The Girlfriend Behind the Mask
Alysa Liu the overachiever bc yes she would be an NYU student and collegiate figure skater on top of saving the city at night. Also journalist reader bc ofc in a spiderman au!
Reader emotionally cheats??? And Alysa’s a terrible gf once again sorry.. and reader smokes like once, 10k words too… spiderman!alysa
Part 1 bc this was supposed to just be a regular reveal trope but then I got carried away
It should’ve been clear what this whole thing was. You were smart enough to connect dots — that’s literally what you were training to do, what your professors drilled into you every semester, what your internship expected from you every day. Patterns, inconsistencies, timelines, sources, motives. You were good at seeing the story beneath the surface. But you can’t really blame yourself for what happened, because when it came to Alysa, you weren’t a journalist. You were just a girl who loved her girlfriend and didn’t want to believe she was slowly disappearing from you.
You and Alysa had been together nine months now. You met in a required NYU class you both complained about the entire semester, started studying together, then getting coffee, then staying over at each other’s apartments, and somewhere in the middle of late night takeout and shared headphones, you became a couple. Or at least, that’s what you called it. Lately, though, it felt like you were the only one still acting like you were in a relationship. Alysa had been distant — not in a dramatic way, not in a way you could point to and say this is the problem — but in a slow, quiet way that made you feel stupid for even being upset about it. She cancelled plans last minute. She took forever to text back. She was always tired, always “just got home,” always “gonna sleep early tonight.” You hadn’t seen her in a week. A whole week. And all you had to show for it were a handful of texts and two missed calls.
So now you were walking to her apartment at ten at night, hands shoved into your coat pockets, head down against the wind, telling yourself you weren’t being crazy. You just wanted to see her. You just wanted to know that she was actually where she said she was — home, asleep, exhausted, too busy for you. You knew it wasn’t exactly smart to be walking alone this late, and normally you would’ve taken the subway or at least called someone, but your brain had been so wrapped up in Alysa — in the way she’d sounded distracted on the phone two days ago, in the way she’d cancelled your dinner plans yesterday with a quick sorry, rain check? — that you weren’t really paying attention to anything around you.
Which is why you didn’t notice the man behind you.
Someone else did, though.
Up above, sitting casually on the metal railing of a fire escape balcony like it was a park bench instead of five stories up, Spider-Man had been watching the street below, legs dangling over open air, mask tilted slightly downward. He noticed the guy first — noticed the way he’d been walking half a block behind you, noticed the way he sped up when you turned the corner, noticed the way your headphones were in and your shoulders were tense like you were thinking too hard about something else to notice anything around you. Spider-Man leaned forward slightly, fingers tightening against the railing, eyes tracking the distance between you and the man closing in behind you.
You were still walking, still in your own head, when suddenly a hand grabbed your arm hard enough to yank you backward.
Everything snapped into focus at once. Your heart jumped into your throat as you twisted, trying to rip your arm free, your other hand immediately digging into your pocket for the small pepper spray you carried everywhere. The man’s grip tightened, fingers digging into your sleeve as he tried to pull you toward him, and panic hit you fast and sharp, your breath coming out in short bursts as you tried to twist away from him.
“Let go of me,” you snapped, voice sharper than you felt, trying to plant your feet and shove him back. He barely moved. He was bigger than you, heavier, and when he yanked your arm again you stumbled forward, your pepper spray slipping from your fingers and clattering onto the sidewalk.
Before you could even think to bend down to grab it, something red dropped into the space between you and the man so fast it looked like it fell out of the sky.
Spider-Man landed lightly, one knee bent, one hand braced on the pavement, the other already flicking forward. The man froze for half a second, startled more than anything, and you just stood there, arms still caught in his grip, staring at the figure in front of you in the red and blue suit like your brain couldn’t quite catch up to what was happening.
Spider-Man straightened slowly, rolling his shoulders back a little, clearly trying to look taller than he actually was.
“Okay,” he said, voice deeper than you expected, slightly distorted through whatever voice thing he was using, “I’m gonna need you to let her go. Preferably right now.”
The guy actually scoffed, looking Spider-Man up and down like he was just some kid in a Halloween costume. “What are you supposed to be, huh?” he muttered, tightening his grip on your arm like he was trying to prove a point.
Spider-Man tilted his head slightly. “I’m the one that ruins your night,” he said calmly.
The man ignored him and yanked your arm again, and the posture Spider-Man had possessed changed instantly from casual to serious.
A sharp thwip cracked through the air, loud in the quiet street, and suddenly the man cursed loudly, looking down to see both his feet webbed together and stuck firmly to the pavement.
“What the—” he tried to move, but the webs didn’t budge.
Spider-Man took a step closer, voice dropping slightly. “I’m gonna say this one more time,” he said. “Let. Her. Go.”
The man looked down again at his feet, tried to yank one free, failed, and then shoved you away from him in frustration. You stumbled from the push, completely off balance, and the next thing you knew you were colliding into Spider-Man’s chest, his hands immediately grabbing your arms to steady you so you didn’t fall.
For a second, everything went quiet.
You were standing there, half pressed against him, his hands still holding your arms, and you realized he was smaller than you expected. Not tiny — just not the big, broad superhero build you’d imagined. Up close, he felt… solid sure, but lean. Fast, not bulky. His hands were warm even through the gloves, steady where they held you, and you looked up automatically, meeting the white lenses of the mask.
“Hey,” he said, voice softer now, still distorted but not as theatrical as before. “You okay?”
You nodded automatically, still catching your breath. “Yeah,” you said, voice a little shaky. “I— yeah. I think so.”
He didn’t let go right away, like he was making sure you were actually steady before he released your arms. When he finally did, he took half a step back but kept himself between you and the man, who was still cursing and trying to rip his feet off the pavement.
“You’re gonna want to pick better hobbies,” Spider-Man told the guy, already shooting another web that pinned the man’s wrists behind his back when he tried to lunge forward again.
