really fucking insensitive to the guy with the missing friend sitting in front of you, obviously.
Inside your head, though? You’re dancing to the Ketchup Song. Asereje-HUH?!
“Hey, Daniel? Is there any way you could put me in contact with this Clare girl?”
Because boy, do you have some questions. And it’s not just her weirdo boyfriend’s name.
(Fingers crossed it’s not Spencer. You wouldn’t wish that menace upon even a straight girl.)
₊✩。🕷˚🕸⋆。
“So, where did you find this guy, again?”
You take a loud sip of the salted caramel shake you ordered before leaving to-go, the straw still between your lips as you answer, “I didn’t. My friend hooked up with him a few days ago.”
“What?!” Spiderman yelps. “Who?!”
You peer up at him with a raised eyebrow, lips curling into a mischievous smile as you retort. “I just want to say, it really means a lot to me that you presume I have friends, plural. My best friend, Yoongi. Sometimes he sneaks into the dorm Rando Danny lives in because the washing machines are cheaper there and he has a keycard to the building that somehow still works from an old girlfriend.”
“Rando Danny?”
“I mean, Daniel Walter Washington the third. Big D2W3. Also known as the guy we just interviewed.”
“I see.” Spiderman nods. One of his hands circles around your wrist for a moment to pull you away from oncoming foot-traffic, before falling back to his side, lightly grazing yours while doing so.
Around the two of you, daytime Manhattan is as busy as ever. Suits on lunch break dashing through the crowds, and school girls spending the weekend out and about town with their friends with a few tourists loitering around every corner, marvelling at the buildings that look exactly like the one that’s a block down.
It’s not lost on you how heads turn as you walk down the sidewalk, how the more bold of passersby are raising their phones to snap a quick, not-at-all-inconspicuous picture of you. Your hair looks really good today — Hari let you borrow her heatless curler kit that she got from the TikTok shop — but you know it’s not a bow to your good hair day rather than the arachnid superstar of the city flagging your side.
The good hair day, however, is a more than welcome mitigating factor. Girl, you’ll look so good when those shots inevitably go viral on Twitter.
You nod to yourself in satisfaction.
You can already imagine the comments. Oh my god, who’s that absolute hottie with a body next to Spiderman? Her hair looks so good, how does she do it? I’m so jealous! Wait, is that not ___ ___, well-respected upcoming journalist of NYU Weekly, the first freshmen to get her own weekly column in the history of the prestigious university newspaper? Well, yes, it is! I heard she set her sights on The New York Times after graduation. Does anyone know where she got her sweater, it’s so cute!
“So, what do we think?” Spiderman asks, bringing you back down to Earth-134340. Whatever. You’ll get the notification once the tweets go live anyways.
“About what?”
“About Ariana Grande going blonde,” Spiderman says without missing a beat.
“I think it suits her complexion.”
“C’mon, ___, this guy was. . .” Spiderman falters, trying to find the words. “Very odd.”
“Well, first of all, you’re also a very odd person.”
“The guy broke down crying when telling you that Laura went missing in his favourite sweater and then proceeded to blow his nose in his burger wrapper. We only had, like, sixteen hundred tissues at the table! Seriously, the burger wrapper? With the burger grease on it?!” Spiderman complains, while he yet again pulls you out of the way of a young woman lost in the virtual world of a Facetime call via a hand wrapping around your forearm.
“He’s grieving!” You roll your eyes, before continuing with a little giggle. “But I’ll admit, it was a bit funny that he had burger crumbs on his nose after that. I should’ve told him, but it turns out I’m maybe not a nice person. I feel like this makes me a bad person.”
“Oh, shut up, you’re a great person,” Spiderman mumbles.
“I think every person who has known me for more than a month would disagree with you,” you tell him, not at all fazed.
Look, you’re not the Antichrist or anything. You don’t litter. You help old ladies cross the streets and buy homeless people sandwiches. You always uphold journalistic integrity. You only cheated on an exam once in your entire life if you don’t count anything before high school.
But you’re not at all afraid of being a little — or a lot — unlikeable if that means people can’t walk over you like you’re the fucking Brooklyn Bridge. Been there, done that, and it’s simply not your lifestyle to people please. It’s a delicate balance.
Spiderman shakes his head resolutely. “I highly doubt that.”
“Let’s get back to this in a month, see if you can still tolerate me.”
“Sure.”
You startle when suddenly, his hand shots out in front of you, a gooey string of spiderwebs springing from his wrists (fuck, it was way too quick for you to see if it came from somewhere inside of him — yet another day of the Synthetic Web Theory going unanswered) and towards the road.
You turn your head just in time to see a little boy, no older than ten, get absolutely fucking catapulted back inside his mom’s car by the momentum of the spiderwebs hitting his chest. His baby hands are still hanging outside the open backseat window in the middle of a wave.
You snort. A little Spiderhead, spotted out in the wild!
Privately, you also marvel at Spiderman’s apparent ability of multitasking. Is the Spidersense Theory also real?
One more question you’ll have to ask him once you guys are officially Friends — with a capital F.
“Look, I agree that Daniel was a little. . .”
“Odd,” Spiderman supplies.
You nod. “And a bit of a dumbass. But did you not pay attention?! We’re so much smarter now that we were an hour ago.”
“Are we?” You can hear the hint of doubt in Spiderman’s reply.
“Of course!” you exclaim. “We not only have a freaky magic ring now, but an actual, real, not-at-all metaphysical lead. We have Claire’s phone number. And Claire has knowledge. She’s Laura’s roommate, and that, my dear partner, is the real pot of gold.”
Spiderman hums. “We have, like, breadcrumbs, the way I see it.”
“Yeah, and we’re gonna Hansel and Gretel the fuck out of those breadcrumbs, dude!” you tell him. Passing a trashcan, you drop your now empty cup into it before looking up at the — wow, fuck, really tall! Wait. . . Has he been this tall along?!!! Nevermind. You’re just #nooticing things — masked vigilante next to you. “Do you not have roommates, Spiderman?”
He shakes his head. “Mmm-mmm.”
“Right, I guess you’re, like, fucking loaded, from all the donations you get.”
“Nah. I don’t really keep that money.” He shakes his head again. “But I grew up just a short subway ride from downtown. I still live with my family.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” you acknowledge. “But that means you haven’t known the chaos and humiliation, the epic highs and lows of college roommates. Sure, my best friend, Yoongi, has a unique insight to my soul, that’s his best-friend privilege. But my roommates, Piper and Hari? They know my every move, whether I want them to or not. There’s no escaping them. You’ll have the worst day of your life, and they’re just there in the living room, because it’s their living room. You’ll have explosive diarrhea from subway station gyro, and there’s no hiding that from them. Guys in PVC sandals will knock on your door looking for you, and they will be the ones opening it. You’ll want one or two peaceful nights a month to jiggle your beans and they’re—”
“I think I caught your drift,” Spiderman interrupts.
Right. You admittedly got a bit off track. Occupational hazard — one thing you will do is paint the damn picture.
You slow to a stop as you reach the subway entrance, and turn to face him properly, hands resting in your pocket.
Fuck, he really is tall. Standing so close to him, you actually need to crane your head to make at least an attempt at looking him in the eyes.
Only an attempt, because. . . you know. Mask.
You continue with your tangent, “I’m telling you, Clare will know something about this guy. He must’ve had something to do with Laura’s disappearance, I’m like 98.76% certain he did. It’s always the weird new guy that shows up out of the blue.”
Spiderman nods along, his arms crossed over his chest as he looks down on you, which — dear God. Man boobs. Huge, firm-looking, downright obtrusive pecs. Your eyes dart back to his mask.
Stupid, skin-tight spandex.
“In the meantime,” you continue, Empress of Nonchalantia, “I’ll try to hunt down some more friends and families. See if the others also had a new beaux pop into their lives.”
“Right. There’s just one thing I think I’m still not understanding.”
“Which is?”
“How exactly is this supposed to help us find Aecha Park?” Spiderman asks.
You roll your eyes, a hand darting into your bag, searching for your subway card.
“Get with the program, my man!” you tell him. “This is all connected!”
Your hands finally wrap around the card. With the other one, you brush your fingers through your hair, before shrugging. “It just is, dude.”
“But could you not just elaborate?”
“No, unfortunately.” You start walking backwards towards the subway entrance, spreading your arms wide with the most convincing smile on your face. “I have a hunch.”
Spiderman shouts after your now retreating back. “It’s really hard to just trust you on this. You do realize that, right? ___?”
“I do.” Stepping onto the stairs, you throw your hand up in a wave. “I’ll text you, okay? Gotta dip. I have a meeting in the newsroom.”
₊✩。🕷˚🕸⋆。
Namjoon is staring at you standing in front of his desk. You are staring at Namjoon sitting behind his desk on his desk chair.
Hoseok, who you don’t know why even is here (mental note to text Jungkook: Hoseok hanging out around newsroom for no reason — as you’re sure he really has none) is staring at you staring at Namjoon, then staring at Namjoon staring at you, then staring at you staring at Namjoon again from where he’s perched on the edge of Namjoon’s desk.
The dude is just here, sitting here and looking pretty in Namjoon’s office.
They are so obvious. Not even trying to hide it. You have the urge to regress into a second grader — Namjoon and Hoseok are your two Ken dolls, and you wanna make them kiss, kiss, kiss!
The silence is cut only by the sound of one of your colleagues, Denise, tapping away on her keyboard outside of Namjoon’s office. You can hear it, because Namjoon doesn’t actually have an office — he has a secluded corner, walled by two filing cabinets and a map of Middle Earth.
“You’re telling me you are,” Namjoon peers at his wrist — where he is NOT wearing a watch. Weirdo, “30 minutes late to a meeting, that, mind you, you begged me to have today, because, and I’m quoting you, ‘there was a bird in Piper’s room.’”
You nod solemnly. “Yes. I didn’t wanna get into it, because it’s. . . deeply personal, but birds. . . they’re. . . a really touchy subject to Piper. Because she was, like, picked up by one when she was little. And they just, y’know,” you say, circling a finger around the air as you slowly trail off, “flew around her house a little. Like, I dunno, a half hour-ish. Maybe a little more, but I’m sure when you’re getting traumatised you kinda lose track of time. That’s why she has a fear of heights. I thought you knew that.”
Hoseok stifles a snort into his hand, turning to gawk at Namjoon’s incredulous face — Namjoon, who is rendered silent for a few more seconds.
“Picked up. By a bird.” He finally raises an eyebrow.
“Yeah.” You swallow. You shrug. “It was a hawk. They are, like. . . really strong.”
“Right,” Namjoon says. He pulls out his cellphone from his pocket, unlocks the screen and taps away for a few moments before sliding the device across the table, a picture staring back at you from its screen. “So this is not you in this picture that was uploaded to Twitter 30 minutes ago, captioned ‘Just saw Spiderman with this random baddie on the Upper West Side like 5 minutes ago. Cool af’.”
Fuck. The pictures. You really should’ve thought of this before the bird stor—Wow. Fuck again, your hair looks really good in this picture.
You pick up the phone, and hold out the screen for Hoseok to see, as well. “I’m sorry. But can we just take a moment to appreciate how good my hair looks in this picture. Heatless curls, bay-bee!”
Hoseok nods in appreciation (‘It really does look effortless and chic, ___’ is what you’re certain he’s trying to convey) just as Namjoon cries out your name in disbelief.
“Okay, okay, okay, okay, yes, that’s me, I’m sorry,” you exclaim, stepping closer to Namjoon’s desk, and hopping onto the side adjacent to Hoseok. “You remember the Spiderman feature?”
Namjoon nods. “Yes. And guess what? I remember telling you to give up on the Spiderman feature.”
You shove his phone into his face. “Hello?! Are we looking at the same picture? Why would I give up on the feature?!”
“For all I know, you’re just standing there, bothering the guy,” Namjoon says.
You gasp, a hand flying to your chest. From the corner of your eyes, you glimpse at Hoseok. He’s shaking his head with widened eyes, in a classic dont-look-at-me-hes-got-a-point sort-of way.
The betrayal.
Your only (and merely just semi-enthusiastic) supporter in this quest for fame and recognition, agreeing to the fact that you’re annoying as fuck. Because that’s basically what they’re saying, right?
It takes all that is in you not to adopt a Transatlantic accent. “You two deeply, deeply offend me. As clearly depicted here,” and here, you raise the phone as visual aid for your audience, and then continue, “the gentleman and I are in a keenly engaging, elevated, and most importantly, reciprocal conversation.”
“We can’t really see if you’re talking at him or with him, though,” Hoseok interrupts. “He’s wearing a mask.”
“Hoseok, please shut up.” You raise the Palm of Absolute Silence and Stillness in front of his face to quiet him, before turning back to Namjoon, who’s sitting at his desk with a tilted head and an expression usually donned by people tortured by diarrhea. “Namjoon, I am getting you the Spiderman feature. Do you see this phone?”
He nods. “Yeah. That’s my phone.”
“Wait, no.” Standing from the desk, you fish your own cell out of the pocket of your jeans, and hold it up in your other hand. “Do you see this phone?”
“Yeah. That’s your phone.”
“And do you know what this phone has? Besides unlimited data, unlimited nationwide calling, 120 minutes of international calling, and 200 free texts a month?” The time it takes for you to pull up a contact in your device is the perfect stand-in for a dramatic pause. You look at your editor pointedly. “It has Spiderman’s phone number. Ba-bumm!”
Which is — well. This part is not a lie.
A moment of silence.
Then, “Holy shit, you are getting the piece!” Namjoon exclaims.
This part is the lie.
Hoseok laughs. “God, ___, you really did manage to annoy this guy into talking to you.”
