SPIDEY LOVE .ᐟ ── 🕷✧˖๋࣭ .𖥔 ݁
pairing: spiderman!michael jackson x spiderwoman!reader
summary: you’re new to this ‘hero’ thing, but he’s here to help :)
content: fluff, clumsy!reader, a bit of a romcom, slow burn, inexperienced hero!reader, banter, strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, first kiss, some action/mild violence, mentions of loneliness, romantic tension
w/c: 4.4k (girl you're pushing it)
a/n: art by @amnesia-sc (please check her out, i love her sm), i watched spiderman bnd, then i saw this artwork a few days ago, and i just had to. i hope you enjoy reading just as much as i loved writing it.
intro | masterlist
The city hums below you, a mesh of neon lights and distant sirens. You're perched on the edge of a rooftop, heart still hammering from the failed swing that left you a tangled mess three blocks ago. Your mask is half-off, your hair sticking to your forehead, and your wrist still aches where you tried to brace a landing that didn't go as planned.
It’s been two weeks since you were bitten by that pesky radioactive spider. After enduring countless bruised ribs, sore muscles, and humiliation, you’ve come to the realization that being a hero is far less graceful in practice than Spiderman makes it look.
You push off the fire escape with a frustrated sigh, the webbing snapping free with an ugly, wet sound as you drop the last few feet to the ground.
Your ankles sting at the impact, almost as much as your pride and excitement. You pull your mask off entirely, shoving it into your jacket pocket as you walk. The night air is cold against your heated skin. Your apartment is six blocks away — a third-floor walk-up with a fire escape you're really starting to hate.
The key turns in the lock. The door swings shut behind you. You lean against it for a moment, listening to the hum of the old refrigerator, the distant sound of a neighbor's TV. Your reflection stares back at you from the dark window — you look like shit. Hair tousled and frizzy, eyes drooping, a bruise on your cheek from a faceplant into a tall building.
You deserved a shower. At least you thought so, especially after helping that old lady retrieve her stolen purse.
The bathroom light flickers once before humming to life, casting the small space in a pale yellow glow. Steam curls from the showerhead as you twist the knob, the sound of water hitting porcelain filling the silence. You strip off your suit, the fabric sticking to your skin in places where sweat dried hours ago. The hot water stings your bruises, and you let your head fall back under the spray. Rooftops and alleyways and tangled webs replay in your mind on a loop.
Maybe you weren't meant for this. Maybe the bite was just bad luck, a universal joke with sharp teeth. A "wrong-place-wrong-time" kind of thing.
But then you think about that old lady's face when you handed her back her purse. How she held your gloved hand like she couldn’t wait to tell someone about this once in a lifetime experience. It made you feel like you were finally doing something right.
The water runs cold before you finally step out, wrapping a towel around yourself. Maybe you should try again tomorrow? Just for practice? Spiderman didn’t just get all of his skill naturally.
Right?
The morning comes in gray and unforgiving. You find the alley — narrow, brick-walled, smelling of rain and dumpsters. It’s as secluded as New York gets. Good for practice.
You shoot a web. It splatters against the wall like wet gum. You try again. It holds. You pull, and your body goes up
Then sideways
Then your ankle snags on a pipe and suddenly you're dangling upside down. The world tilts, and you feel the sudden rush of blood flooding to your brain.
You try to swing yourself up, but your web-shooter sputters and shoots a glob straight into your own face. Now you're blind, upside down, and wearing your own mistake like a mask. Over your mask.
If this is your sign to hang up the suit now, you were pretty damn close to taking it.
Somewhere above you, a fire escape rattles. A voice — one that’s way too amused — breaks the silence.
"Rough morning?" You lifted your neck to see a red-and-blue figure crouched on the pipe you’re hanging from, head tilted. "Or should I say, rough upside-down morning?"
"You’re not funny." You spat, but it only came out muffled through the webs.
He lets out a soft laugh, hopping down from the pipe with an easy grace you can't help but be jealous of. "Yeah, that's fair. I'd be salty too if I was hanging upside down like that."
He steps closer, and you can smell the city on him, the rain, the concrete, something faintly like cinnamon. He crouches down to your level, tilting his head to inspect the mess of webs plastered across your mask. His gloved fingers gently peel the webbing away from your lenses, and for a second, the world snaps back into focus — and you're staring straight at the same white lenses of his mask, inches from your face.