A police car rolled slowly down the street then, probably drawn by the noise, and Spider-Man lifted his arm, waving them over like he was flagging a cab. The car pulled up, the officer inside already staring at the scene like this was somehow both surprising and completely normal. By the time the officer opened his door, Spider-Man had already turned back toward you.
“You should be more careful walking alone at night,” he said.
You let out a small breath, still a little shaky, but something about the way he said it didn’t feel like a lecture. It felt more like… concern.
“You don’t even know me,” you said.
He tilted his head slightly. “I know enough” he replied.
And then, before you could say anything else, he shot a web upward, the line catching somewhere above you, and a second later he was gone, swinging up and out of sight like he’d never been there at all.
You ended up talking to the police longer than you wanted to, giving a statement, answering questions, replaying the whole thing over and over until you felt more tired than scared. Eventually, the officer offered to drive you the rest of the way, and you didn’t argue. By the time you got out in front of Alysa’s building, your brain felt heavy and slow, like everything that happened was just now starting to catch up to you.
You used the extra key she’d given you months ago and let yourself in, the hallway quiet and dim. When you opened her apartment door, the lights were off except for the fairy lights she’d strung along the wall for the holidays and never taken down. The apartment smelled faintly like laundry detergent and whatever candle she’d burned last time you were there.
You walked quietly through the apartment and into her room, and there she was — Alysa, curled up under the covers, dead asleep, one arm tucked under her pillow, hair a mess across her face.
You stood there for a second, just looking at her, feeling that weird mix of relief and annoyance twist together in your chest. Relief that she was actually here, that she hadn’t lied. Annoyance that she was asleep, that you hadn’t seen her in a week and now you still weren’t really going to see her.
You changed quietly, brushed your teeth in her bathroom, and then slid into bed next to her, trying not to wake her.
She stirred anyway. “Mmm?” she mumbled, voice thick with sleep, shifting slightly.
“It’s just me,” you whispered. “Go back to sleep.”
She hummed softly and, without really waking up, reached an arm out and wrapped it around your waist, tugging you closer to her like it was automatic, like her body just knew it was you. Her face pressed into your shoulder, and within seconds her breathing evened out again, completely asleep.
You stared at the ceiling in the dark for a long time after that, not even close to falling asleep. You kept replaying the night in your head. The man grabbing your arm. The sound of the web hitting the pavement. The way Spider-Man landed like it was nothing. The way his hands felt when he caught you and how close his face was to yours because strangely there wasn’t that big of a height difference. The way he asked if you were okay, like he actually cared about the answer.
Yeah, almost getting kidnapped and robbed was definitely the part you should have been thinking about. But instead, all you could think about was the moment you stumbled into Spider-Man’s arms and the way, for just a second, it felt like the safest place in the world.
———
It had been a week since that night, and you still hadn’t shut up about it.
At least, that’s what Alysa was thinking as she sat across from you at her small kitchen table, a biology textbook open in front of her that she’d been staring at for the last five minutes without actually reading a single word. You were on the other side of the table with your laptop, surrounded by notebooks and printed articles, completely locked into whatever you were working on. Every few minutes you’d scroll, click another article, open another tab, or read something out loud under your breath like you were collecting pieces of a puzzle.
Alysa tried to focus. She really did. Between skating practice, classes, competitions coming up, and… everything else she did at night, she actually needed this study time. Her midterms were not going to pass themselves. But every time she looked up, you were there, chin in your hand, reading something about Spider-Man with this little focused crease between your eyebrows, and she felt this weird mix of fondness and annoyance twist in her chest.
She knew she’d been distant lately. She knew it. Every cancelled plan, every “sorry I’m tired,” every time she’d said she was staying in when she really wasn’t — she knew you noticed. She hated that you noticed. She hated that she couldn’t explain why without blowing up her entire life. So she told herself she’d make tonight normal. You’d both study, maybe order food, maybe you’d stay over, maybe things would feel like they used to.
But then you cleared your throat slightly and said, almost to yourself, “There were like five sightings of him this week alone. Queens, Brooklyn, two in Manhattan… that’s actually insane.”
Alysa’s pencil stopped moving. “Who?” she asked, even though she already knew.
You didn’t even look up from your laptop.“Spider-Man,” you said, like it was obvious. “I’m writing my midterm about him. Like media portrayal and public perception and all that. My professor said we could pick any current pop culture topic.”
Alysa leaned back in her chair a little, folding her arms. “You’re writing your midterm about Spider-Man,” she repeated slowly.
“Yeah,” you said, still typing. “I mean it’s actually really interesting if you think about it. Like he just appeared out of nowhere two years ago and now he’s basically part of the city. There are like Twitter accounts that just track sightings.”
Alysa made a small sound in the back of her throat and looked back down at her textbook, trying very hard to care about cellular respiration instead of the fact that her girlfriend was writing an academic paper about her alter ego.
At first, she thought it was kind of cute. Endearing, even. You were so focused, so invested, reading articles, scrolling through headlines, muttering things like “oh my god someone got a picture of him on a fire escape” and “people actually think he lives in Queens.” She had to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing at some of the theories you read out loud.
But then you kept talking. And talking. And talking.
“Okay listen to this,” you said, turning your laptop slightly toward her. “This article says crime in certain areas actually dropped after reported Spider-Man activity. Like people are actually saying they feel safer walking home.”
Alysa looked up slowly. “Oh yeah?” she said flatly.
“Yeah,” you nodded. “And like— okay this part is interesting. Someone wrote that he brought back this idea of like… local heroism? Like not some huge government thing or whatever, just one person deciding to help.”
Alysa pressed her lips together, trying not to react.
“You know he saved me, right?” you added quietly, almost like an afterthought, eyes dropping back to your screen. “I’m putting that in my paper. Like first person account.”