This part is debatable.
You sorta meant it when you said Spiderman and you are having keenly engaging conversations. Do you annoy him? God, probably. But turns out, he himself is also kind of annoying. You guys have the perfect annoyance-to-intellectualism ratio, which is famously 7:3, as proposed by scientists.
“Listen, Joon,” you say. “You’ll need to give me some time. Yes, he’s willingly talking to me now, but he’s still not sold on this whole interview-thing.” True. Of that, you still have not managed to convince him. It was so much easier to rope the guy into a literal crime investigation. “But I’ll get you that fucking feature.”
“Fuck, you’re working on a Spiderman piece, ___. You have all the time you need,” Namjoon says. Then corrects. “Well, you can’t write for the university paper after you graduate. And I’m graduating next year, and then I won’t be editor-in-chief anymore. So really, you only have like eight months.”
“More than enough, my man.”
“God, I’m gonna piss myself.”
₊✩。🕷˚🕸⋆。
The chewing gum smears all over your face after Jungkook pops the bubble you blew with his index finger.
You send his retreating figure a disgruntled look from the corner of your eye as you pick the pieces off your nose, then push the whole thing back into your mouth.
“That’s disgusting,” he grumbles.
You shrug. “Your face is disgusting.”
A lie. And given by that endearing smile on his face, Jungkook knows that.
You start chewing on the gum again, loud and frankly annoying. You know it annoys him, so you do it anyway. The quiet, lofi-music in the background helps with focusing about as much as smoking helps preventing lung cancer — and by that you mean: not a lot. More of a distraction, really, when a random beat gives you the boogie woogie.
With two fingers, you scroll down the trackpad of the laptop in your lap, skimming what must be about the sixteenth academic paper in hopes of catching a paragraph that could be used as a reference for one (1!!!!!!!!) bullet point in your Canva presentation. Oh, academia, how I fucking loathe thee.
“Remind me again why we chose a History elective this semester,” you groan, and close the tab, moving onto number seventeen.
At this point, you’re starting to get a bit concerned. Are you and Jungkook trying to sell some complete bullshit on this slide?
Jungkook drones, “Because an informed reporter is aware of the historical context of current affairs.”
“Right.” You nod, not too convinced. “Now tell me, does this paragraph make any fucking sense to you or am I suddenly illiterate? ‘By the early 20th century, medically proven cases of x-gene mutation decreased to total of approximately 200 individuals, representing roughly about 0.0000— fuck, dude, lots of fucking zeros, let me go at it again—0.000002% of the American population. While precise global figures remain unavailable, Dankworth and Ferby (1976) proposed that analogous patterns of decline were observable internationally during this time. By 1929, President Herbert Hoover referred to the X-Men as an effectively extinct population in his address on August 27th in Minnesota, framing their disappearance as the resolution of a prior societal threat. Nonetheless, contemporary researchers estimated that about 60-70 people with mutant genes were still alive at that time. In subsequent years, the issue has faded from public discourse, largely eclipsed by the emerging prospect of another world war. In 1962, the World Health Organisation officially classified the x-gene mutation as extinct in humans, noting that the trait persisted only in laboratory rats. A decade later, in 1972, prominent conspiracy theorist and host of his eponymous television program, Elias Higgins, alleged that HYDRA had conducted human experiments between 1940 and 1945 with the aim of recreating the x-gene. These claims were subsequently refuted by Homeland Security, Interpol, S.H.I.E.L.D., and the governments of both the Netherlands and Germany. To date, no empirical evidence has emerged to substantiate Higgins’s claims.’”
Jungkook looks up from his laptop with furrowed eyebrows. “You’re illiterate. ___, that was, like, the most accessible and concise academic writing I’ve ever heard. You write more confusingly.”
“But Jungkook!” You sit up straighter in your corner of the couch, feet brushing Jungkook’s outstretched legs as you do so. You’re positive that there must be a pout on your lips right now. “This discredits, like, our entire fucking presentation! We have like three slides about how x-genes still sporadically occur in canidae who live in their natural habitat! This shit is talking about how it’s only lab rats!”
Jungkook is looking at you silently with those big eyes of his for a few silent moments. He scratches his neck. “___. I swear to you, they said on Animal Planet that some red foxes in remote parts of Australia have x-genes and they’re freaking people out by flying around and teleporting.”
“I know, me and Hari watched that same episode of The Most Extreme last week,” you say. Blowing another chewing gum bubble, you quickly type into the search bar: are they lying on animal planet? The results shock you. “Fuck, Kook. ‘Yes, Animal Planet has been involved in several controversies regarding the staging of scenes and presenting fabricated content as documentaries’. We’ve been fucked over, dude.”
Jungkook groans, and slouches back on the couch, one of his arms brushing the side of your thighs as it falls back on the cushion.
Your front door opens, revealing Hari and Piper, both hauling two bags of groceries.
“Hi, babes,” Hari calls, dropping her keys into the bowl on the hall table.
Next to you, Jungkook springs to his feet, and rushes over to take a bag from each of the girls. You hide a smile into your lap when you see Piper blush, a meek little ‘thanks’ leaving her mouth as Jungkook starts towards the kitchen.
“Remind me to never throw my brother a birthday party again,” Hari says to no one in particular. Jungkook and her settle into a natural routine by the fridge — Hari, organizing, Jungkook, handing her stuff. “I’m embarrassed to say how much I just paid for groceries. I’m gonna make Taehyung pay half.”
You close your laptop before turning around, resting your arms on top of the backseat of the sofa so that you’re facing the kitchen.
“Yeah, I told you this morning. "Hey Hari, you asked me last year to tell you not to throw Jimin a birthday party, so this is me telling you now not to throw Jimin a birthday party’ and you just said, ‘Chill, peasant, it’s gonna be lowkey this year’ and left. What else could I do?” you complain.
“Chain me to my bedframe,” Hari replies.
Jungkook hands her a carton of milk, his amused grin barely constrained. “Kinky.”
Hari shoots him an unimpressed look. Jungkook holds up his hands in surrender, then fishes some limes out of the grocery bag.
“So. What were you guys doing?” Piper asks from where she lingers by the kitchen island, looking at Jungkook then at you expectantly.
“Yeah, I didn’t know you’re coming over,” Hari adds, addressing Jungkook.
“What?” Jungkook asks. He walks back to the couch, and hops onto the backrest, next to where your arms lay. He looks down at you as he continues. “Can’t I just come over? Hang out with my dear friend, ___ over here? Must there be a reason?”
You chime in. “You can, dude, but you never do.” Jungkook looks to be considering that, undecided if your claim warrants his objection. It does not. You two are good friends — hell, great friends, even — but he is really not in the habit of just coming over to your place with no other reason but to hang out. The person doing that happens to be you. Resting your hand in your palm, you turn to Piper, shooting her a reassuring smile. “We were just doing homework. We thought choosing the X-Men topic for our presentation for our Modern History elective is the most obvious cop out. Turns out we’ll have to look into a class action lawsuit against frickin Animal Planet.”
“The X-Men?” Piper asks. “Why, what were you two gonna talk about?”
“Flying red foxes in Australia,” you tell her.
“Oh, that was on Animal Planet last week!” Hari adds happily. You send her finger guns. She pretends to be shot.
“But the only animals with known x-gene mutation are a small number of laboratory rats in France,” Piper says, confused.
“Well, yeah. Animal Planet fucking lied about the flying red foxes in Australia.”
“Hmm. Well, you could still do the presentation on the rats. They’re relatively interesting.” Piper shrugs. Her eyes fall to your arms — specifically, your elbow that is slightly digging into Jungkook’s hip. There’s a flicker of something in her gaze. But if it bothers her, her voice is unaffected when she continues. “Or—you could do it on the HYDRA experiments. Yes, the academic consensus is that it’s just a conspiracy theory, but there was actual research done on the topic, you know, to find out if Higgins’s claims have any credibility. And they found some seriously sus stuff, hard to explain away. You two could have a more pop-culture-y take on the topic with that — it suits the both of you better than dull textbook-y history. ”
Jungkook meets your gaze as you both take a moment to consider it. He shrugs.
“Nahhhhh,” you slump in your seat. “If we get into the HYDRA stuff, we’ll never finish this shit tonight. Can you tell me more about the rats, Piper?”
PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER
A/N: this is for all readers who are tall: hereby, you are now short.
i try to be as vague as possible when using any physical descriptors for the reader, but as someone who is exactly the same height as jungkook (so this is not me self-inserting lmao) i feel like i'm allowed this one little indulgence.
congrats, if you're reading this, you're like three apples tall. shall i invite bella hadid.
The answer to this question is one that might bring on my downfall……. But I gotta # speak my truth.
I think at this point my absolute favorite is officially mcu spiderman!! I wasn’t really watching superhero movies as a little kid because my parents aren’t into them, so when I got into them around the end of middle school, ca:cw was all the rage! So in a sense he’s the spiderman I grew up with, y’know? mcu!peter is cannonically around my age, and I think that his movies are the closest to my sense of humour :P (I also really love ned & mj, but I don’t think I’m particularly attached to the love interests & friends in any of the other versions) (also I was a tomdaya truther back when everyone thought we were delusional. . . crazy times)
Second (maybe surprisingly, though I don’t think it should be??!) is not a peter, but miles morales. I’m way overdue for a spiderverse rewatch but god am I just obsessed with everything about those movies. Best animated movie like ever, dude. Also I have a really special personal memory attached to them, since the first one came out around my birthday, and while I was in school, my mom always let me stay home on my birthday, and we would drive to the city and hang out at the mall where she’d let me pick out my present, we’d eat fast food for lunch and sit in for a movie. But that year, there was a snowstorm so we couldn’t drive into the city, so we just built a snowman and then went to the small movie theatre in our town that has only one screening room and they were playing spiderverse there that day, so we ended up watching that, and we both got obsessed :)
Third place is tasm!spiderman, I watched those movies later in high school and I found them quite fun, I see why they hold a special place in people’s hearts. I really liked andrew garfield’s portrayal of peter, though it didn’t really top tom holland’s for me. I was already in too deep, I guess. It was the first spiderman movie I saw which had his origin story included, so I really enjoyed them for that reason especially. But the fact that everyone in that school wasn’t all over him was really unrealistic!!!!!!!!!! Like andrew garfield!peter was a dorky guy who SKATES and does PHOTOGRAPHY?? were the hoes in midtown blind?? idk why this was the filmmaker’s idea of a loser like these were the main characteristics of popular chick magnets where I’m from lmao
And then last place among the spiderman adaptions I’ve seen is toby’s spiderman (I’m sorryyyyyyyy 😭😭) maybe I’m a fake spiderman enjoyer for this, but I only got around to watching his movies when toby & andrew were rumoured to be seen on set for no way home, and, don’t get me wrong!!!! they were a fun time, but I guess I just. . . didn’t particularly care?? that much?? I guess this is a case of “I wasn’t there, so I don’t get it”, you know? Like these movies obviously had their moments, had amazing moments, but they overall just didn’t really hit for me unfortunately :/
The answer to this question is one that might bring on my downfall……. But I gotta # speak my truth.
I think at this point my absolute favorite is officially mcu spiderman!! I wasn’t really watching superhero movies as a little kid because my parents aren’t into them, so when I got into them around the end of middle school, ca:cw was all the rage! So in a sense he’s the spiderman I grew up with, y’know? mcu!peter is cannonically around my age, and I think that his movies are the closest to my sense of humour :P (I also really love ned & mj, but I don’t think I’m particularly attached to the love interests & friends in any of the other versions) (also I was a tomdaya truther back when everyone thought we were delusional. . . crazy times)
Second (maybe surprisingly, though I don’t think it should be??!) is not a peter, but miles morales. I’m way overdue for a spiderverse rewatch but god am I just obsessed with everything about those movies. Best animated movie like ever, dude. Also I have a really special personal memory attached to them, since the first one came out around my birthday, and while I was in school, my mom always let me stay home on my birthday, and we would drive to the city and hang out at the mall where she’d let me pick out my present, we’d eat fast food for lunch and sit in for a movie. But that year, there was a snowstorm so we couldn’t drive into the city, so we just built a snowman and then went to the small movie theatre in our town that has only one screening room and they were playing spiderverse there that day, so we ended up watching that, and we both got obsessed :)
Third place is tasm!spiderman, I watched those movies later in high school and I found them quite fun, I see why they hold a special place in people’s hearts. I really liked andrew garfield’s portrayal of peter, though it didn’t really top tom holland’s for me. I was already in too deep, I guess. It was the first spiderman movie I saw which had his origin story included, so I really enjoyed them for that reason especially. But the fact that everyone in that school wasn’t all over him was really unrealistic!!!!!!!!!! Like andrew garfield!peter was a dorky guy who SKATES and does PHOTOGRAPHY?? were the hoes in midtown blind?? idk why this was the filmmaker’s idea of a loser like these were the main characteristics of popular chick magnets where I’m from lmao
And then last place among the spiderman adaptions I’ve seen is toby’s spiderman (I’m sorryyyyyyyy 😭😭) maybe I’m a fake spiderman enjoyer for this, but I only got around to watching his movies when toby & andrew were rumoured to be seen on set for no way home, and, don’t get me wrong!!!! they were a fun time, but I guess I just. . . didn’t particularly care?? that much?? I guess this is a case of “I wasn’t there, so I don’t get it”, you know? Like these movies obviously had their moments, had amazing moments, but they overall just didn’t really hit for me unfortunately :/
jungkook x reader, friends to lovers, spiderman!au — link to masterlist
chapter summary: You go to Auntie Aecha’s house expecting answers, not even stranger question than those you arrived with. Well, that was maybe your first rookie mistake. It's a mess. Weird objects — some that shouldn’t even exist! —, cryptic clues, and an uneasy partner at your side make it clear that everything about Aecha is even less ordinary than you thought. But still, you find it—a single lead that turns your world upside down. Like, literally.
wc: 5,5k
warnings: swearing, talks of a bl*wjob, freaky magic stuff, “fainting”, mentions of kidnapping, spideykook is apparently sassy as fuck???? (was a surprise for me too)
a/n: hello, hi, how have you been? I've been well, I've been not so well, but one thing is for certain; I've loved loved loved writing this chapter! so I'm not wasting any more of your time, hehe. happy reading <3
taglist: @kooko009 @mirinaeii (if you want me to put you on the taglist, just lmk!!)