He studies you for a moment, then sighs, shaking his head. "I'm gonna get you down. And then — I don't wanna hear no arguments either — we're having a very long conversation about your technique. Because this?" He gestures vaguely at your entire situation. "This is painful to watch. Has been for a while."
"What — have you been watching me?"
"I have to when I hear that there's another Spiderman in town. You might steal my spotlight."
"Spiderwoman."
"Whatever."
A low chuckle escapes him as he finally starts working on the webs around your ankles. He makes quick work of the webbing, catching you with one arm before you can hit the pavement. The world rights itself in a dizzying rush, and you're left standing wobbly and a bit embarrassed.
He takes a step back and crosses his arms. "Alright. First lesson. Don't — Hey! Don’t look at me like that! I'm trying to help. Jeez… Don’t shoot webs upward if you don’t know what you're doing first. Having webs in your face isn't a good look, and believe me, I've tested it."
The evening sun paints your alley in amber and shadow. You’re on your sixth hour of practice and you’re dangerously close to giving up.
He came back to watch you half an hour ago. His leg dangling as he watches from the fire escape. "You've improved, don't get me wrong. But you're still swinging like you're trying to fight a wasp with a tennis racket."
He pauses when he sees you slump onto the pavement, completely worn out, and his voice softens. He jumps down from the fire escape and lands lightly beside you. 
"M'kay, think that’s enough for today. You've worn yourself out." He gestures towards the mouth of the alley, still looking down at you. "Y'hungry? There’s a pizza place right 'round the corner. My treat."
Your stomach growls before you can even form a protest, betraying you completely. Your cheeks heat beneath your mask as you clench your jaw, willing your stomach to shut up. He doesn't wait for you; he just walks with unhurried steps.
And before your brain catches up, your feet are moving behind him. Weaving smoothly through the busy pedestrian traffic.
The pizza place is a cramped little shop at the corner. And he orders without asking what you like, completely ignoring the shock on the manager's face. He slides a crumpled bill across the counter before there is any protest about him paying.
He leads you back out into the outside summer heat, balancing the greasy paper plates in one hand as he scales a fire escape your sore limbs are reluctant to follow. He settles onto the rooftop, legs dangling over the edge, and pats the spot beside him. The city of New York sprawls out below, all distant chatter and honking horns.
You sit down next to him and take the slice hesitantly, the warmth of the paper plate seeping into your hands. He takes a bite of his own slice, his brown skin kissed by the setting sun as he chews slowly. His eyes are stuck on the skyline.
"You're probably wondering why I'm doing this."
You shrug. "Not really."
He huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he takes another bite. "Well, I'll tell you anyway."
He wipes his gloved fingers with a napkin, letting the silence stretch for a moment. He sets his slice down, folding his hands in his lap after dusting his hands from crumbs. "I just know what it feels like. To be new and alone. You didn't ask for this, and now you feel obligated to use the gift the universe gave you."
He glances at you, the white lenses soft, "It didn't give it to you by accident either. Even after practicing for hours 'n making a fool out of yourself —"
"Hey."
"Nah, I'm serious! Even with all that, you still got back up. That's not nothing. You don't get that from the bite."
He picks up his slice again, voice lighter again. "And, I dunno. Maybe I just like the company. Like knowing there's someone like me here."
The city stretches out beneath you, a thousand windows flickering with lives you'll never know. The half-eaten pizza's gone cold in your hand, but you don't really notice. He glances at you, the white lenses of his eyes meeting yours as he pulls down his mask. "You don't have to tell me who you are. I know how it is. But I don't wanna be a stranger. If you need a friend, you have me."
Four weeks pass like a blur of bruised knees and stubborn pride. He shows up at your alley every evening — sometimes before you even get there, sometimes after you've already made a mess of things. He teaches you how to brace your landings, how to trust your body when your intuition signals you, and throughout all that, you learn his voice.
The hangouts become a routine too. The same pizza on rooftops from the restaurant you've become regulars at. Late-night patrols where he lets you take the lead on small potato stuff like a mugging or a runaway dog. He's always a few steps behind, close enough to catch you, but far enough to let you feel like you did it yourself. You start bringing snacks. He starts bringing stories — little pieces of his life that intrigue you to ask more, but you don't push.