Alysa’s jaw tightened slightly because this wasn’t the first time you’d mentioned that night to her. You told her at least 30 times in the week since it happened.
“I mean I would’ve been screwed if he didn’t show up,” you continued, scrolling again. “He literally just dropped out of nowhere. And he was actually really nice. Like he was super casual and then he asked if I was okay and— I don’t know. He just didn’t seem like some random guy in a suit. He seemed like… normal? Just someone trying to help.”
Alysa stared at you for a long moment, something tight and weird forming in her chest. She should feel good, she knew that. You were literally talking about her. You were praising her. You were writing a whole paper about how she made the city better.
But the problem was — you weren’t talking about Alysa.
You were talking about Spider-Man.
Some stranger. Some hero. Some short guy who always showed up.
Not the girlfriend who kept cancelling plans and falling asleep at nine and disappearing for hours without explanation.
You cleared your throat and started reading from your screen. “This is like my rough paragraph, don’t judge, it’s not edited yet.” You scrolled a little and then read, “In a city often described as indifferent and fast-moving, Spider-Man has become an unexpected symbol of localized hope. Unlike larger institutional systems, his presence represents individual action and immediate intervention—”
Alysa rolled her eyes before she could stop herself.
You kept reading. “—and for many New Yorkers, the knowledge that someone is watching from above, ready to step in when needed, has shifted public perception of safety and community responsibility—”
“Oh my god,” Alysa muttered under her breath.
You looked up. “What?”
She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms again. “You don’t think that sounds a little… biased?” she said.
You blinked. “What?”
“I’m just saying,” Alysa shrugged, trying to sound casual even though she felt strangely irritated, “you’re kind of glazing the dude in your midterm paper.”
You just stared at her for a second, clearly not expecting that. Alysa never critiqued your writing. Ever. She usually just told you everything you wrote was amazing and that you were going to work for the New York Times and become some famous writer.
“Oh,” you said after a moment. “I… I guess it could sound a little biased.”
Now you were both just sitting there, looking at each other, like neither of you knew how the conversation had turned into this.
Alysa immediately felt bad. “I mean it’s good,” she added quickly, looking back down at her book even though she wasn’t reading it. “Just… maybe rework it a little.”
You nodded slowly, looking down at your laptop again. “Yeah. Okay.”
For a minute, the only sound in the apartment was the quiet clicking of your keyboard and the faint hum of the fridge. Then you mumbled, almost too quietly for her to hear, “I didn’t realize you felt some type of way about Spider-Man.”
Alysa looked up. “What?”
You glanced at her and repeated it louder. “I said I didn’t realize you felt some type of way about Spider-Man.”
“I don’t,” Alysa said immediately. “I just think you’re writing him like he’s a god or something.”
She looked over at your laptop again, reading the paragraph on the screen, and she could feel the tiniest pout forming on her face before she could stop it. It wasn’t even logical. She knew it wasn’t logical. She was literally jealous of herself. But it wasn’t really about Spider-Man. It was about the fact that you talked about Spider-Man like he was always there for you.
And lately, Alysa wasn’t.
You noticed the pout almost immediately. You leaned back in your chair slightly, the earlier sting vanishing, eyes narrowing a little in amusement. “Are you jealous?” you asked.
Alysa’s head snapped up. “What? No.”
“You are,” you said, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “You’re jealous of Spider-Man.”
“I am not jealous of Spider-Man,” Alysa said quickly, sitting up straighter. “Why would I be jealous?”
You shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re the one critiquing my paper like he personally offended you.”
“I’m not— I don’t care,” Alysa said, getting more flustered by the second. “I actually like him. He saved you when I wasn’t there. I just think, professionally, you’re not writing it well—”
You were barely even listening to the last part anymore because now you were fully smiling, watching her get more and more worked up.
She stopped talking when she realized you weren’t offended at all. You were amused. “This is dumb,” she muttered, looking back down at her book again, but she wasn’t reading anymore. She could feel her face getting warm and she hated that you could do this to her so easily.
You closed your laptop slowly and stood up, walking around the table toward her. She didn’t look up, but she definitely noticed when you stopped next to her chair.
You leaned down slightly, one hand resting on the back of her chair, your lips brushing lightly against her ear as you spoke quietly.
“You don’t have to be jealous, Lys,” you whispered. “I’m all yours.”
Alysa didn’t look up, but the tension in her shoulders immediately loosened just a little. She tried to stay focused on the paragraph in her biology book, but it was impossible when you were standing that close, when she could feel your breath near her neck.
You pressed a soft kiss just below her ear, then another along her jaw, slow and unhurried, like you knew exactly what you were doing to her concentration.
“Aren’t we supposed to be studying?” she muttered, still staring at the same page she hadn’t read in ten minutes.
“You started it,” you murmured against her neck.
“I did not—”
You kissed her again, and she exhaled quietly, her pencil slipping from her fingers onto the table. She finally leaned back in her chair slightly, tilting her head just enough to give you more space, one hand reaching back to grab your thigh without even thinking about it.
You two didn’t do much homework after that.
———
You had three more days before your midterm was due, and technically your paper was already good. Your professor had said so himself when you met during office hours, leaning back in his chair and nodding while he skimmed your draft, occasionally making small approving noises that made you feel cautiously proud of yourself. When he finally looked up, he told you the structure was strong, your argument was clear, and your personal account section was compelling without being overly emotional. You’d walked in expecting heavy edits and walked out feeling like you were actually good at this.
But then he added one more thing, almost like an afterthought. “It would be really interesting,” he’d said, tapping your paper lightly, “if you could include a direct quote from Spider-Man himself. Something he said, even if it’s informal. It would add another layer to the piece — hearing how he talks about what he does in his own words.”
And that was a problem because Spider-Man did not give interviews. Spider-Man did not hold press conferences. Spider-Man did not release statements or write tweets or have a publicist or anything remotely helpful for a journalism student with a deadline.