“This?”
Spiderman looks over his shoulders at the porcelain doll that’s hanging from between your index and pointer fingers by its sad little ponytail. What? You sadly don’t have the stomach to make any more physical contact than necessary with such ugly things. You wouldn’t put it past Auntie Aecha to be harbouring fucking Annabelle in her home, after all.
“I. . . I think that’s supposed to look like that?” Spiderman says, albeit a bit unsurely.
“Hm.” You take another precursory look at the thing, and then carefully place it back onto the shelf with a shrug. You don’t want to make any more enemies in the form of haunted dolls. You mutter, mostly to yourself, “Maybe it should have got broken, then.”
Spiderman snorts, and turns back to the chest he’s been looking through. You take a few steps towards him, just enough so that you now have a view of the chest’s contents over his crouching figure. You put a hand on your hips, fingers playing with your jean pocket that has your phone inside.
What is it they say? Two birds, one stone? If the opportunity presents itself, this afternoon maybe you could—
“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
yes i thought i was really funny when i gave this chapter such a clickbait title btw. this is a slow burn, people, get on with the program!!
In case anyone is ever like, “damn, I wonder which version of Spiderman Spideykook is supposed to be/is inspired by? 🤔🧐” then torment yourself no longer, the answer is he’s Earth-130613 Spiderman aka whatever Marvel reference I can sneak in is canon to him and then some more *devious laughter* #WhoWasSandyBrooks ⁉️
jungkook x reader, friends to lovers, spiderman!au — link to masterlist
chapter summary: You go to Auntie Aecha’s house expecting answers, not even stranger question than those you arrived with. Well, that was maybe your first rookie mistake. It's a mess. Weird objects — some that shouldn’t even exist! —, cryptic clues, and an uneasy partner at your side make it clear that everything about Aecha is even less ordinary than you thought. But still, you find it—a single lead that turns your world upside down. Like, literally.
wc: 5,5k
warnings: swearing, talks of a bl*wjob, freaky magic stuff, “fainting”, mentions of kidnapping, spideykook is apparently sassy as fuck???? (was a surprise for me too)
a/n: hello, hi, how have you been? I've been well, I've been not so well, but one thing is for certain; I've loved loved loved writing this chapter! so I'm not wasting any more of your time, hehe. happy reading <3
taglist: @kooko009 @mirinaeii (if you want me to put you on the taglist, just lmk!!)
“This?”
Spiderman looks over his shoulders at the porcelain doll that’s hanging from between your index and pointer fingers by its sad little ponytail. What? You sadly don’t have the stomach to make any more physical contact than necessary with such ugly things. You wouldn’t put it past Auntie Aecha to be harbouring fucking Annabelle in her home, after all.
“I. . . I think that’s supposed to look like that?” Spiderman says, albeit a bit unsurely.
“Hm.” You take another precursory look at the thing, and then carefully place it back onto the shelf with a shrug. You don’t want to make any more enemies in the form of haunted dolls. You mutter, mostly to yourself, “Maybe it should have got broken, then.”
Spiderman snorts, and turns back to the chest he’s been looking through. You take a few steps towards him, just enough so that you now have a view of the chest’s contents over his crouching figure. You put a hand on your hips, fingers playing with your jean pocket that has your phone inside.
What is it they say? Two birds, one stone? If the opportunity presents itself, this afternoon maybe you could—
“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
yes i thought i was really funny when i gave this chapter such a clickbait title btw. this is a slow burn, people, get on with the program!!
hii!!! love webs of opacity and would like to be on the taglist for it if you ever create one! i also LOVED the daredevil mention in chapter one, i love it when i can tell the authors of spideykook fics are actual marvel fans :) AND i love how your story actually has an interesting plot aside from romance ok byeee ive been saying the word love too much
hiiiiii!! thank you, thank you, thank you — you’re on it!
yeahhh you were correct in your assumption, i had a huuuuuuuuge MCU-phase in middle/high school hehe (though now I’m very excited again about the new Tom Holland Spiderman film :P) which I can now conveniently use to make this world feel more etched out. major win. i want people who know nothing about marvel to be able to read it and enjoy it just as much as anyone, but I also prefer when authors put some easter eggs into their fanfics for those who are also fans of the source material/inspiration, so I’m trying to do that, too :)
and about the plot, I’m so so happy (and relieved!) you say this!! initially I was a bit scared that such SLOW SLOW Slow slow burn + so much focus on a non-romance plotline will turn some readers away, so ofc I’m extra happy you find it enjoyable (and I’m also always extra happy when I see how much interest this silly story has despite [or maybe due to] this factor) (also like don’t get me wrong, WoO is still a love story and as such will be pretty romantic, but we definitely will have to suffer for the gratification that comes with it lmfao)
ps. there’s never a situation where one can say “love” too much :) :) :)
jungkook x reader, friends to lovers, spiderman!au — link to masterlist
chapter summary: Auntie Aecha is missing, and everyone deals with it in their own way. You wouldn't be you if you'd settle for staying still and waiting for the police to work a miracle, though. With her cryptic last words in mind, you're convinced there's something crucial here that you're missing—and to untangle the strings, one has to find the knot. It just seems like you aren't the only one with this same idea.
wc: 7.2k
warnings: swearing, mentions of kidnapping & murder, loss of emotional support old lady, mentions of smoking, greening out (passing out, bit of nausea)
a/n: I'm so sorry for the long long wait for chapter two 😭😭 I was absolutely floored by how much interest this story got, even with just one chapter out, I'm so so grateful to each and every one of you who read and/or interacted with WoO <3 I don't wanna steal your time with long-winded excuses, my year just ended up being way more packed than I've anticipated, lots of things I had to adjust to (doing two schools simultaneously, starting to write a thesis, getting a job, etc. etc. etc.) but I really really really love this fic and the ideas I have for this plot, and spideykoo, so no worries. I'm constantly working on this as I can, but I'd hate to promise an update schedule I cannot stick to. Feel free to nag me in asks, though, lol. This chapter is still just a lot of exposition, but I hope all of you have fun reading <33 love youuuu
Silence permeates Jungkook’s aunt’s living room.
It’s a bit of a tight fit with all nine of you imposing on the little family of two at such a late hour, spread around their living room on the couch and the old Persian carpet in front of it. Jungkook’s aunt, Eunji walks into the room with a tray in her hands; on it sits the kettle with boiling water inside, cups, and an assortment of filtered tea that none of you find in yourselves to reach for (however impolite you all might find that in hindsight).
She quietly prepares everyone a cup, because Aunt Eunji is an angel. This, you know well by now. You know she’s like a mother to Jungkook, having raised him since early in his childhood, and is more than willing to take any ragtag friend that attaches to her nephew’s hip under her wings. More than a few times, you even hung out with her without Jungkook present for one reason or another—that’s how well you know it, the fact that she’s an angel misplaced on Earth.
“Drink up, kids,” Aunt Eunji says quietly, handing out the drinks with Jungkook’s wordless help. Once everyone is holding onto the warmth of her tangible care, she holds the tray under her elbow, and caresses Jungkook’s face, a soft palm running down the plane of his pale cheeks, before she leaves the room to give you guys some privacy.
Not that anyone is eager to make conversation right now.
After leaving the premises of the Seoulite, you felt yourself dancing dangerously close to the brink of passing out. After Hoseok and you fought your way out of the crowd that had gathered, you walked a few streets down before sitting on the curb in front of a 7/11, and simply just breathed for a moment. (All the germs, bile, grime, and piss you were probably soaking into your freshly washed jeans from the New York streets blissfully ignored).
Auntie Aecha was missing.
This. . . this was your first encounter with something like this. Tragedy so touchable, so close that you can almost feel it sinking its venomous fangs into the meat of your back.
Hoseok disappeared into the supermarket for a few minutes, then handed you one of the bottles of water in his hand as he sat back down next to you, a warm arm falling over your shoulders as he took a generous sip.
“What the fuck,” was all he muttered. You two didn’t exchange many words since bidding goodbye to the officer, rendered to an uneasy silence.
However morbid, and maybe a bit selfish this sounds, but you were glad he was there with you. A friend ready to offer the crook of his neck for you to bury your face into as you let out a deep sigh.
There were clear signs of struggle, the officer had told you. You wonder if whoever did this took anything from the apartment, if it was just a regular robbery turned unfortunate.
But if it was, why would they not just. . . well, kill her. Right there. Why bother taking her to a secondary location? To do what?
Why did they take Auntie Aecha in the first place?
A memory loomed at the back of your mind. The radio in Taehyung’s car last week, the news reports online whenever you searched the web for any hint of Spiderman. There had been an increase in missing person cases all across the city.
But the MO, it didn’t fit — the victims of those disappearances were in their late teens mostly, sometimes in their early twenties. Half and full orphans, or college students whose family lives out of state. Men and women alike, usually in top health, with a fit build.
Auntie Aecha was none of those. So why her? Why this? Why the Seoulite? You’ve spent countless hours there this past year — that place is packed with old, pretty but ultimately worthless junk. Nothing worthy of criminalising yourself.
God. At this rate, you were just going to work yourself into a headache.
“I’ve never smoked,” you started, breathing the words into Hoseok’s neck miserably. “But this sure feels like a pretty good time to start.”
“Well, there’s a 7/11.” You felt more than heard him nod his head towards the store behind you. Thoughtlessly, you were staring in front of you at the passing cars on the street. A city that never sleeps. A city that never stops for anyone. It made a soulless smile creep on your lips. Hoseok continued, “Or you could link up Namjoon. He relapsed.”
You didn’t even have the time to feel sorrowful for the unfortunate turn of events for your dear friend, because—
“Fuckkk,” you groaned, slumping in Hoseok hold, feeling boneless and tired. And a little bit on the verge of tears. How is it that this day had started out feeling so. . . normal? Just you and a good buddy, getting scammed, fucking around in Queens, hanging out in the library. It all felt more like a lifetime than a mere hour ago. And now, you couldn’t imagine seeing this day finally coming to end. “We have to tell the others.”
You felt Hoseok stiffen up under you.
On the street, a driver laid on his horn, the sound disruptive through the steady buzz of the night’s noise as the car just ended up running the red, riding a bit too close to the rear of the one in front of it, and you didn’t even have the energy to grumble a snarky comment about it, as you normally would. Your eyes followed the two cars until they disappeared around the corner, before it jumped to the roof of the building across, meeting the pitch black backdrop of the sky beyond the city line. No stars.
You keep your gaze on the roof for a moment, empty. Your eyesight wasn’t nearly good enough to pick up on anything that far, even if it wasn’t so dark.
“Fuck,” Hoseok shared the sentiment. “We should, yeah.”
Well. That’s how you all ended up gathered at the Jeon’s apartment about an hour later.
Jungkook lives the closest to Seoulite, often a place where the drunkests of the night decided to crash when in no state of getting themselves home. You and Hoseok decided you should tell him in person, that it was a good place to start. You could call the other’s from there, or maybe move on to Namjoon’s.
Surprisingly, Jungkook was actually in. Just arrived home a few minutes before you two showed up, according to his aunt, in a bit of a hurry. Looked a bit dishevelled, but he’ll be out of his room in a few, Aunt Eunji said, before sitting the two of you down on their couch and disappearing down the hallway to call on her nephew.
Jungkook. . . you can’t really describe how he took the news. He came out of his room already pale and wide-eyed, but then again, it wasn’t a regular occurrence that you randomly just imposed on him at home, looking grimly and forbidding. And anyways, his eyes are naturally just that fucking big, so. . . whatever.
But he looked— shaken. That, you can say for sure. But there was something missing from his expression that you can’t really put your finger on.
Or bother to think about, really. You had to call the others.
With the help of Jungkook, the three of you have managed to round up the rest of your friends pretty quickly, deciding that it’s better to relay the news in person all in one go rather than wearing it out over the phone.
So that’s what you did. You told the others everything once they were there, fueled by Hoseok’s supportive hand resting on your knee as you sat on the armrest of the sofa, with Jungkook’s back leaning slightly against your shins, his new dog, Bam, spread out across his lap.
(You’d have to get a bit more acquainted with him. Bam. At a more appropriate next time, maybe).
₊✩｡🕷˚🕸⋆｡
Auntie Aecha’s case is featured in the next day’s evening news, confirming your suspicions. The police doesn’t assume a connection between Aecha’s case and the previous disappearances, ruling the incident involving the older woman an entirely separate case of premeditated break-in and kidnapping.
The suspects apparently didn’t take anything of value, is another important detail you make sure to take down in your notebook as you sit on your couch with Piper and Hari, watching the TV. The dolled-up anchorwoman on the screen reads, “The investigators are waiting on confirmation from the victim’s children, but all the items in the ravaged apartment have been seemingly left there, aside from certain documents from a cabinet in the victim’s bedroom. Investigators suspect these documents could be potentially related to the illegal business the victim ra—”
“I can’t listen to this,” Hari says as the TV screen abruptly fades to black, tossing the remote to the coffee table. Piper tries shooting you a look over Hari’s shoulder, but you’re too preoccupied with absentmindedly chewing on the top of your pen as you stare at the now blank screen to react.