By the seventh week, you don't think of him as a stranger anymore. You think of him as the person who caught you when you were falling — literally and figuratively — and you still don't know his name. He still doesn't know yours. But something like that didn't seem important for either of you. It was like you knew each other enough to overlook such lousy details.
One night, after a smooth patrol, he lands beside you on a familiar rooftop and tosses you a bottle of water. The city glitters below, and you two fall silent. He glances at you, voice still soft-spoken as usual. "Y'know, I'm starting to think you're ready for the big potato stuff."
You lower your water bottle, brow furrowing beneath your mask. "What does that even mean? Like... you mean bigger than the mugging and stolen purses?"
He lets out a low hum, turning to the skyline. "Yeah, it gets real serious, though." He doesn't look at you, and his voice is quieter. "There's a smuggling ring at a warehouse district on the docks. 's weapons mostly, but I've been tracking it for a couple weeks 'n it's too big for just one person." He gazes down at his lap briefly before his eyes look over the skyline. "I can't think of anyone else I'd rather have up there with me."
"You don't have to say yes. But I do want you to know I wouldn't ask if I didn't think you were ready for it."
For fucks sake you wish you said no.
Two weeks later, you're dangling from a ventilation shaft on the east side, one hand clamped over your mouth to keep from screaming, while gunfire pops somewhere, eerily resembling firecrackers. You thought the plan would've been simple, and you couldn't have been more wrong.
His voice crackles through the earpiece, loud and blaring, "You gotta go to the control room in the west corner!"
You internally groan, but make your way there nonetheless. "Can you stop screaming in my damn ear?"
"I got six guys shooting at me, and you're worried about me screaming?!"
You drop from the vent into a narrow corridor, the hum of fluorescent lights buzzing ahead. The control room is three doors down, and you hear the muffled crash of crates falling, the sharp crack of fists meeting bone echoing through the thin walls.
The control room door is unlocked, and a bank of monitors flickers with security feeds inside — your own masked face staring back at you from one of the screens. You maybe have ninety seconds before the feed loops back, or someone notices the door is open. So you did the smartest thing you could think of.
You slam your palm against the console, fingers and legs scrambling over the tangled wires. And after a couple of attempts, the entire system shuts down.
It was stupid for him to assume that you had enough experience with technology to shut down vast control systems.
You press your finger against the earpiece. "You see how I did all that without screaming?"
"You're not the one getting attacked by bad guys from different angles." He's breathless, and you hear his sentence get punctuated by the dull thud of something heavy hitting the floor. "But you will be if you don't get out of there."
From somewhere below, the sound of shouting shifts in panic and confusion, and footsteps pound toward the corridor you just came from. Your eyes scramble for an escape, only to see a service hatch on the west wall of the room. The hatch is cold against your palms, rust biting your gloves as you wrench it open, and you pull yourself in just as the control room floor slams open behind you.
You crawl fast, knees scraping against metal. It smelled like old oil and dust, enough to make your stomach turn with nausea. The shaft narrows, and you push through the last stretch until the cool night air hits your face and you're on the roof.
Below, the warehouse erupts with chaos and shouting, alongside the wail of approaching sirens. A soft thud lands beside you, and you turn to see him. His hand is pressed to his ribs, but he still finds the energy for amusement.
"Told you it'd only take ten minutes."
"You also told me that it'd be stealthy. Look at you!" You wave your hand at him, sitting on the hard ground with a tired thud.
"Girl, hush. I'm fine."
The sirens grow louder and closer, painting the gravel in shifting colors of red and blue. He doesn't move to leave; instead, he sits next to you with a tired and pained groan.
"You proved me right, Spiderwoman. You did good."
You smile underneath your mask, leaning your tired head against his shoulder as the city hums in the distance. You both sit in comfortable silence, and he rests his head on top of yours.
"We have to take care of those wounds."
You lead him through your memorized fire escape, the same one that avoids the landlord's window and the neighbor who always takes her trash out too late. She does play good music, though. You slip through your window, landing softly on the worn wooden floor of your apartment.
Your apartment is small but warm. String lights and faux vines drape along the ceiling, casting the living room in a soft golden glow. A patchwork quilt is thrown haphazardly over the comfy couch, and a stack of books leans against the armrest. The kitchenette smells faintly of sage and tea. In the corner, a ceramic bowl sits half-full of water, and a grey tabby lifts her head from the windowsill, blinking at you with sleep.