You spent two hours that night searching everything you could think of. News articles, videos, Twitter threads, Reddit posts, random blogs — anything that might have recorded something he said that wasn’t just “sorry about your window” or “are you okay?” or “stay out of trouble.” Most of the quotes were jokes, apologies, or quick comments caught on someone’s phone camera before he swung away. Nothing substantial. Nothing you could actually analyze or build a paragraph around.
Which is when the idea started forming. It was a stupid idea. You knew it was a stupid idea while you were thinking it. But you were also a journalism major, and journalism majors had a very specific flaw, which was that if there was a story you wanted, you started figuring out how to get it instead of whether you should.
So eventually, you brought it up to Alysa. You were sitting on the floor of her apartment, your laptop open, notes scattered around, while Alysa was on her bed flipping through flashcards for one of her classes. You were chewing on the end of your pen, staring at your screen, when you said, very casually, “I think I’m gonna try to interview Spider-Man.”
Alysa’s flashcard stopped mid-flip. “You’re gonna what?”
You looked up like it was obvious. “Interview him. For my paper.”
She just stared at you. “How,” she said slowly, “exactly are you planning on interviewing Spider-Man?”
You shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll just… go out at night. Like last time. Maybe I’ll run into him again.”
Alysa sat up fully now, flashcards forgotten in her lap. “No,” she said immediately. “No, you’re not doing that.”
“It’s not that crazy,” you said. “I already ran into him once.”
“Yeah,” Alysa said, voice rising slightly, “because you got attacked.”
You winced a little. “Okay, but that’s not going to happen every time.”
“That’s the only reason he shows up anywhere,” she said, running a hand through her hair. “New York is huge. He’s not everywhere all the time. He might not even be in the same borough when you go out. You could walk around for hours and nothing would happen except you’d be walking alone at night.”
You leaned back on your hands. “It’s for my midterm.”
Alysa stared at you like that was the worst possible justification you could’ve given.
“You’re not risking your life for a midterm paper,” she said flatly.
“I’m not risking my life,” you insisted. “If you come with me it won’t even be that bad. We’ll just walk around for a bit.”
She shook her head immediately. “I’ll walk with you at night wherever you need to go. Like actually need to go. Your apartment, the library, the subway. But you’re not going to go looking for Spider-Man. That’s insane.”
You sighed, shoulders dropping a little. “Okay.”
But you didn’t sound convinced, and she knew it.
The next evening, after a late study session at the library, Alysa insisted on walking you home. You didn’t argue — you actually liked when she walked you home. It felt like one of the only times lately when you had her attention fully, when she wasn’t checking her phone or yawning or saying she had to leave soon.
You walked slowly, talking about nothing important — classes, some professor you both thought was weird, a guy in the library who had been eating tuna out of a container for three hours straight. For a little while, it felt normal again. Like the first few months when you were dating and everything was easy and you didn’t have to schedule time to see each other like you were coworkers.
When you got to your building, you stopped on the sidewalk and turned to her. “Do you want to come up?” you asked.
She hesitated for just a second too long. “I can’t,” she said finally. “I have to get up early tomorrow for practice, and my apartment’s closer and all my stuff is there.”
You pouted immediately. “Come on. Just for a little.”
She sighed softly, and you could see the conflict on her face. She wanted to stay — you could tell she wanted to stay — but something else was pulling her away like it always did lately.
“I really can’t tonight,” she said quietly.
You crossed your arms a little, not dramatically, just enough for her to notice. “You’re always busy lately,” you muttered.
Her face fell slightly, and she stepped closer, reaching up to touch your arm. “I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
You didn’t say anything, just looked at the ground for a second.
She leaned in and kissed you softly, one hand coming up to the side of your face, thumb brushing lightly along your cheek like she was trying to make up for something she couldn’t explain. The kiss lingered for a moment, then she pulled back, pressing her forehead lightly against yours.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.
“Yeah,” you replied quietly.
She squeezed your hand once, then turned and walked down the street, hands in her pockets, disappearing around the corner. You watched her go for a few seconds before going inside, feeling that familiar mix of disappointment and guilt for feeling disappointed at all.
You went up to your apartment, dropped your bag by the door, and sat at your desk, opening your laptop again. Your midterm paper was still open in one tab, the blinking cursor sitting at the end of your last paragraph like it was waiting for you to solve the Spider-Man quote problem on your own.
You tried to work on other assignments for a while, but you kept switching back to that tab, rereading your paper, rereading your professor’s comments, rereading the same paragraph about Spider-Man’s public perception like the quote was going to magically appear if you stared at it long enough.
After about an hour, you leaned back in your chair and rubbed your face with both hands, exhaling slowly.
If you wanted a quote, you were going to have to get one yourself.
You stared at the screen for another minute, then closed your laptop halfway and stood up. You grabbed your phone from the desk, then reached for the small notepad you always carried in your bag — the one where you wrote interview questions, story ideas, random observations on the subway. You flipped it open and skimmed the list you’d already written:
Why do you do this? Do you think what you do is legal? Do you see yourself as a hero? Do you ever get scared? What do you want people to understand about you?
You closed the notebook and slipped it into your jacket pocket. “This is stupid,” you muttered to yourself as you grabbed your keys. But you were already putting your shoes on.
A few minutes later, you were locking your apartment door behind you and heading down the stairs, pulling your jacket tighter around you as you stepped out into the night, not entirely sure what you were doing, only that you were going to try anyway.
———
Alysa was comfortable once she saw you go into your building.
That was always the part that mattered most. Not the patrol, not the robberies, not the stupid videos people posted of her swinging between buildings like she was some kind of urban legend. What mattered was making sure you got inside safely. She always waited half a block away or on a rooftop until she saw the hallway light through your apartment window turn on. Only then did she let herself relax and put the mask back on for real.