They took. . . documents?
What kind of documents? You would’ve thought the point of under-the-counter business is that, you know, it doesn’t have documentation. So, what the fuck is the police talking about?
Hari fishes her cell phone out from somewhere between the couch cushions, and stands. “Earlier my brother. . . well, Jimin said he and Tae are going to go out to smoke. The good stuff. You guys wanna come?”
“Pass.” Piper shakes her head tiredly, slumping on the couch. She curls up, looking like a little burrito as her petite body gets lost in the wide material of her oversized sweater, and digs her heels mindlessly into the meat of your thigh as she settles. “I feel too weird already, I’d just green the fuck out.”
“___?”
“Hm?” Ungracefully, you pop the pencil out of your mouth, and look over at Hari, who’s lingering by the front door.
“To smoke,” she says, imitating taking a hit of a blunt with two fingers as she does. “You wanna come?”
You shake your head, and mutter, “No, thanks. I’ll pass.”
“‘Kay, you two suit yourselves.” Hari shrugs, and moves towards her coat on the rack. She obnoxiously kisses both you and Piper goodbye on the crown of your heads, and as if an afterthought, reaches out for a beanie and puts it on, then locks up after herself when she leaves.
“Should we see what they have on TLC right now?” Piper murmurs, sluggishly reaching back for the remote control.
It’s a rhetorical question — you know she’s going to end up watching TLC one way or another, no matter what you say — still, you grace her with a noncommittally hum. Your mind’s not really on wedding dresses and eating disorders right now.
But suddenly, you remember something, and spring up from your seat. Dumping your notebook on the coffee table before grabbing your phone, you lean over to kiss Piper on her cheeks.
At your sudden movement, she stares up at you with wide, confused eyes.
“Changed my mind,” is all you say to explain, making a quick move for your backpack and coat before bolting towards the front door. “I’m gonna catch up with Hari and the guys. Don’t wait up! Drink some tea before bed if you’re feeling weird, baby.”
₊✩｡🕷˚🕸⋆｡
When you finally come to, the first thing you register is the comforting pattern of Jimin’s palm caressing the side of your head, smoothing down your baby hairs. Your vision is still a bit blurry, chest a bit too heavy, and a chill runs down your spine due to the cool sheen of sweat over your skin despite being clad in appropriate outerwear.
Piper was totally fucking right — this is definitely not a night to get high. You totally greened out, momentarily collapsing against Jimin’s chest where you guys are hiding behind the dormitory building.
“You okay?” Jimin asks as you let out a deep sigh, trying to regain your bearings, his other arm holding you up and into himself tightly.
You accept the water Taehyung is offering you, and take a few sips before answering. “Yeah, just got a bit dizzy there for a second.”
“Shit,” Taehyung mutters, capping the water bottle when you’re finished and holding it tightly under his arm. You send him a grateful smile. “You scared the fuck out of me, woman!”
Hari’s fingers, which you notice are interlaced with yours, squeeze your own in reassurance before she presses a chaste peck on your hairline. “Me, too! Fucking hell. . .”
The tree of them regard you with careful eyes, seemingly fallen off of their own highs as well in their panic. Despite knowing better, you feel a bit bad about that — you must’ve ruined their fun, too, even though you know they’d never hold it against you.
Safe place, remember? Looking out for each other. The only way you should get high.
Still, you’re a bit bummed. “I’m sorry, guys.”
“Don’t be a dumbass,” Jimin chides, immediately shooting your apology down. He squeezes your side reassuringly. “Think you can stand on your own now?”
“I don’t know, I think so,” you guess, slowly detaching yourself from his hold. When you feel your knees won’t give in the moment he completely lets go of you, you tuck your hands into your coat pockets, lazily smiling at your friends. “I think it might be fun to just lay down for a while, hm?”
So that’s what you guys do. Shamelessly, the four of you plop down onto the grass in the dormitory’s backyard, heads closely together and legs forming a clumsy star. You guys probably look silly, but you can’t bring yourself to care as you hear Taehyung giggling when his head boinks Jimin’s unintentionally.
Or intentionally. It’s Taehyung.
You just look up at the sky, and let your limbs go numb — you can still feel traces of the high running in your system, making you sink into the soft bedding of the lawn and spread into the earth beneath you like a warm summer shower.
There are no stars on the skyline in New York City, their view hidden behind the dark blanket of the night. And air pollution. And light pollution. It’s not how it’s supposed to be. Already having been in a dejected mood for these past two days, this fact makes you a bit more upset than usual — you know they’re right there, the stars. Why can’t you just see them?
It’s unfair.
“. . . and I’d sprinkle his cheeks with cocoa powder, and bake him into a cookie.” Taehyung finishes dramatically.
“Hah,” Hari giggles. “Cookie. Kookie.”
“Yup, the pun was intended.” Taehyung confirms proudly.
“We know.” Jimin groans. “And it was so fucking awful, you idiot. Just like the 13 billion other times you’ve made this joke before.”
“Why is that his name if he’s not edible, huh?” Taehyung challenges. “Huh? Riddle me that.”
“You know why that’s his name, you’re fucking Korean too.” Jimin sighs.
“No, you’re fucking Korean,” Taehyung retorts, pointing an accusing finger at Jimin, who nods patiently.
“Yeah, Tae, we’re both Korean, glad we’ve established that after like 15 years of friendship. So is Jungkook.”
Taehyung gasps, and says something in Korean. Jimin replies to him, also in Korean, and Taehyung’s eyes go wide as saucers, ready to say something else, but then Hari cuts in before he could do so — also in Korean, of course.
Taehyung shrieks. “You’re fucking Korean, too?”
“I’m Jimin’s full-blooded fucking sister?” Hari hits his shoulder, barely containing her laughter.
“Oh my God. . .” Taehyung mutters reverently, and turns his head between the siblings almost with tears brimming his eyes. “Oh my God, that’s so nice. . . We’re Korean. . .”
You snort. Yeah, that boy’s officially off his kilter. Taehyung seems to have reached some of his usual trippy milestones — cannibalistic fantasization of Jungkook and ethnic pride, amongst other things.
Their conversation is hard to follow, as most conversations had under the influence are. You give Hari your hand to play with as you continue staring up at the sky, the reason for you coming out after them not forgotten under the haze that the weed blanketed over your mind.
You just. . . don’t know how to bring it up.
But it seems like that’s not something you need to worry about. A few minutes later, the conversation lulls out, and silence embraces the four of you for a short minute, before Hari reluctantly changes the topic, unknowingly playing right into your hand.
“She was on the evening news.”
She doesn’t need to clarify who she’s talking about. Auntie Aecha has been sitting at the forefront of all of your minds — just maybe a bit less obsessively than on yours, specifically.
Only Taehyung hums in acknowledgement, before Hari continues.
“I just. . . Don’t get it,” she huffs, frustrated. Her fingers play with your knuckles absentmindedly as she mulls things over out loud. “I just feel so weird. Optimism bias, I guess. The news has been full of disappearances these past weeks, but one always just assumes that this is the type of stuff that only happens to strangers. . . not, you know.”
“Not to people you know,” Taehyung supplies. “Not to you.”
“Yeah,” Hari agrees. “It’s kinda like when Sandy Brooks died in high school— I just. I can’t wrap my head around these things.”
You feel Jimin stiffen next to you.
You’ve heard Sandy Brooks’ name from the four who went to Midtown High a few times in passing. It’s only the basics that you knew; she was a girl in Jungkook’s junior year Biology class. She was on the student council with Jimin. She once gave Hari a tampon in the 3rd floor girl’s bathroom. She passed away some days before the boys’ graduation when a building collapsed in Manhattan while Spiderman fought Doc Oc.
“It’s just like you said, Haribo,” Jimin says sweetly a moment later. You feel his head turning slightly in Taehyung’s direction, you hear the grass crunching as he shifts. “It’s optimism bias, everyone has it. You never expect the bad things to actually ever be happening to you.”
“Maybe not everyone. . .” Hari mumbles.
Jimin lets out a tired sigh, like this is not the first time he hears what Hari’s about to follow up with, but you pipe up at her comment. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t sigh like that, Chim,” Hari snaps, with a bit more vehemence than you would’ve been expecting from her. She drops your hand and it flops down on her coated stomach. “You said you thought it was weird, too, you fucking said it was weird the moment we left!”
“Hello?” You pat her with the hand that’s left on her abdomen to get her attention. “What do you mean, thought what was weird?”
Jimin sighs again. “It’s nothing.”
“Dude, it’s not nothing?!” Hari protests. “I heard you telling Jungkook that she was acting weird that morning when we left their apartment.”
“I was shaken up, okay?” Jimin retorts. “I was obviously just reading into it, because I was surprised, it’s nothing. It’s Auntie Aecha— she’s always weird.”
“Dear fucking God, you’re aggravating.”
“No, you guys are both aggravating,” you cut in, sitting up to look down at the siblings. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Jimin rolls his eyes, seemingly defeated, as Taehyung’s hands sneak over to grab onto him carefully. The boy whispers something to his friend, and you can see Jimin’s chest deflating as he lets out a heavy sigh at Taehyung’s words.
Hari, on the other hand, looks ecstatic to share. No wonder, after being shot down like that. “Jimin and I were at the Seoulite that morning, right?” She doesn’t wait for confirmation, but you nod your head anyway. “It was a slow morning, just the two of us there, so Aecha came over and sat down with us for a while. And, you know, that’s normal, but then she started talking about astrology—”
“So, you know, ___, just the usual,” Jimin adds, his voice carrying a mocking edge to it, but his sister is quick to shoot him down.
“Jesus Christ, Jimin, just shut the fuck up?!” Hari barks out, turning over to slap Jimin’s shoulder before her gaze finds yours again, and she continues. “Anyway, she was talking about how today’s the day, and how the wheels of fortune have been put into motion, and all of it is unavoidable now. Yes, Jimin, it’s all her usual mumbo-jumbo, but don’t you find it just a little bit suspicious in retrospect?”
Jimin keeps quiet. You spare him a curious glance, but agree with Hari. “I do.”
“You’re a journalist, though,” Taehyung mentions quietly.
He seems sobered up now, hand still resting lazily on Jimin’s biceps as he speaks up for the first time in this conversation. He never really does intrude when Jimin and Hari are going head to head, as siblings usually do.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” You raise an eyebrow. It didn’t exactly sound like a compliment, how Taehyung said it.
He just shrugs, an innocent grin on his face. Clearly teasing you. “Well, don’t you need to, like, find everything suspicious?”
You stick your tongue out at him, the true characteristic of a serious journalist, and he just smirks.
“She also told Jimin to tell Jungkook that the Sun collaborates with soil to bring flowers on the earth.” Hari continues accusingly. She finally sits up, crossing her legs as she starts picking on the grass around her. The faint lighting from the building paints shadows on her soft features, lights playfully dancing on her frustratedly scrunched-up button nose. “What the fuck does that even mean?”
“It’s an Amit Ray quote, Haribo.” Jimin replies, though it must not be the answer she was looking for, as she huffs. He’s being awfully defiant tonight.
“Okay, and?”
“Well, Jungkook reads, you know,” Jimin says. “That’s why she said that. It was a book recommendation, in her own weird way.”
Hari scoffs. “Since fucking when?”
It might not be the time to fight for his honour, but you’d like to note that Jungkook does actually read. Maybe not Amit Ray, you have a hard time believing that, too, but he reads. For the record.
Instead, you opt to bring something else to the discussion, even if you’re just thinking out loud.
“She told me about the wheels of fortune. When we were there last week. Taehyung, you remember.”
“She did mention something like that, yeah.” Taehyung confirms quietly.
“I thought she said it because she pulled that card for me, though,” you mull on it further. Biting your lip, you look down at your lap, the dirt on your once pristine white sneakers.
You shouldn’t have gotten high. You see the clues like red strings, spiralling this way and that in your mind’s eye, yet cannot straighten them out enough to find where they connect.
The missing documents. Wheels of Fortune. The Amit Ray quote, addressed to Jungkook. Then you remember something else, too — ‘There’s a clue in the night’.
It all must mean something. It has to.
But it’s night, now — it embraces the four of you in a dark blanket as the noise of the sleepless city filters into the dormitory’s yard, and you’re blind to any sense at all, much less any clues.
“It’s just stupid tarot,” Jimin says. “___, you know that, right? Aecha’s not a psychic — it doesn’t mean anything.”
Yeah. Well, that’s what you also used to think.
₊✩｡🕷˚🕸⋆｡
The thing about college is that it doesn’t really give a fuck. Academia cares very little for one’s private matters—unless a grandparent dies (and your professors keep a diligent count on the number of said grandparents, just so you know), you’re pregnant, or terminally ill, you need to be there or be square.
So the following Monday afternoon, you walk into the hall of your Investigative Journalism lecture, and try your best to leave all thoughts of Auntie Aecha outside the entrance. You already spent the remainder of your weekend sitting atop your bed covers, looking over an open and painfully blank Google Docs page on your laptop, almost pulling all of your hair out in frustration.
Nevermind. You’ve still managed to come up with a plan—well, concepts of an idea of a plan.
But first: school. A Spiderman article won’t be enough to impress the Times. You’ll need the grades to back it up.
As you start walking the steps up, you’re surprised to notice Jungkook already sitting there where you guys usually sit in the last row, his opened notebook and two thermos flasks sitting in front of him on the table.