He ducks through the window after you, careful not to knock anything over, and he pauses in the middle of the room. His hand is still pressed to his ribs, but he's taking the time to take in the style of your space. He lets out a low whistle.
"You got a nice place. Like, it's actually really cozy. I was expecting a mattress on the floor and a pile of dirty laundry."
You chuckle, fighting the urge to take your mask off at the familiarity of your home. "Nah, I don't live like you."
"I don't live like that." The cat hops down and pads over to him, sniffling his suit before deciding he's acceptable. She weaves between his legs, tail curling.
"I mean, I wouldn't know. Never seen what your place looks like." You walk to your kitchenette, turning on the kettle to boil some hot water for tea. "It's late, but I'll see if I can order Chinese food. You need to be stationary for a bit."
"You don't have to—"
"The bathroom is down the hallway to your right. I'll bring you some clothes to change into after you shower, then I can see what's going on with your ribs."
The kettle begins to hum, a comforting sound that fills the small kitchen. He stands there a moment, dumbfounded by the sentence that came out of your mouth.
"Are you sure?"
"I wouldn't have asked if I wasn't, silly. Go shower."
He disappears down the hallway, and you hear the bathroom door click shut, followed by the hiss of the shower. The cat follows him anyway, parking herself outside like she's guarding him from her space. The kettle clicks off, steam curling into the cool air of your apartment.
A few minutes later, the bathroom door creaks open, and he emerges in a pair of sweatpants and a college t-shirt that's normally an oversized sleeping shirt for you. His mask is still on — of course. He rubs the back of his neck, a little sheepish.
He shuffles into the living room and settles onto the edge of the couch, like he's afraid to touch anything. The cat abandons her post and hops onto his lap, circling twice before curling into a ball.
The apartment continues to hum softly, your quiet footsteps moving across the floor. You grab the first aid kit from the counter, along with the mug of tea you prepared for him, and kneel in front of him.
He shifts, "So, you gonna play nurse 'n patch me up?"
The worn, plastic box creaks open in your lap. The sudden rain taps a slow rhythm against the window as you pull out antiseptic and gauze. Your fingers carefully hover near the hem of the borrowed shirt. You chuckle as you maneuver around your cat, revealing the large bruise on his rib.
"Well, I don't think anything's broken. Hold still."
The cat stirs but doesn't leave his lap. The rain picks up, a soft patter against the glass. He watches you work quietly, occasionally hissing at the press of your fingertips against his flesh.
You inhale after a couple moments of silence. "Yeah, just some deep bruising. A few ice packs and you'll be fine. You can take deep breaths without feeling any pain?... Yeah. You'll be fine."
"How do y'know?"
You hesitate. "...I'm in nursing school. It's what I do."
The rain fills the silence, soft and steady, and he shifts on the couch again. He's careful not to jostle the bruise or unsettle the cat in his lap. "So you're gonna save people twice."
You huff out a laugh, "Yeah, gotta get the money somehow."
He looks down at the cat, then back at you, the mask still hiding his expression. "I never asked what you do outside of this. Guess I figured you were just... y'know."
The tea steams on the side table, untouched, and you press the ice pack gently against his ribs, feeling the warmth of his skin through the thin cloth. "Well, I might have to do the 'y'know' thing full time soon. It's interfering with my normal schedule. Hold this for me."
He puts his hand over yours briefly, his warm and bare fingertips brushing yours as it presses against the ice pack. You tense your shoulders slightly. You lean back, sitting fully on your carpet. "What about you? What did you do before this?"
"Uh, I was a teenager when I started. So... I guess school."
"Oh."
"Yeah. I guess I never really figured out the whole normal life thing. I don't even know what to do on my days off."
He shifts on the couch, carefully moving the cat from his lap and placing her next to him. "Y'know, I've been thinking about us. No — not — not like that! I mean, about this. What we got goin' on."
He swallows and removes the ice pack from his side. He pats the couch so you can sit next to him, and you do. "I don't even know your name. And you don't know mine. But you've seen me at many lows. Scared, bruised, you've seen it, and you still allow me into your home. You make me tea. You let me sit on your couch and pet your cat."
He finally meets your eyes, the white lenses soft. "I don't know what this makes us. I mean, I know we're already pretty close friends, right? But friends don't usually do this."