So now she was moving through the city fast and easy, body working on instinct more than thought. She stopped a guy from robbing a deli in Queens, helped an old woman get her cat off a fire escape, and had a very long conversation with a drunk guy outside a bar about why he should not try to fight a mailbox. It was a pretty normal night. Busy, but normal.
Now she was sitting on top of a building, legs hanging over the edge, peeling a banana for fuel like this was just another late night snack instead of her refueling in between stopping crimes. The city stretched out around her, lights everywhere, cars moving like glowing lines below. She should’ve gone home already. She actually did have skating early the next morning, and her coach was already mad at her for looking tired at practice lately.
She took a bite of the banana and pulled her phone out of her pocket, deciding she should text you before you fell asleep so you wouldn’t be mad at her for disappearing again.
Alysa: goodnight. sorry i couldn’t stay. miss you
She hit send and without really thinking about it she tapped your location, something she did automatically most nights just to make sure you were where you were supposed to be.
But your location wasn’t at your apartment.
It was three blocks away.
Her stomach dropped immediately, and at the same time that familiar tingling feeling started crawling up the back of her neck — the one she’d learned not to ignore. She looked around the rooftops, scanning the street below, the alleyways, the moving cars, trying to figure out what was wrong.
Nothing looked wrong. But the feeling didn’t go away.
Before she even consciously decided to move, the mask was back on and she was already running toward the edge of the building, jumping and shooting a web, swinging fast and low across the city toward your location. She didn’t even think about skating practice anymore. She didn’t think about being tired. She just thought about the fact that you were outside at night when she thought you were safe in your apartment.
It didn’t take her long to get there. She landed lightly on top of a streetlamp and crouched, looking down at the street below.
You were walking out of a deli, holding a small bag and your phone, looking completely normal. Completely fine. You didn’t look scared, didn’t look like anything had happened. You just looked like you were walking home like any other night.
Alysa let out a small breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding but didn’t move. She stayed perched on the lamp post, watching as you started walking toward your apartment again. She told herself she was being paranoid. That nothing was wrong. That she should just leave and go home.
Then the tingling came back. Stronger this time.
Her head snapped to the left, and that’s when she saw the car — headlights coming down the street way too fast for a residential block, engine loud, swerving slightly between lanes like the driver couldn’t keep it straight.
Her body moved before her brain caught up.
She jumped down from the lamp post and ran straight toward the street just as the car came barreling forward. She shot both webs out, anchoring them to the front of the car, and then planted her feet against the pavement and pulled, arms straining as the car screeched and slowed violently in front of her.
You didn’t even see it coming. One second you were walking, the next you felt a hard shove from the side and you were thrown onto the pavement, your hands and knees scraping hard against the concrete as the sound of tires screeching filled the air behind you.
When you looked up, Spider-Man was standing in front of a car, both hands pressed against the hood, holding it in place like it weighed nothing. The airbags inside had deployed, white fabric filling the inside of the car, and the driver and passenger looked stunned and disoriented.
Alysa walked around to the driver’s side, pulling the door open slightly to check on them. The driver was a kid — maybe eighteen — with a small cut on his forehead. The girl in the passenger seat looked shaken but otherwise okay. As soon as the guy spoke, Alysa caught the smell of alcohol immediately.
Drunk. Of course.
Her jaw tightened under the mask, anger flaring quickly at how close they’d just come to hitting you. She closed the door again and turned back toward you instead.
You were standing up now, but slowly, like everything hurt. Your hands were scraped up badly, small cuts and dirt across your palms, and the knees of your jeans were ripped open with fresh blood showing underneath.
Alysa felt a sharp twist of guilt in her chest. She knew she’d shoved you hard, harder than she meant to, but she didn’t have time to think back there. She just had to move you out of the way.
She jogged into the deli quickly, told the worker to call the cops and an ambulance, grabbed a bottle of water and a box of tissues from the counter, and then webbed both car doors shut so the two inside couldn’t try to leave. Then she walked back over to you.
Up close, she could see the scrapes better now, and she felt even worse. “I’m really sorry,” she said quickly, “I didn’t mean to shove you that hard.”
You exhaled slowly, trying to act like it didn’t hurt nearly as much as it did. “No, it’s fine,” you said, brushing some dirt off your jeans. “It’s nothing, really.”
She didn’t believe you for a second. She gently took your hands in hers, turning them over carefully, examining the cuts. Your skin was warm and slightly shaky under her gloves. She opened the water bottle and poured a small stream over your palms to clean them.
You winced slightly when the water hit the scrapes, and she noticed immediately and stopped. She grabbed the tissues instead and gently dabbed at your hands, trying to dry them without hurting you more.
“Thank you,” you said quietly after a moment. “For saving me… again.”
She looked up at you then, the white lenses of the mask meeting your eyes, and for a second she didn’t know what to say. “Oh,” she said. “Uh… yeah. All in a day’s work.” Then she added, almost automatically, “Maybe you should stop walking out at night.”
You huffed a little. “You sound like my girlfriend.”
Alysa’s lips twitched under the mask but didn’t respond.
You kept talking, looking down at your hands while she finished cleaning them. “If she found out what happened tonight, I think she’d kill me. Especially since she told me coming out tonight would be stupid.” You paused, then added quietly, “But I just knew if I did come out, I’d see you.”
Alysa froze for half a second, her hands still lightly holding yours.
That was exactly where she didn’t want this to go.
She finished wiping your hands and let them go slowly. “Right,” she said. “Well. You should listen to your girlfriend more. I should go.”
She put the items down and was about to turn but you reached out and grabbed her forearm before she could move.
She looked down at your hand on her arm, then back up at your face. Your eyes were wide and serious and a little desperate — the same look you’d given her earlier when you asked her to stay at your apartment.
“Wait,” you said. “Please. I actually still need your help.”
She tilted her head slightly. “With what?”
You lifted your scraped hands slightly. “I need a quote for my midterm paper. And since you shoved me so hard, you can make it up to me for janking up my legs and hands.”