“So. Yours or mine?” you ask him as you plop into the seat next to his, unceremoniously dropping your backpack into your lap.
Too busy trying to fish out your laptop from your bag (seriously, if a bag has a built in compartment designed for laptops, you don’t understand why it’s just so fucking difficult to put a laptop in and out of it??), you don’t see the way Jungkook’s entire face flushes a deep crimson.
He squeaks, “Whatd’y’mean?”
“Which one of our watches is broken?” you clarify, finally getting your laptop and water bottle out, placing them on the table before reclining in your chair. One of the perks of sitting in the back row: you can comfortably rest your head against the wall. Bump it against the wall, if the lecture gets too painstakingly boring. Your choice. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in class so early, dude.”
“Ah.” Jungkook chuckles, shaking his head. “There’s gotta be a first for everything, no?”
“Maybe you should’ve adapted this mindset when you were 25 minutes late to our Media Literacy midterm last semester.”
“Hey!” Jungkook exclaims. His lips fall into a pout as he tries to fake offence. “That was one time. I’m a changed man now. An academic weapon of mass destruction.”
“Sure you are, Koo.” You snort, patting his hand.
That same hand curls into a fist under your palm as Jungkook looks away, so you nonchalantly remove it.
Jungkook’s eyes fall onto the two drinks that sit in front of him, and he reaches out to slide one closer to you. “Here. Brought one for you, too.”
“Aww, aren’t you just the sweetest.” You accept it with a smile, making one in kind sneak into the corner of Jungkook’s lips as well. “Thank you.”
“Your 3PM crash is coming up,” he says. “Don’t want you to fall asleep on my shoulder and be called out in front of the whole auditorium for it again — you know, if we’re bringing up embarrassing stories now.”
“Shut it.” You point a finger and slap his shoulder, before you reach to uncap the thermos that he placed in front of you. It’s a Stark Industries merchandise, the company logo and tens of Chibi-style Iron-Mans flying around the expanse of it — you have to smother a laugh at that. Now, if only they made Spiderman ones. . .
“Is it—?”
Jungkook confirms before you could finish, “Yeah, I made yours with almond milk.”
“Sweet and knows me so so well.” You sigh, playfully batting your eyelashes at him while taking a sip. It’s good. You knew already that Jungkook is fairly good in the kitchen, both consuming and making food. He regularly helps out at his uncle’s restaurant (not his real uncle, Aunt Eunji’s best friend’s husband) and is dubbed at home the ‘Kitchen Fairy’ by his aunt. Hell, he baked an Esterházy cake for your birthday party last year. Now, it seems like he can add barista to his skillset, too. “It’s really good. And you nailed the sweetener head on. I’ll leave you a 5 star review on Yelp.”
Jungkook grins, a toothy smile on his face as he watches you take another sip.
“So, how was the rest of your weekend?” You ask, hugging the thermos against your chest.
Jungkook shrugs. “Nothing too crazy. Just the usual. Spent some time with the, uh, Stark internship. I needed to take my mind off of. . .”
“Yeah. I get it.”
Jungkook watches your face calculatingly for a few passing moments. His head tips to the side slightly, and he rests an elbow on the table as he turns towards you with his full body. It’s almost like he’s caging you in a little.
“I don’t like that glint in your eyes,” he finally says.
You huff. “What fucking glint in my eyes?!”
“You know the one,” Jungkook says. He bites his lips, more nervously than in thought, but determinedly keeps the eye-contact going with you. “When you have an idea you know I— we might not like.”
“I don’t have such glint.”
“You do,” Jungkook presses. He leans in a slight tad closer, his warm breath trapped in the decreasing space between you two as he starts listing, “Like when you still went out with that guy even after you learned he was a drug dealer—”
“— I made sure he’s not gang affiliated!”
“— or when you went to that sketchy secret society meet-up for an article in the middle of the woods with no reception for an entire weekend, or when you came up with the Spiderman article. That glint. I do know you.” Jungkook finishes, and. Okay. Some of your not-so-bright ideas all laid out like that, it’s not a good look, you admit it. To yourself, in your head, very quietly. But this is different.
This is about Auntie Aecha.
“Do you?” You raise an eyebrow. “Know me so well, huh?”
“I do.” Jungkook nods, voice firm and confident. “So out with it.”
This is different, yes. You know it.
Doesn’t mean your friends wouldn’t hate this idea right off the bat, too, nonetheless.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“___, Jimin told me you got high with them just so you could fish for info on Aecha.” Jungkook rolls his eyes exasperatedly. He cocks his head, as though he thinks he finally got you cornered. But if he knows you as well as he claims to, he must know you haven’t even nearly reached your breaking point yet. “And I know you can’t fucking handle weed when you’re stressed, so why, huh?”
You shrug. “They were blabbering about Auntie with or without me there, if anything.”
Jungkook sighs, and it sounds defeated. He shakes his head at you, finally leaning back into his seat. You only now realise how into your space he got without either of you even realising. He sniffs and swallows tightly. You would say his voice is a bit bitter as he concedes, “If not me, please at least just tell Yoongi, okay? At least one of us should know what kinda trouble you’re getting yourself into this time.”
“Don’t worry, Kook,” you say, relaxing in your seat. You’ve instinctively pressed yourself into the wall behind you at his proximity. “There’s absolutely nothing to tell.”
You see Jungkook opening his mouth, ready to follow up with something else, but right that moment, the lights turn off in the auditorium, and the lecturer’s voice booms through the loudspeakers.
Saved by the bell, it seems.
Decidedly, you turn your gaze onto the presentation and open your notes. From the corner of your eyes, you see Jungkook doing the same after another troubled sigh.
₊✩｡🕷˚🕸⋆｡
After the lecture is over, and you quickly hug Jungkook goodbye with the promise of a see you later, you leave campus in the direction of your apartment before changing course and hopping onto the subway in the direction of Queens. The weekend’s work might not have been as fruitful as you wanted it to be, but while stewing in your frustration you quickly realised there is an easy fix for that — well, of course, it’s to gather more information!
See? You’re not working for that journalism degree for nothing. Suck it up, parents who call it useless. Hell to the yeah.
And let’s not forget, you do have concepts of a plan. Yeah, let’s not forget that part, either.
Upon arrival, you’re relieved to see that the police have taken off the barriers from around the Seoulite, and you don’t have to try to bullshit your way inside with your press ID, because to be frank, your plans didn’t exactly extend to how you would’ve pulled that off.
Instead, you just step on top of the massive flowerpot by the door, balance yourself against the frame, and blindly pat around the canopy above the door until your fingers bump into the keys you know you’d find hidden up there.
You’re glad to see that no amount of crime scene investigation could unravel such mundane tactics.
Stepping inside, the place looks. . . honestly awful, if you had to describe it somehow. You let the door slide closed on its hinges behind you as you take the scene in; tables turned, everything scattered around, with broken vases littering the wooden flooring, the doors in the hallway off their hinges blocking your path and torn in two-three-four pieces.
Sings of a struggle, alright. A lot more struggle that you would’ve anticipated from what the police calls a regular degular kidnapping with a break-in.
A chill runs down your back as you step on a piece of porcelain, and it resoundingly shatters under your weight to even more pieces. It’s clear that Aecha didn’t go easily, but it begs the question. . . could an old lady of 70 break a door in defiance? Into several pieces?
Unless. . .
Almost simultaneously, you hear a heavy thud from upstairs. Your head immediately snaps toward the ceiling, and you stop motionless in your search as you wait for another sound that doesn’t come. You know that the upstairs belongs to Aecha, as well; there’s a spiral staircase at the end of the hallway which you always assumed leads to her private living area, but obviously you’ve never been there.
Now, this is probably the part where Jungkook meant all of your friends think you’re crazy and consequently suicidal, and a big fucking idiot with stupider than stupid ideas. Because instead of turning around, and leaving, like you know, a normal twenty-few year-old girl who fears little of God but a lot for bodily harm would, you grab a lamp from on top of one of the drawers, surprisingly unharmed and in one piece, and make your way to the staircase.
What? Your thinking is: what if it’s just a giant, gene-modified rodent? That should make you up and leave your crime scene investigations?
Yeah, exactly, that’s what you thought, too.
With measured, even steps, you take the stairs upstairs, lamp tight in your hold and held above your head, ready to strike, and you even have the time to silently curse yourself for wearing boots to school today. It increases kick damage, sure, but it also severely decreases stealth. You’re not sure that’s an even trade-off right now.
You open the door at the top of the staircase that leads to Aecha’s living quarters and wait a moment in case you can detect any sign of movement.
Nothing.
No sign of giant, radioactive, gene-mutated, ugly, big, fat rodents.
When you make sure nobody is going to jump out from hiding behind the door either, you step inside and take a few curious steps into the room.
It must’ve been quite homey once upon a time. Warm, and inviting, just like Aecha was.
(Is, you correct yourself).
There’s two, big, windows in front of you that let the afternoon light in through translucent, lacy curtains, and an old television sitting on a drawer between them. Its screen is broken, and the two armchairs set up in front of it are upturned and cut, the padding spilling out onto the woven rug. There’s a daybed in the corner, its cushions in a similar disarray, and few books from the shelves above it litter the floor, dust of broken crystals reflecting the lights off them. There are three doors on your left leading into further rooms, not quite closed, not open enough either so that you could see inside.
It feels incredibly inappropriate to be standing here. Something so intimate, something so Aecha’s, without her here to welcome and guide you around.
You swallow tightly as you walk further into the room, squaring your shoulders as you inspect the mess.
It’s then, that suddenly something cold, and wet streams down the back of your sweater and then down your back. A lot of things happen all at once after that.
Something lands on the ground beside you with a loud clink.
You shriek, flailing your hand that holds the lamp in a bold attempt to knock down whoever just attacked you, survival instinct kicking right in as at the same time, you also try to repress a shiver at the disgusting sensation of something yucky and cold sticking the material of your sweater to your back. What the fuck!
“Miss, stop, wait, sorry I—Oww, the fu—!” A voice cries behind you as with all the grace of a panda, cute but ultimately incapable of surviving in the wild without assistance, your hit lands with the full force of a sudden spin.
The lamp breaks on the head of your attacker before you register, that you— wait.
You know that voice! You look up, and—
“OhmyfuckingGodI’msofuckingsorrywhatthefuck!” you cry as well, and lean forward to steady the man by his shoulders.
Not that he needs your assistance.
He presses a palm against the side of his head where your hit landed. He tilts his head in his hold slightly as he peers down at you. “No worries. Sorry about the, uh, coffee down your shirt.”
“Oh my God. No worries, Spiderman,” you squeak, and boy, are you embarrassed about how high your voice just went right there. Your face is probably aflame too. You just hope you don’t look like you’re on the verge of crying, because you feel like you’re on the verge of crying. Or passing out. Or both.
Fuck. You almost knocked out fucking Spiderman.
Well, maybe you’re overestimating your capabilities there. The guy looks fine, no little cartoon stars spinning around his head, no hiss of actual pain rather than surprise, not even stumbling. It’s a little embarrassing on a whole another level, now that you think about it.
“Mean right hook you’ve got there,” Spiderman says. He snorts, and before adding humorously. “Tss. Maybe there’s no need to fear for you, after all.”
You furrow your eyebrows. “Who fears for me?”
“Uh. Me, of course” Spiderman asks more than he says, pointing a finger at his chest. “I, you know, fear for everyone in this city a totally equal amount, it’s only right that I do, you know, fear for every single New York City citizen a lot, which, well, includes you, you’re part of everyone so I fear for you.”
Oh yeah, that makes sense. “Well, yeah, you’re the friendly neighbourhood Spiderman, after all.”
“Yeah, that I am, ha-ha,” Spiderman says. “And you’re the collegiate journalist dedicated to chasing me down the streets for an interview.”
That’s putting in quite nicely.
Delusional stalker psycho, an agitating, grating voice that sounds like Yoongi corrects him in your head.
“Yeah, that I am, too,” You spread your arms as if you’re about to curtsy, then you take a step back to put some distance between the two of you, biting your lip. “I’m ___.”
“Yeah, I know,” Spiderman nods.
“Huh?”
“’Spiderman, I’m ___ from NYU Weekly, may I have a few words? Could I ask a few questions? Hey, Spiderman! What do you think about NYPD not crediting you in their Q3 crime rate statistics evaluation, Spiderman?’” he says, voice high and feminine, but not mocking, if only just a little teasing.
“Oh,” you chuckle nervously. Your lips stretch into a self-deprecating smile and you nod. “I fear that was a way too accurate imitation of me. Touché.”
You look back up at him, and Jesus Christ, it’s so weird. His latex, white spider-eyes look way too intelligent as they regard you. Or you feel like they are. Well, duh, his real eyes are behind it, but it’s still weird. It’s a piece of clothing. Hm.
“So. . .” you start, looking around the apartment. You scratch the back of your head, and shrug. “What’s up?”
Good one, ___. What’s up, Spiderman? Really?
“It’s all cool,” Spiderman says. “Yourself?”
“Doing great, yeah. School’s busy, but. . . whatever, you know how it is.”
“Yeah.”
“Or you don’t, because you don’t go to school.”
“I do.”
“That’s cool. Huh, Spiderman is in school. Imagine that. Very responsible, though. Thinking of your future like that. Vigilante stuff might not be forever, right, because of bones and whatever.”
“I try to be.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Yeah.”
“I meant, like, what are you doing here, though.”
“Oh!” Spiderman gasps, slaps himself on the forehead. “Yeah, of course. Hah, silly me! Well, I’m. . . investigating. A, uh, serious crime happened here, you know. Very, um, superhero-attention worthy.”