"Oh, I didn't mean to overstep or nothing —"
"No, it's not like that at all. I'm not complaining." The silence stretches, and it's thick. His fingers twitch at his side.
"I've thought about taking this off 'bout a hundred times. Every time we had our hangouts. But I kept thinking — what if you see me, and it changes things? What if I'm not just who you built up in your head 'n I'm just... some guy?"
Your hand moves before your brain catches up, fingers brushing the edge of his mask. You stop there as your fingers stop against the seam. "Then... let me see you. Not the idea of you."
He goes still. "You sure?"
You nod, letting out a soft laugh. "Yeah, been sure for like three weeks. Just didn't know how to tell you."
"If I do this, I can't undo it. You get that, right?"
"Stop being a wuss 'n lemme see."
He lets out a shaky breath, and when he speaks, his voice cracks just slightly. But then he closes his mouth. His hand stays over yours, warm and still, his thumb brushing the edge of your knuckle once — you almost missed it. His breathing is shallow, and you could feel the tension in his fingers. So you take matters into your own hands. You carefully lift the mask, inch by inch, and the world narrows to the space between your hands. His jaw appears first — sharp and familiar. Along with his lips, the same ones that would flash a warm smile during pizza nights.
Then his round nose, then his eyes. So big and brown and beautiful. So full of wonder. The string lights catch the warm brown of his irises, and you can't help but get lost in them. And you realize that part of him was right. His lips quirk into a small, uncertain small.
"Hi. You're not saying anything." He laughs nervously.
You trace his jaw with your fingertips. "You're the most beautiful person I've ever seen."
His breath catches, the sound small and broken in the warm quiet. He doesn't look away from you, but his lashes lower once. "Shouldn't say that," he laughs. "I'll start believing it."
"It's true..."
"I know you mean it, but... I dunno. I spent so long hiding, I forgot what it really felt like to be seen."
The string lights hum, and he reaches up slowly, fingers brushing the edge of your mask, pausing there with question. His thumb traces the seam of your mask, featherlight. "Can I... Can I see you?... I've been waiting, too. Just like you."
Your fingers find the edge of your own mask, your suit still clinging to you, and you pause. His eyes are still on you, waiting patiently. "Just like me?"
He nods, a slow, honest motion, his brown skin bare under the warm light. "Since the day you tried to web yourself in the face."
You let out a breath, something between a laugh and a sigh, and lift your mask slowly. "I blame the wind."
His eyes soften as you unveil your features to him, tracing every feature as if he's learning the new language of you. His voice is barely a whisper as his hand rises, hovers, then lands gently against your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. "There you are. I knew you'd be pretty, but gosh, you're breathtaking."
The space between you holds its breath, and his hand stays against your cheek, and it's like the city outside has gone quiet. His thumb traces your cheekbone, memorizing the shape of your features, one at a time.
His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading gently through your hair. And you feel a gravitational pull towards him. The warmth of his touch is a steady force that narrows the space between you. You don't feel the need to pull away. Instead, your fingers find the collar of his borrowed shirt, twisting the fabric gently, grounding yourself in the reality of him.
His forehead drops to yours, a soft, trembling exhale warming your lips. His free thumb traces the line of your jaw before lifting it slightly, closing the distance and connecting his lips to yours.
He makes a sound against your lips, a soft one, and his other hand slides from your jaw, joining the other at the back of your neck. His fingers curl gently into your hair, pulling you closer as the kiss deepens. It's soft, deliberate, almost innocent and curious. It almost makes your head spin.
He pulls back just enough to breathe. "I just kissed you, and I don't even know your name. I must be dreaming." His thumb brushes your cheek, catching the corner of your mouth again.
You whisper your name against his lips, and he can't help but let out a shaky laugh, followed by a small sigh. Your name sounded like music to his ears, filling his heart with warmth. There's a beat of comfortable silence before he parts his lips again.
"My name is... Michael."
"Hi, Michael." His name tastes like honey on your tongue, so common, yet it fits him so sweetly.His lips open, then close, then curve into a slow smile.
Then the doorbell rings.
It's sharp and insistent. Thoroughly unromantic. You hear your cat startle off the windowsill and disappear under the couch. Michael lets out a breathless laugh, forehead dropping to yours, voice muffled against your skin. Then the doorbell rings again, longer this time.
You laugh softly against his lips, the sound warm and reluctant, and pull back just enough to look at him.
"That must be the Chinese food."
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