She almost scoffed. She owed you something? She had just stopped a car from hitting you. But she didn’t say that. She just crossed her arms slightly and said, “What?”
“I’m writing about you. Can I ask you a few questions?”
She blinked behind the mask. “Spider-Man doesn’t do interviews,” she said automatically.
In the distance, she could already hear the faint sound of sirens getting closer — police and probably an ambulance. She needed to leave. Now. She should’ve already left.
But you were still holding onto her arm, looking up at her like that.
And she realized this was her entire life now — constantly choosing between you and everything else. Between patrol and sleep, between real life and crime, between telling you the truth and keeping you safe, between leaving and staying.
And every time, as of lately, it seemed she hasn’t been choosing you. So maybe, in a way, she did owe you something tonight.
So she did something very stupid.
In one quick movement, she stepped closer, wrapped an arm around your waist, shot a web upward, and pulled both of you off the street before you could even react.
The ground disappeared beneath your feet as you yelped, instinctively grabbing onto her shoulders as she swung you both up between buildings, the city dropping away below you in a blur of lights and wind and height.
She landed a few seconds later on the roof of a nearby building, setting you down carefully on your feet before letting go.
She looked at you for a second, then sighed quietly under the mask.
“Okay,” she said. “You get five minutes.”
———
You stood there for a second, breathing a little faster than normal, looking out over the city lights and then back at him like you were trying to decide whether to be impressed or terrified.
“Okay,” he said, like this was completely normal. “You get five minutes.”
You nodded quickly, still catching your breath, and then forced yourself to remember why you were here in the first place. You reached for your phone with slightly shaky hands and opened the voice memo app, hitting record. Then you pulled your small notepad and pen out of your jacket pocket, flipping through the pages until you found the list of questions you’d written earlier.
You were a little nervous now — not just because you were standing on a rooftop with a masked vigilante, but because you actually had him here. You didn’t want to waste the chance.
“Okay,” you said, clearing your throat a little. “Um. First question. This is for a journalism midterm, by the way.”
He crossed his arms slightly. “You already said.”
You glanced down at your notes. “People have a lot of theories about where you came from,” you said. “Your… origin, I guess. So I wanted to ask — why? Why do this at all?”
He was quiet for a second, then shrugged a little. “If you can help,” he said, “you kind of have a moral obligation to.”
You wrote quickly, nodding. “Okay. So then… how did you get your abilities? I mean, you don’t exactly move like a normal person.”
He tilted his head slightly. “It’s in the name,” he said. “Use your imagination.”
You let out a small breath that was half laugh, half frustration, and wrote something down anyway. “So you’re not going to confirm or deny the radioactive spider theory.”
“No comment,” he replied.
You flipped to the next question. “Do you see yourself as a hero?” you asked. “Even though some news outlets and the police have referred to you as a criminal or vigilante?”
He scoffed slightly at that, and you had a feeling you knew exactly which outlets he was thinking about.
“I don’t really care what they call me,” he said. “I’m just trying to do good and help as many people as I can. That’s it.”
You nodded slowly, writing again. “Okay. So then what about accountability? You’re not part of the NYPD, you don’t answer to any official authority — who holds you accountable when things go wrong?”
He didn’t hesitate this time. “Things are already going wrong if I have to step in in the first place,” he said. Then he added, a little lighter, “I’m more like… damage control.”
You looked at your list again, then at him, and then back at your notebook. You went quiet for a second, and he noticed.
You closed your notebook halfway but kept your pen in your hand. “How do you decide which crimes to intervene in?” you asked. “I mean, New York is massive. Things are happening everywhere all the time. Why help one person instead of another? Like… tonight. Why were you on that street at that exact moment I need you?”
He went very still. It was the first time all night he didn’t answer right away.
You watched him carefully, the way his shoulders shifted slightly, the way his head tilted like he was buying himself time to think of an answer.
“I just…” he started, then stopped. “I just felt like I needed to be there,” he said finally. “I kind of can’t help it sometimes.”
You took a small step closer without even really thinking about it, closing the space between you slightly. Part of it was curiosity, part of it was instinct — you knew from interviews that sometimes people told you more when you made them uncomfortable, when you didn’t give them space to retreat into rehearsed answers. Now you were standing only a few inches away from him, looking straight into the white lenses of his mask.
His chest was rising and falling a little faster now, and you noticed that too.
You stared at him for another second, then asked more quietly, “If the mask came off right now… would the people of New York be surprised by who you are, disappointed?”
He didn’t move. He didn’t step back, didn’t laugh it off, didn’t deflect with a joke like he had earlier. He just stood there, looking at you through that mask, and for a second something about this felt… familiar. You couldn’t explain why. It was just a feeling — the way he stood, the way he tilted his head slightly when he was thinking, the way he didn’t immediately walk away even though you were definitely invading his personal space.
He cleared his throat finally and looked away slightly. “New York doesn’t want to know who I am,” he said.
You didn’t respond right away. You were still looking at him like you were trying to solve a puzzle.
After a second, he shifted his weight and said, “I hope I gave you what you needed. Door’s over there.”
He pointed behind you, and you turned to look automatically. There was a metal door on the roof that led down into the building stairwell.
When you turned back around, he was gone.
You sighed, looking around the rooftop, expecting to maybe see a web line or hear something, but there was nothing. Just the wind and the distant sound of traffic below.
You walked slowly toward the door, then stopped halfway there as a realization hit you. You turned in a slow circle, looking at the skyline, then at the surrounding buildings, then down over the edge of the roof toward the street below.
This was your building.
He had dropped you on the roof of your own apartment building. You stood there for a long moment, confused, your brain slowly catching up. How the hell does Spider-Man know where you live?
———
Alysa knew you got a perfect score before you even told her.