You love Auntie Aecha, don’t take this the wrong way. But. . . is it, though? Superhero-attention worthy?
“Oh, so. . .” you chuckle again, pointing to yourself. “Same reason I’m here.”
Spiderman, fucking. . . sighs?? The fuck?! Sighs, like that was the last thing he’s wanted to hear, and you kind of have to make an effort to not immediately feel like the biggest fucking inconvenience of the 21st century right after double Youtube ads and artificial intelligence appropriating em dashes. Well, you’ll go and fuck yourself then, what the heck.
Spiderman asks, tiredly, “And what reason is that again, exactly?”
“Well, if you wanna know, not that it’s any of your business,” (here, you point at him, and raise your eyebrows defiantly which you like to think looks menacing, well done ___ on not freaking out because your favourite superhero was 14% mean to you for .5 seconds, bravo) “but I have a personal attachment to this case. The victim was a friend of mine, and I have reason to believe the police are mishandling this case. So.”
“So you’re going to solve an actual kidnapping case in your free time because the people who were trained to do this are apparently much less capable of doing so?” Spiderman asks.
You raise your eyebrows again. Don’t worry, you use retinol diligently. “Yeah, and I bet you’re a superhero in your free time because you think the police are so very capable of solving every crime in this city.”
Spiderman silently looks you in the eyes for a moment, or, well, you think he does behind the mask anyways, before he clears his throat.
“There’s no talking you down from this, is there?”
“No.” You shake your head.
“Well then, Miss,” Spiderman says, as he shoots a web towards the corner of the room. A moment later, a black backpack is in his hands, which he quickly puts on, before gesturing towards the stairs. “Upstairs’s empty. We better take a look around downstairs.”
PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER
A/N: i desperately need you all to know that jungkook bought a cartoon of almond milk for the sole purpose of making reader a coffee to bring to lecture. thank you.
i'm OBSESSED with spider-man and jungkook, so any fanfic that brings that together i'm already eating up😋😋😋, but my god webs of opacity is basically becoming my new obsession (i'm not american, my lack of vocabulary is clear here) with just only two chapters
i love the way you write and i absolutely can't wait for the next updates!!!! wth!!!!!!
Thank you ssssm <333 Spiderman is actually my favorite superhero, too, and currently I’m so so excited for Brand New Day (and btw the title?? Man spideykoo is so meant to be) Never apologise for your English love, you learned a frickin’ language!! Be proud!! I’m not a native speaker either, so we’re on the same page :P I’m so so happy that you like WoO so much and also that you took the time to write to me, it all really means more than I could express to me 🥰
jungkook x reader, friends to lovers, spiderman!au — link to masterlist
chapter summary: Auntie Aecha is missing, and everyone deals with it in their own way. You wouldn't be you if you'd settle for staying still and waiting for the police to work a miracle, though. With her cryptic last words in mind, you're convinced there's something crucial here that you're missing—and to untangle the strings, one has to find the knot. It just seems like you aren't the only one with this same idea.
wc: 7.2k
warnings: swearing, mentions of kidnapping & murder, loss of emotional support old lady, mentions of smoking, greening out (passing out, bit of nausea)
a/n: I'm so sorry for the long long wait for chapter two 😭😭 I was absolutely floored by how much interest this story got, even with just one chapter out, I'm so so grateful to each and every one of you who read and/or interacted with WoO <3 I don't wanna steal your time with long-winded excuses, my year just ended up being way more packed than I've anticipated, lots of things I had to adjust to (doing two schools simultaneously, starting to write a thesis, getting a job, etc. etc. etc.) but I really really really love this fic and the ideas I have for this plot, and spideykoo, so no worries. I'm constantly working on this as I can, but I'd hate to promise an update schedule I cannot stick to. Feel free to nag me in asks, though, lol. This chapter is still just a lot of exposition, but I hope all of you have fun reading <33 love youuuu
Silence permeates Jungkook’s aunt’s living room.
It’s a bit of a tight fit with all nine of you imposing on the little family of two at such a late hour, spread around their living room on the couch and the old Persian carpet in front of it. Jungkook’s aunt, Eunji walks into the room with a tray in her hands; on it sits the kettle with boiling water inside, cups, and an assortment of filtered tea that none of you find in yourselves to reach for (however impolite you all might find that in hindsight).
She quietly prepares everyone a cup, because Aunt Eunji is an angel. This, you know well by now. You know she’s like a mother to Jungkook, having raised him since early in his childhood, and is more than willing to take any ragtag friend that attaches to her nephew’s hip under her wings. More than a few times, you even hung out with her without Jungkook present for one reason or another—that’s how well you know it, the fact that she’s an angel misplaced on Earth.
“Drink up, kids,” Aunt Eunji says quietly, handing out the drinks with Jungkook’s wordless help. Once everyone is holding onto the warmth of her tangible care, she holds the tray under her elbow, and caresses Jungkook’s face, a soft palm running down the plane of his pale cheeks, before she leaves the room to give you guys some privacy.
Not that anyone is eager to make conversation right now.
After leaving the premises of the Seoulite, you felt yourself dancing dangerously close to the brink of passing out. After Hoseok and you fought your way out of the crowd that had gathered, you walked a few streets down before sitting on the curb in front of a 7/11, and simply just breathed for a moment. (All the germs, bile, grime, and piss you were probably soaking into your freshly washed jeans from the New York streets blissfully ignored).
Auntie Aecha was missing.
This. . . this was your first encounter with something like this. Tragedy so touchable, so close that you can almost feel it sinking its venomous fangs into the meat of your back.
Hoseok disappeared into the supermarket for a few minutes, then handed you one of the bottles of water in his hand as he sat back down next to you, a warm arm falling over your shoulders as he took a generous sip.
“What the fuck,” was all he muttered. You two didn’t exchange many words since bidding goodbye to the officer, rendered to an uneasy silence.
However morbid, and maybe a bit selfish this sounds, but you were glad he was there with you. A friend ready to offer the crook of his neck for you to bury your face into as you let out a deep sigh.
There were clear signs of struggle, the officer had told you. You wonder if whoever did this took anything from the apartment, if it was just a regular robbery turned unfortunate.
But if it was, why would they not just. . . well, kill her. Right there. Why bother taking her to a secondary location? To do what?
Why did they take Auntie Aecha in the first place?
A memory loomed at the back of your mind. The radio in Taehyung’s car last week, the news reports online whenever you searched the web for any hint of Spiderman. There had been an increase in missing person cases all across the city.
But the MO, it didn’t fit — the victims of those disappearances were in their late teens mostly, sometimes in their early twenties. Half and full orphans, or college students whose family lives out of state. Men and women alike, usually in top health, with a fit build.
Auntie Aecha was none of those. So why her? Why this? Why the Seoulite? You’ve spent countless hours there this past year — that place is packed with old, pretty but ultimately worthless junk. Nothing worthy of criminalising yourself.
God. At this rate, you were just going to work yourself into a headache.
“I’ve never smoked,” you started, breathing the words into Hoseok’s neck miserably. “But this sure feels like a pretty good time to start.”
“Well, there’s a 7/11.” You felt more than heard him nod his head towards the store behind you. Thoughtlessly, you were staring in front of you at the passing cars on the street. A city that never sleeps. A city that never stops for anyone. It made a soulless smile creep on your lips. Hoseok continued, “Or you could link up Namjoon. He relapsed.”
You didn’t even have the time to feel sorrowful for the unfortunate turn of events for your dear friend, because—
“Fuckkk,” you groaned, slumping in Hoseok hold, feeling boneless and tired. And a little bit on the verge of tears. How is it that this day had started out feeling so. . . normal? Just you and a good buddy, getting scammed, fucking around in Queens, hanging out in the library. It all felt more like a lifetime than a mere hour ago. And now, you couldn’t imagine seeing this day finally coming to end. “We have to tell the others.”
You felt Hoseok stiffen up under you.
On the street, a driver laid on his horn, the sound disruptive through the steady buzz of the night’s noise as the car just ended up running the red, riding a bit too close to the rear of the one in front of it, and you didn’t even have the energy to grumble a snarky comment about it, as you normally would. Your eyes followed the two cars until they disappeared around the corner, before it jumped to the roof of the building across, meeting the pitch black backdrop of the sky beyond the city line. No stars.
You keep your gaze on the roof for a moment, empty. Your eyesight wasn’t nearly good enough to pick up on anything that far, even if it wasn’t so dark.
“Fuck,” Hoseok shared the sentiment. “We should, yeah.”
Well. That’s how you all ended up gathered at the Jeon’s apartment about an hour later.
Jungkook lives the closest to Seoulite, often a place where the drunkests of the night decided to crash when in no state of getting themselves home. You and Hoseok decided you should tell him in person, that it was a good place to start. You could call the other’s from there, or maybe move on to Namjoon’s.
Surprisingly, Jungkook was actually in. Just arrived home a few minutes before you two showed up, according to his aunt, in a bit of a hurry. Looked a bit dishevelled, but he’ll be out of his room in a few, Aunt Eunji said, before sitting the two of you down on their couch and disappearing down the hallway to call on her nephew.
Jungkook. . . you can’t really describe how he took the news. He came out of his room already pale and wide-eyed, but then again, it wasn’t a regular occurrence that you randomly just imposed on him at home, looking grimly and forbidding. And anyways, his eyes are naturally just that fucking big, so. . . whatever.
But he looked— shaken. That, you can say for sure. But there was something missing from his expression that you can’t really put your finger on.
Or bother to think about, really. You had to call the others.
With the help of Jungkook, the three of you have managed to round up the rest of your friends pretty quickly, deciding that it’s better to relay the news in person all in one go rather than wearing it out over the phone.
So that’s what you did. You told the others everything once they were there, fueled by Hoseok’s supportive hand resting on your knee as you sat on the armrest of the sofa, with Jungkook’s back leaning slightly against your shins, his new dog, Bam, spread out across his lap.
(You’d have to get a bit more acquainted with him. Bam. At a more appropriate next time, maybe).
₊✩｡🕷˚🕸⋆｡
Auntie Aecha’s case is featured in the next day’s evening news, confirming your suspicions. The police doesn’t assume a connection between Aecha’s case and the previous disappearances, ruling the incident involving the older woman an entirely separate case of premeditated break-in and kidnapping.
The suspects apparently didn’t take anything of value, is another important detail you make sure to take down in your notebook as you sit on your couch with Piper and Hari, watching the TV. The dolled-up anchorwoman on the screen reads, “The investigators are waiting on confirmation from the victim’s children, but all the items in the ravaged apartment have been seemingly left there, aside from certain documents from a cabinet in the victim’s bedroom. Investigators suspect these documents could be potentially related to the illegal business the victim ra—”
“I can’t listen to this,” Hari says as the TV screen abruptly fades to black, tossing the remote to the coffee table. Piper tries shooting you a look over Hari’s shoulder, but you’re too preoccupied with absentmindedly chewing on the top of your pen as you stare at the now blank screen to react.
They took. . . documents?
What kind of documents? You would’ve thought the point of under-the-counter business is that, you know, it doesn’t have documentation. So, what the fuck is the police talking about?
Hari fishes her cell phone out from somewhere between the couch cushions, and stands. “Earlier my brother. . . well, Jimin said he and Tae are going to go out to smoke. The good stuff. You guys wanna come?”
“Pass.” Piper shakes her head tiredly, slumping on the couch. She curls up, looking like a little burrito as her petite body gets lost in the wide material of her oversized sweater, and digs her heels mindlessly into the meat of your thigh as she settles. “I feel too weird already, I’d just green the fuck out.”
“___?”
“Hm?” Ungracefully, you pop the pencil out of your mouth, and look over at Hari, who’s lingering by the front door.
“To smoke,” she says, imitating taking a hit of a blunt with two fingers as she does. “You wanna come?”
You shake your head, and mutter, “No, thanks. I’ll pass.”
“‘Kay, you two suit yourselves.” Hari shrugs, and moves towards her coat on the rack. She obnoxiously kisses both you and Piper goodbye on the crown of your heads, and as if an afterthought, reaches out for a beanie and puts it on, then locks up after herself when she leaves.
“Should we see what they have on TLC right now?” Piper murmurs, sluggishly reaching back for the remote control.
It’s a rhetorical question — you know she’s going to end up watching TLC one way or another, no matter what you say — still, you grace her with a noncommittally hum. Your mind’s not really on wedding dresses and eating disorders right now.
But suddenly, you remember something, and spring up from your seat. Dumping your notebook on the coffee table before grabbing your phone, you lean over to kiss Piper on her cheeks.
At your sudden movement, she stares up at you with wide, confused eyes.
“Changed my mind,” is all you say to explain, making a quick move for your backpack and coat before bolting towards the front door. “I’m gonna catch up with Hari and the guys. Don’t wait up! Drink some tea before bed if you’re feeling weird, baby.”
₊✩｡🕷˚🕸⋆｡
When you finally come to, the first thing you register is the comforting pattern of Jimin’s palm caressing the side of your head, smoothing down your baby hairs. Your vision is still a bit blurry, chest a bit too heavy, and a chill runs down your spine due to the cool sheen of sweat over your skin despite being clad in appropriate outerwear.
Piper was totally fucking right — this is definitely not a night to get high. You totally greened out, momentarily collapsing against Jimin’s chest where you guys are hiding behind the dormitory building.
“You okay?” Jimin asks as you let out a deep sigh, trying to regain your bearings, his other arm holding you up and into himself tightly.
You accept the water Taehyung is offering you, and take a few sips before answering. “Yeah, just got a bit dizzy there for a second.”
“Shit,” Taehyung mutters, capping the water bottle when you’re finished and holding it tightly under his arm. You send him a grateful smile. “You scared the fuck out of me, woman!”
Hari’s fingers, which you notice are interlaced with yours, squeeze your own in reassurance before she presses a chaste peck on your hairline. “Me, too! Fucking hell. . .”
The tree of them regard you with careful eyes, seemingly fallen off of their own highs as well in their panic. Despite knowing better, you feel a bit bad about that — you must’ve ruined their fun, too, even though you know they’d never hold it against you.
Safe place, remember? Looking out for each other. The only way you should get high.
Still, you’re a bit bummed. “I’m sorry, guys.”
“Don’t be a dumbass,” Jimin chides, immediately shooting your apology down. He squeezes your side reassuringly. “Think you can stand on your own now?”
“I don’t know, I think so,” you guess, slowly detaching yourself from his hold. When you feel your knees won’t give in the moment he completely lets go of you, you tuck your hands into your coat pockets, lazily smiling at your friends. “I think it might be fun to just lay down for a while, hm?”
So that’s what you guys do. Shamelessly, the four of you plop down onto the grass in the dormitory’s backyard, heads closely together and legs forming a clumsy star. You guys probably look silly, but you can’t bring yourself to care as you hear Taehyung giggling when his head boinks Jimin’s unintentionally.
Or intentionally. It’s Taehyung.
You just look up at the sky, and let your limbs go numb — you can still feel traces of the high running in your system, making you sink into the soft bedding of the lawn and spread into the earth beneath you like a warm summer shower.
There are no stars on the skyline in New York City, their view hidden behind the dark blanket of the night. And air pollution. And light pollution. It’s not how it’s supposed to be. Already having been in a dejected mood for these past two days, this fact makes you a bit more upset than usual — you know they’re right there, the stars. Why can’t you just see them?
It’s unfair.
“. . . and I’d sprinkle his cheeks with cocoa powder, and bake him into a cookie.” Taehyung finishes dramatically.
“Hah,” Hari giggles. “Cookie. Kookie.”
“Yup, the pun was intended.” Taehyung confirms proudly.
“We know.” Jimin groans. “And it was so fucking awful, you idiot. Just like the 13 billion other times you’ve made this joke before.”
“Why is that his name if he’s not edible, huh?” Taehyung challenges. “Huh? Riddle me that.”
“You know why that’s his name, you’re fucking Korean too.” Jimin sighs.
“No, you’re fucking Korean,” Taehyung retorts, pointing an accusing finger at Jimin, who nods patiently.
“Yeah, Tae, we’re both Korean, glad we’ve established that after like 15 years of friendship. So is Jungkook.”
Taehyung gasps, and says something in Korean. Jimin replies to him, also in Korean, and Taehyung’s eyes go wide as saucers, ready to say something else, but then Hari cuts in before he could do so — also in Korean, of course.
Taehyung shrieks. “You’re fucking Korean, too?”
“I’m Jimin’s full-blooded fucking sister?” Hari hits his shoulder, barely containing her laughter.
“Oh my God. . .” Taehyung mutters reverently, and turns his head between the siblings almost with tears brimming his eyes. “Oh my God, that’s so nice. . . We’re Korean. . .”
You snort. Yeah, that boy’s officially off his kilter. Taehyung seems to have reached some of his usual trippy milestones — cannibalistic fantasization of Jungkook and ethnic pride, amongst other things.
Their conversation is hard to follow, as most conversations had under the influence are. You give Hari your hand to play with as you continue staring up at the sky, the reason for you coming out after them not forgotten under the haze that the weed blanketed over your mind.
You just. . . don’t know how to bring it up.
But it seems like that’s not something you need to worry about. A few minutes later, the conversation lulls out, and silence embraces the four of you for a short minute, before Hari reluctantly changes the topic, unknowingly playing right into your hand.
“She was on the evening news.”
She doesn’t need to clarify who she’s talking about. Auntie Aecha has been sitting at the forefront of all of your minds — just maybe a bit less obsessively than on yours, specifically.
Only Taehyung hums in acknowledgement, before Hari continues.
“I just. . . Don’t get it,” she huffs, frustrated. Her fingers play with your knuckles absentmindedly as she mulls things over out loud. “I just feel so weird. Optimism bias, I guess. The news has been full of disappearances these past weeks, but one always just assumes that this is the type of stuff that only happens to strangers. . . not, you know.”
“Not to people you know,” Taehyung supplies. “Not to you.”
“Yeah,” Hari agrees. “It’s kinda like when Sandy Brooks died in high school— I just. I can’t wrap my head around these things.”
You feel Jimin stiffen next to you.
You’ve heard Sandy Brooks’ name from the four who went to Midtown High a few times in passing. It’s only the basics that you knew; she was a girl in Jungkook’s junior year Biology class. She was on the student council with Jimin. She once gave Hari a tampon in the 3rd floor girl’s bathroom. She passed away some days before the boys’ graduation when a building collapsed in Manhattan while Spiderman fought Doc Oc.
“It’s just like you said, Haribo,” Jimin says sweetly a moment later. You feel his head turning slightly in Taehyung’s direction, you hear the grass crunching as he shifts. “It’s optimism bias, everyone has it. You never expect the bad things to actually ever be happening to you.”
“Maybe not everyone. . .” Hari mumbles.
Jimin lets out a tired sigh, like this is not the first time he hears what Hari’s about to follow up with, but you pipe up at her comment. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t sigh like that, Chim,” Hari snaps, with a bit more vehemence than you would’ve been expecting from her. She drops your hand and it flops down on her coated stomach. “You said you thought it was weird, too, you fucking said it was weird the moment we left!”
“Hello?” You pat her with the hand that’s left on her abdomen to get her attention. “What do you mean, thought what was weird?”
Jimin sighs again. “It’s nothing.”
“Dude, it’s not nothing?!” Hari protests. “I heard you telling Jungkook that she was acting weird that morning when we left their apartment.”
“I was shaken up, okay?” Jimin retorts. “I was obviously just reading into it, because I was surprised, it’s nothing. It’s Auntie Aecha— she’s always weird.”
“Dear fucking God, you’re aggravating.”
“No, you guys are both aggravating,” you cut in, sitting up to look down at the siblings. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Jimin rolls his eyes, seemingly defeated, as Taehyung’s hands sneak over to grab onto him carefully. The boy whispers something to his friend, and you can see Jimin’s chest deflating as he lets out a heavy sigh at Taehyung’s words.
Hari, on the other hand, looks ecstatic to share. No wonder, after being shot down like that. “Jimin and I were at the Seoulite that morning, right?” She doesn’t wait for confirmation, but you nod your head anyway. “It was a slow morning, just the two of us there, so Aecha came over and sat down with us for a while. And, you know, that’s normal, but then she started talking about astrology—”
“So, you know, ___, just the usual,” Jimin adds, his voice carrying a mocking edge to it, but his sister is quick to shoot him down.
“Jesus Christ, Jimin, just shut the fuck up?!” Hari barks out, turning over to slap Jimin’s shoulder before her gaze finds yours again, and she continues. “Anyway, she was talking about how today’s the day, and how the wheels of fortune have been put into motion, and all of it is unavoidable now. Yes, Jimin, it’s all her usual mumbo-jumbo, but don’t you find it just a little bit suspicious in retrospect?”
Jimin keeps quiet. You spare him a curious glance, but agree with Hari. “I do.”
“You’re a journalist, though,” Taehyung mentions quietly.
He seems sobered up now, hand still resting lazily on Jimin’s biceps as he speaks up for the first time in this conversation. He never really does intrude when Jimin and Hari are going head to head, as siblings usually do.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” You raise an eyebrow. It didn’t exactly sound like a compliment, how Taehyung said it.
He just shrugs, an innocent grin on his face. Clearly teasing you. “Well, don’t you need to, like, find everything suspicious?”
You stick your tongue out at him, the true characteristic of a serious journalist, and he just smirks.
“She also told Jimin to tell Jungkook that the Sun collaborates with soil to bring flowers on the earth.” Hari continues accusingly. She finally sits up, crossing her legs as she starts picking on the grass around her. The faint lighting from the building paints shadows on her soft features, lights playfully dancing on her frustratedly scrunched-up button nose. “What the fuck does that even mean?”
“It’s an Amit Ray quote, Haribo.” Jimin replies, though it must not be the answer she was looking for, as she huffs. He’s being awfully defiant tonight.
“Okay, and?”
“Well, Jungkook reads, you know,” Jimin says. “That’s why she said that. It was a book recommendation, in her own weird way.”
Hari scoffs. “Since fucking when?”
It might not be the time to fight for his honour, but you’d like to note that Jungkook does actually read. Maybe not Amit Ray, you have a hard time believing that, too, but he reads. For the record.
Instead, you opt to bring something else to the discussion, even if you’re just thinking out loud.
“She told me about the wheels of fortune. When we were there last week. Taehyung, you remember.”
“She did mention something like that, yeah.” Taehyung confirms quietly.
“I thought she said it because she pulled that card for me, though,” you mull on it further. Biting your lip, you look down at your lap, the dirt on your once pristine white sneakers.
You shouldn’t have gotten high. You see the clues like red strings, spiralling this way and that in your mind’s eye, yet cannot straighten them out enough to find where they connect.
The missing documents. Wheels of Fortune. The Amit Ray quote, addressed to Jungkook. Then you remember something else, too — ‘There’s a clue in the night’.
It all must mean something. It has to.
But it’s night, now — it embraces the four of you in a dark blanket as the noise of the sleepless city filters into the dormitory’s yard, and you’re blind to any sense at all, much less any clues.
“It’s just stupid tarot,” Jimin says. “___, you know that, right? Aecha’s not a psychic — it doesn’t mean anything.”
Yeah. Well, that’s what you also used to think.
₊✩｡🕷˚🕸⋆｡
The thing about college is that it doesn’t really give a fuck. Academia cares very little for one’s private matters—unless a grandparent dies (and your professors keep a diligent count on the number of said grandparents, just so you know), you’re pregnant, or terminally ill, you need to be there or be square.
So the following Monday afternoon, you walk into the hall of your Investigative Journalism lecture, and try your best to leave all thoughts of Auntie Aecha outside the entrance. You already spent the remainder of your weekend sitting atop your bed covers, looking over an open and painfully blank Google Docs page on your laptop, almost pulling all of your hair out in frustration.
Nevermind. You’ve still managed to come up with a plan—well, concepts of an idea of a plan.
But first: school. A Spiderman article won’t be enough to impress the Times. You’ll need the grades to back it up.
As you start walking the steps up, you’re surprised to notice Jungkook already sitting there where you guys usually sit in the last row, his opened notebook and two thermos flasks sitting in front of him on the table.
“So. Yours or mine?” you ask him as you plop into the seat next to his, unceremoniously dropping your backpack into your lap.
Too busy trying to fish out your laptop from your bag (seriously, if a bag has a built in compartment designed for laptops, you don’t understand why it’s just so fucking difficult to put a laptop in and out of it??), you don’t see the way Jungkook’s entire face flushes a deep crimson.
He squeaks, “Whatd’y’mean?”
“Which one of our watches is broken?” you clarify, finally getting your laptop and water bottle out, placing them on the table before reclining in your chair. One of the perks of sitting in the back row: you can comfortably rest your head against the wall. Bump it against the wall, if the lecture gets too painstakingly boring. Your choice. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in class so early, dude.”
“Ah.” Jungkook chuckles, shaking his head. “There’s gotta be a first for everything, no?”
“Maybe you should’ve adapted this mindset when you were 25 minutes late to our Media Literacy midterm last semester.”
“Hey!” Jungkook exclaims. His lips fall into a pout as he tries to fake offence. “That was one time. I’m a changed man now. An academic weapon of mass destruction.”
“Sure you are, Koo.” You snort, patting his hand.
That same hand curls into a fist under your palm as Jungkook looks away, so you nonchalantly remove it.
Jungkook’s eyes fall onto the two drinks that sit in front of him, and he reaches out to slide one closer to you. “Here. Brought one for you, too.”
“Aww, aren’t you just the sweetest.” You accept it with a smile, making one in kind sneak into the corner of Jungkook’s lips as well. “Thank you.”
“Your 3PM crash is coming up,” he says. “Don’t want you to fall asleep on my shoulder and be called out in front of the whole auditorium for it again — you know, if we’re bringing up embarrassing stories now.”
“Shut it.” You point a finger and slap his shoulder, before you reach to uncap the thermos that he placed in front of you. It’s a Stark Industries merchandise, the company logo and tens of Chibi-style Iron-Mans flying around the expanse of it — you have to smother a laugh at that. Now, if only they made Spiderman ones. . .
“Is it—?”
Jungkook confirms before you could finish, “Yeah, I made yours with almond milk.”
“Sweet and knows me so so well.” You sigh, playfully batting your eyelashes at him while taking a sip. It’s good. You knew already that Jungkook is fairly good in the kitchen, both consuming and making food. He regularly helps out at his uncle’s restaurant (not his real uncle, Aunt Eunji’s best friend’s husband) and is dubbed at home the ‘Kitchen Fairy’ by his aunt. Hell, he baked an Esterházy cake for your birthday party last year. Now, it seems like he can add barista to his skillset, too. “It’s really good. And you nailed the sweetener head on. I’ll leave you a 5 star review on Yelp.”
Jungkook grins, a toothy smile on his face as he watches you take another sip.
“So, how was the rest of your weekend?” You ask, hugging the thermos against your chest.
Jungkook shrugs. “Nothing too crazy. Just the usual. Spent some time with the, uh, Stark internship. I needed to take my mind off of. . .”
“Yeah. I get it.”