You had texted her a screenshot of the grade with a bunch of excited messages, and she’d smiled at her phone while sitting on the edge of her bed, still sore from practice, hair damp from a rushed shower. She wasn’t surprised. You were always going to get a good grade. You were one of those people who actually cared about your work, who rewrote sentences three times just because they didn’t sound right the first two. She’d told you she was proud of you, and she meant it.
But then the next time she saw you, she asked to read the paper. She’d tried to sound casual about it, like she was just curious, like she just wanted to see what you wrote. In reality, she wanted to see how you used the quotes she’d given you on the roof that night. She wanted to see how you described Spider-Man. She wanted to see how you described her.
“Oh, I mean,” you said, closing the laptop halfway like it suddenly wasn’t important anymore. “It’s kind of boring. Just a midterm.”
“I still want to read it,” she said.
You shook your head slightly. “I didn’t even end up getting the quotes I wanted, so I had to rewrite part of it. It’s not the version I wanted.”
And Alysa had just looked at you for a second, trying to figure out if you were joking. “You didn’t get the quotes?” she asked.
“No,” you said, shaking your head. “I tried looking for stuff online but nothing useful.”
She knew you were lying. She knew because she had stood on that roof and answered your questions herself. But she couldn’t say anything. She couldn’t call you out on lying because you did get the quotes. You’d ask how she knew there were quotes to begin with.
So she just let it go. But it bothered her. More than she expected it to.
Not because you talked to Spider-Man. Or because you wrote a paper about him. But because you’re lying to her about it. And she couldn’t even confront you without exposing herself.
So she carried that with her for a few days, a quiet irritation sitting in the back of her mind while she went to classes, went to practice, and went out at night swinging across the city like she always did.
A few nights later, she was out again, swinging across the city, going from borough to borough, but it was quiet. Too quiet, honestly. She checked a few spots where things usually happened, stopped a minor shoplifting situation, helped someone get into their locked car, and that was about it. Nothing big. Nothing urgent.
So she decided to call it a night early.
And then she had a thought.
If she showed up as Spider-Man… maybe she could get you to admit why you lied to her. You talked to Spider-Man more openly than you talked to her lately anyway. Maybe you’d tell Spider-Man the truth.
So that was the plan.
She swung toward your neighborhood and landed on a building across from yours, crouching on the edge and looking down toward your apartment window. The lights were on, and she expected to maybe see you at your desk or on your bed with your laptop or something.
Instead, she saw you sitting on the fire escape. You were leaning back against the brick wall, one leg stretched out, the other bent, and you had something in your hand. A lighter flicked, a small flame lighting your face for a second, and then she saw the smoke.
Alysa blinked behind the mask.
You were smoking.
She had never seen you smoke before. Not once. She didn’t even know you smoked. You always smelled like coffee or laundry detergent or some pine tree candle. Never smoke.
She watched for another few seconds, confused and a little concerned, before she couldn’t help herself anymore. She shot a web and swung across the street, landing lightly on the railing of the fire escape a few feet away from you.
You looked up, surprised for about half a second, and then you just kind of… nodded at her like this was normal now. Which, honestly, maybe it was.
She spoke first, before she could stop herself. “Does your girlfriend know you smoke?”
You let out a small huff of laughter, bringing the blunt to your lips again. “Our little secret,” you said.
That annoyed her more than it should have.
Why were you keeping secrets from her but telling Spider-Man everything?
“Why do you smoke?” she asked.
You shrugged, looking out over the street instead of at her. “I don’t do it all the time,” you said. “I haven’t smoked since last March. But everything’s been kind of… eh lately. At least this keeps the annoying thoughts away.”
“What thoughts?” she asked before she could stop herself.
You smiled a little, but it wasn’t a happy smile. “If I tell you, then I’d be thinking about them,” you said. “And that defeats the purpose.”
Alysa sighed quietly under the mask, not sure how to get you to talk about what she wanted without making it obvious. But then you surprised her.
“Oh,” you said suddenly. “I got a 100 on my midterm paper.”
She nodded. “Congrats.”
“Thanks,” you said. “And… thanks for the quotes. They helped a lot.”
Alysa went very still. “Oh,” she said. “Did you use them?”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
And that was that. You just confirmed it for her. You had the quotes and you used them. Which meant you lied to her when she asked about it.
She tried to keep her voice neutral. “What did your girlfriend think about the paper?”
You groaned immediately, dropping your head back against the brick wall. “There’s the thought I’m avoiding,” you muttered.
Alysa felt something in her chest drop.
She’s the thought you’re avoiding?
She forced herself to sound casual. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Rough patch?”
You sighed and nodded slowly. “I don’t really know my girlfriend anymore,” you said quietly. “Everything’s just… weird right now. I think we’re still dating. But it doesn’t really feel like that anymore.”
You turned away from her slightly, looking out over the street, and that’s when she saw it — the shine in your eyes, the way you blinked a little too slowly, the way your shoulders tightened like you were trying not to cry.
Alysa felt like the worst person on the planet.
She’d been so busy, so tired, so focused on everything she had to do, and she didn’t realize how much she was hurting you. Or maybe she did realize and just didn’t know how to fix it.
She wanted to reach out. She wanted to put her hand on your shoulder, pull you into a hug, tell you she was sorry, tell you she was trying, tell you she loved you. But Spider-Man wouldn’t do that. So she just stood there.
You wiped at your eyes quickly and sniffed, then let out a small laugh. “If only my girlfriend was around like you seem to always be,” you said.
Alysa didn’t know what to say to that.
You kept talking, staring down at the blunt in your hand. “I do really love her,” you said quietly. “But right now it just feels like disappointment after disappointment.”
She swallowed hard behind the mask.
“Like tonight,” you continued. “Tonight was supposed to be our ten month anniversary. And yeah, who celebrates months anymore, but I do. I told her days ago I wanted to do something and she agreed. But she’s not here.” You looked up at Spider-Man then and said quietly, “You are.”
Alysa felt like she’d just been punched in the chest.