Jungkook watches your face calculatingly for a few passing moments. His head tips to the side slightly, and he rests an elbow on the table as he turns towards you with his full body. It’s almost like he’s caging you in a little.
“I don’t like that glint in your eyes,” he finally says.
You huff. “What fucking glint in my eyes?!”
“You know the one,” Jungkook says. He bites his lips, more nervously than in thought, but determinedly keeps the eye-contact going with you. “When you have an idea you know I— we might not like.”
“I don’t have such glint.”
“You do,” Jungkook presses. He leans in a slight tad closer, his warm breath trapped in the decreasing space between you two as he starts listing, “Like when you still went out with that guy even after you learned he was a drug dealer—”
“— I made sure he’s not gang affiliated!”
“— or when you went to that sketchy secret society meet-up for an article in the middle of the woods with no reception for an entire weekend, or when you came up with the Spiderman article. That glint. I do know you.” Jungkook finishes, and. Okay. Some of your not-so-bright ideas all laid out like that, it’s not a good look, you admit it. To yourself, in your head, very quietly. But this is different.
This is about Auntie Aecha.
“Do you?” You raise an eyebrow. “Know me so well, huh?”
“I do.” Jungkook nods, voice firm and confident. “So out with it.”
This is different, yes. You know it.
Doesn’t mean your friends wouldn’t hate this idea right off the bat, too, nonetheless.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“___, Jimin told me you got high with them just so you could fish for info on Aecha.” Jungkook rolls his eyes exasperatedly. He cocks his head, as though he thinks he finally got you cornered. But if he knows you as well as he claims to, he must know you haven’t even nearly reached your breaking point yet. “And I know you can’t fucking handle weed when you’re stressed, so why, huh?”
You shrug. “They were blabbering about Auntie with or without me there, if anything.”
Jungkook sighs, and it sounds defeated. He shakes his head at you, finally leaning back into his seat. You only now realise how into your space he got without either of you even realising. He sniffs and swallows tightly. You would say his voice is a bit bitter as he concedes, “If not me, please at least just tell Yoongi, okay? At least one of us should know what kinda trouble you’re getting yourself into this time.”
“Don’t worry, Kook,” you say, relaxing in your seat. You’ve instinctively pressed yourself into the wall behind you at his proximity. “There’s absolutely nothing to tell.”
You see Jungkook opening his mouth, ready to follow up with something else, but right that moment, the lights turn off in the auditorium, and the lecturer’s voice booms through the loudspeakers.
Saved by the bell, it seems.
Decidedly, you turn your gaze onto the presentation and open your notes. From the corner of your eyes, you see Jungkook doing the same after another troubled sigh.
₊✩｡🕷˚🕸⋆｡
After the lecture is over, and you quickly hug Jungkook goodbye with the promise of a see you later, you leave campus in the direction of your apartment before changing course and hopping onto the subway in the direction of Queens. The weekend’s work might not have been as fruitful as you wanted it to be, but while stewing in your frustration you quickly realised there is an easy fix for that — well, of course, it’s to gather more information!
See? You’re not working for that journalism degree for nothing. Suck it up, parents who call it useless. Hell to the yeah.
And let’s not forget, you do have concepts of a plan. Yeah, let’s not forget that part, either.
Upon arrival, you’re relieved to see that the police have taken off the barriers from around the Seoulite, and you don’t have to try to bullshit your way inside with your press ID, because to be frank, your plans didn’t exactly extend to how you would’ve pulled that off.
Instead, you just step on top of the massive flowerpot by the door, balance yourself against the frame, and blindly pat around the canopy above the door until your fingers bump into the keys you know you’d find hidden up there.
You’re glad to see that no amount of crime scene investigation could unravel such mundane tactics.
Stepping inside, the place looks. . . honestly awful, if you had to describe it somehow. You let the door slide closed on its hinges behind you as you take the scene in; tables turned, everything scattered around, with broken vases littering the wooden flooring, the doors in the hallway off their hinges blocking your path and torn in two-three-four pieces.
Sings of a struggle, alright. A lot more struggle that you would’ve anticipated from what the police calls a regular degular kidnapping with a break-in.
A chill runs down your back as you step on a piece of porcelain, and it resoundingly shatters under your weight to even more pieces. It’s clear that Aecha didn’t go easily, but it begs the question. . . could an old lady of 70 break a door in defiance? Into several pieces?
Unless. . .
Almost simultaneously, you hear a heavy thud from upstairs. Your head immediately snaps toward the ceiling, and you stop motionless in your search as you wait for another sound that doesn’t come. You know that the upstairs belongs to Aecha, as well; there’s a spiral staircase at the end of the hallway which you always assumed leads to her private living area, but obviously you’ve never been there.
Now, this is probably the part where Jungkook meant all of your friends think you’re crazy and consequently suicidal, and a big fucking idiot with stupider than stupid ideas. Because instead of turning around, and leaving, like you know, a normal twenty-few year-old girl who fears little of God but a lot for bodily harm would, you grab a lamp from on top of one of the drawers, surprisingly unharmed and in one piece, and make your way to the staircase.
What? Your thinking is: what if it’s just a giant, gene-modified rodent? That should make you up and leave your crime scene investigations?
Yeah, exactly, that’s what you thought, too.
With measured, even steps, you take the stairs upstairs, lamp tight in your hold and held above your head, ready to strike, and you even have the time to silently curse yourself for wearing boots to school today. It increases kick damage, sure, but it also severely decreases stealth. You’re not sure that’s an even trade-off right now.
You open the door at the top of the staircase that leads to Aecha’s living quarters and wait a moment in case you can detect any sign of movement.
Nothing.
No sign of giant, radioactive, gene-mutated, ugly, big, fat rodents.
When you make sure nobody is going to jump out from hiding behind the door either, you step inside and take a few curious steps into the room.
It must’ve been quite homey once upon a time. Warm, and inviting, just like Aecha was.
(Is, you correct yourself).
There’s two, big, windows in front of you that let the afternoon light in through translucent, lacy curtains, and an old television sitting on a drawer between them. Its screen is broken, and the two armchairs set up in front of it are upturned and cut, the padding spilling out onto the woven rug. There’s a daybed in the corner, its cushions in a similar disarray, and few books from the shelves above it litter the floor, dust of broken crystals reflecting the lights off them. There are three doors on your left leading into further rooms, not quite closed, not open enough either so that you could see inside.
It feels incredibly inappropriate to be standing here. Something so intimate, something so Aecha’s, without her here to welcome and guide you around.
You swallow tightly as you walk further into the room, squaring your shoulders as you inspect the mess.
It’s then, that suddenly something cold, and wet streams down the back of your sweater and then down your back. A lot of things happen all at once after that.
Something lands on the ground beside you with a loud clink.
You shriek, flailing your hand that holds the lamp in a bold attempt to knock down whoever just attacked you, survival instinct kicking right in as at the same time, you also try to repress a shiver at the disgusting sensation of something yucky and cold sticking the material of your sweater to your back. What the fuck!
“Miss, stop, wait, sorry I—Oww, the fu—!” A voice cries behind you as with all the grace of a panda, cute but ultimately incapable of surviving in the wild without assistance, your hit lands with the full force of a sudden spin.
The lamp breaks on the head of your attacker before you register, that you— wait.
You know that voice! You look up, and—
“OhmyfuckingGodI’msofuckingsorrywhatthefuck!” you cry as well, and lean forward to steady the man by his shoulders.
Not that he needs your assistance.
He presses a palm against the side of his head where your hit landed. He tilts his head in his hold slightly as he peers down at you. “No worries. Sorry about the, uh, coffee down your shirt.”
“Oh my God. No worries, Spiderman,” you squeak, and boy, are you embarrassed about how high your voice just went right there. Your face is probably aflame too. You just hope you don’t look like you’re on the verge of crying, because you feel like you’re on the verge of crying. Or passing out. Or both.
Fuck. You almost knocked out fucking Spiderman.
Well, maybe you’re overestimating your capabilities there. The guy looks fine, no little cartoon stars spinning around his head, no hiss of actual pain rather than surprise, not even stumbling. It’s a little embarrassing on a whole another level, now that you think about it.
“Mean right hook you’ve got there,” Spiderman says. He snorts, and before adding humorously. “Tss. Maybe there’s no need to fear for you, after all.”
You furrow your eyebrows. “Who fears for me?”
“Uh. Me, of course” Spiderman asks more than he says, pointing a finger at his chest. “I, you know, fear for everyone in this city a totally equal amount, it’s only right that I do, you know, fear for every single New York City citizen a lot, which, well, includes you, you’re part of everyone so I fear for you.”
Oh yeah, that makes sense. “Well, yeah, you’re the friendly neighbourhood Spiderman, after all.”
“Yeah, that I am, ha-ha,” Spiderman says. “And you’re the collegiate journalist dedicated to chasing me down the streets for an interview.”
That’s putting in quite nicely.
Delusional stalker psycho, an agitating, grating voice that sounds like Yoongi corrects him in your head.
“Yeah, that I am, too,” You spread your arms as if you’re about to curtsy, then you take a step back to put some distance between the two of you, biting your lip. “I’m ___.”
“Yeah, I know,” Spiderman nods.
“Huh?”
“’Spiderman, I’m ___ from NYU Weekly, may I have a few words? Could I ask a few questions? Hey, Spiderman! What do you think about NYPD not crediting you in their Q3 crime rate statistics evaluation, Spiderman?’” he says, voice high and feminine, but not mocking, if only just a little teasing.
“Oh,” you chuckle nervously. Your lips stretch into a self-deprecating smile and you nod. “I fear that was a way too accurate imitation of me. Touché.”
You look back up at him, and Jesus Christ, it’s so weird. His latex, white spider-eyes look way too intelligent as they regard you. Or you feel like they are. Well, duh, his real eyes are behind it, but it’s still weird. It’s a piece of clothing. Hm.
“So. . .” you start, looking around the apartment. You scratch the back of your head, and shrug. “What’s up?”
Good one, ___. What’s up, Spiderman? Really?
“It’s all cool,” Spiderman says. “Yourself?”
“Doing great, yeah. School’s busy, but. . . whatever, you know how it is.”
“Yeah.”
“Or you don’t, because you don’t go to school.”
“I do.”
“That’s cool. Huh, Spiderman is in school. Imagine that. Very responsible, though. Thinking of your future like that. Vigilante stuff might not be forever, right, because of bones and whatever.”
“I try to be.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Yeah.”
“I meant, like, what are you doing here, though.”
“Oh!” Spiderman gasps, slaps himself on the forehead. “Yeah, of course. Hah, silly me! Well, I’m. . . investigating. A, uh, serious crime happened here, you know. Very, um, superhero-attention worthy.”
You love Auntie Aecha, don’t take this the wrong way. But. . . is it, though? Superhero-attention worthy?
“Oh, so. . .” you chuckle again, pointing to yourself. “Same reason I’m here.”
Spiderman, fucking. . . sighs?? The fuck?! Sighs, like that was the last thing he’s wanted to hear, and you kind of have to make an effort to not immediately feel like the biggest fucking inconvenience of the 21st century right after double Youtube ads and artificial intelligence appropriating em dashes. Well, you’ll go and fuck yourself then, what the heck.
Spiderman asks, tiredly, “And what reason is that again, exactly?”
“Well, if you wanna know, not that it’s any of your business,” (here, you point at him, and raise your eyebrows defiantly which you like to think looks menacing, well done ___ on not freaking out because your favourite superhero was 14% mean to you for .5 seconds, bravo) “but I have a personal attachment to this case. The victim was a friend of mine, and I have reason to believe the police are mishandling this case. So.”
“So you’re going to solve an actual kidnapping case in your free time because the people who were trained to do this are apparently much less capable of doing so?” Spiderman asks.
You raise your eyebrows again. Don’t worry, you use retinol diligently. “Yeah, and I bet you’re a superhero in your free time because you think the police are so very capable of solving every crime in this city.”
Spiderman silently looks you in the eyes for a moment, or, well, you think he does behind the mask anyways, before he clears his throat.
“There’s no talking you down from this, is there?”
“No.” You shake your head.
“Well then, Miss,” Spiderman says, as he shoots a web towards the corner of the room. A moment later, a black backpack is in his hands, which he quickly puts on, before gesturing towards the stairs. “Upstairs’s empty. We better take a look around downstairs.”
PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER
A/N: i desperately need you all to know that jungkook bought a cartoon of almond milk for the sole purpose of making reader a coffee to bring to lecture. thank you.
this is not to rush or anything like that but i’ve just read such an amazing piece of work, that being chapter 1 spider-man fic and was wondering if the next chapter is coming out soon or anything like that! :)))
Heyyyy love <3 Not taking it as rushing, it actually feels quite nice and motivating that people care about this silly little fic like that ^^ Thank you sm for your kind words <333
I talked some big talk around the New Year’s and I apologize for that :( Didn’t mean to drop off the face of Earth like this, but this was the first semester that I did two uni programs simultaneously (yes I do hate myself) and it was wayyyyy tougher than I’ve expected. Thankfully I’m only a thesis away from finishing one of them, so whewwww
That being said, I do happen to have upcoming chapters written & outlined, yayyyyyy, and an upcoming summer break ahead of me, double yayyyyyyy! Once this exam season is behind me, I was planning on publishing chapters with muchhhhhh shorter wait times in-between, because I love this fic so so so so much and I have devious and evil plans for it >:-P
Just thought of giving you all a sign of life, in case anyone has been wondering about me, hehe. Thank you so much for the attention on Webs of Opacity. Do not worry, the story is not at all abandoned only one chapter in — life is just silly like that. I’ll be back 😊