She forgot. She completely forgot. You had mentioned something about wanting to spend tonight together and she had said yes without even thinking about what day it actually was.
She needed to leave. She needed to go home, change, and come back to your door like Alysa, not Spider-Man, and fix this.
“I’m sorry you’re feeling like that,” she said quietly. “But maybe you should talk to your girlfriend about it. Maybe you guys can work something out.”
In her head she was already thinking, If you just ask me to stay, I’ll stop going out every night. I’ll figure something out. I just need you to tell me you need me.
You stood up slowly, your legs a little stiff from sitting on the metal grate too long, and you stumbled slightly as your foot caught on the step. Alysa moved instantly, hands going to your waist to steady you before you could fall.
Your hands came up automatically and rested on her biceps, steadying yourself against her.
Now you were standing very close. Too close.
You looked up at her through slightly unfocused eyes, and she realized you were more out of it than she thought. The weed, the night, the emotions — your guard was down.
Your hands slid slowly up her arms until they rested at the back of her neck, fingers brushing against the seam of the mask.
Her heart started beating so fast she was sure you could feel it through the suit.
She gently grabbed your wrist before you could pull the mask up. “Don’t,” she said softly.
You didn’t really react to that. Instead, you leaned forward slightly and pressed a soft kiss against her cheek through the mask. Her brain stopped working for a second.
You pulled back and said, “I’m going to go to sleep.”
Then you stepped away from her, climbed back through your window, grabbed your ashtray, and slid the window closed. You gave her a small wave before disappearing further into your apartment.
Alysa stood there on the fire escape, completely frozen, her heart still racing.
Were you about to unmask her?
And if you had… what were you going to do? Kiss her?
You almost unmasked her. You almost kissed her again. You almost cheated on her — with her.
And the worst part was, you weren’t trying to hurt her. You were just lonely. You were just talking to the person who showed up.
Her brain hurt.
She had been so focused on keeping you safe that she forgot to actually be your girlfriend.
And now you were crying about her to Spider-Man, kissing Spider-Man, trusting Spider-Man more than you trusted Alysa.
She finally stepped off the fire escape and shot a web up to the roof, pulling herself away from the building.
One thing was clear though. She needed to go home, change, and come back to your door as Alysa.
———
Alysa didn’t remember the walk from her apartment to yours.
She remembered grabbing the flowers from the bodega on the corner — the guy had already been closing but let her in anyway, and she just pointed at whatever looked decent and handed him a crumpled bill without really thinking. She remembered grabbing snacks too, chips and candy and a bottle of soda because she had this idea in her head that maybe you could still salvage the night, maybe you could watch a movie, maybe she could pretend she hadn’t just stood on your fire escape while you cried about her to a version of herself you thought was a stranger.
By the time she reached your apartment door, her chest felt tight in a way she didn’t have words for. She unlocked the door with the spare key you’d given her months ago, quietly stepping inside.
The apartment was dim, only the small lamp in the corner turned on. You were asleep on the couch under a blanket, curled slightly on your side like you had been waiting and then gave up and fell asleep anyway.
Alysa stood there for a moment, just looking at you.
Guilt hit her all over again, heavy and suffocating. The flowers in her hand suddenly felt stupid. The snacks felt stupid. Everything felt like too little and too late and she knew it.
She set the flowers on the coffee table, the plastic crinkling softly, and placed the bag of snacks next to them. Then she walked over to the couch and crouched down so she was eye level with you. She reached out slowly and rubbed your back gently through the blanket.
“Hey,” she said quietly. “Baby, wake up.”
You stirred a little, brows furrowing, eyes fluttering open slowly. You squinted at the light, then at her, trying to focus. When you realized it was her, you pushed yourself up slightly, still half asleep.
“Did you forget it’s our ten month anniversary?” she asked softly, trying to joke about this, like this was something small, something fixable.
Your brows furrowed and you rubbed your eyes, sitting up and pulling the blanket around your shoulders. For a second she thought this would go like every other time she’d messed up — you’d sigh, maybe say something sarcastic, then forgive her anyway because you always did.
But then she saw your face properly. The look on your face wasn’t annoyed. It was sad. Distant. Like you were already somewhere else.
And that’s when Alysa felt something cold settle in her stomach.
This wasn’t like the other times.
She stood up slowly and sat on the couch next to you, turning slightly toward you and reaching out to touch your arm, but you pulled back just a little. Not dramatically. Just enough for her to notice.
You wouldn’t look at her. “I think we need to talk,” you said quietly.
Alysa nodded immediately. “Okay,” she said quickly. “Yeah. Let’s talk.”
You pulled your knees up to your chest and wrapped your arms around them, staring down at the blanket instead of at her.
“The last couple of weeks have been really lonely for me,” you said.
The words landed heavier than she expected.
“I feel like this relationship means more to me than it does to you,” you continued quietly. “And I hate feeling like that. I hate feeling like I’m bothering you when I want to see you. I hate not knowing where you are half the time. I hate feeling like I don’t even really know you anymore.”
Alysa’s chest tightened immediately. “Wait, wait,” she said quickly, leaning forward. “You do know me. I haven’t changed at all. I’m just busy right now. That’s all it is.”
You nodded slowly, but tears were already forming in your eyes. “I know you’re busy,” you said, voice shaking slightly. “I know you have school and skating and everything. I know you’re not doing this on purpose. But that doesn’t change how it feels.”
Alysa didn’t know what to say to that. She opened her mouth and then closed it again.
You wiped at your eyes quickly and kept talking anyway, like if you stopped you wouldn’t be able to start again.
“I think it’s best if we break up,” you said quietly.
The world stopped.
That was the only way Alysa could describe it. Like everything went silent and heavy and distant all at once. Like someone had knocked the air out of her chest and she couldn’t get it back. Her ears were ringing and she was pretty sure you were still talking but she couldn’t hear the words properly.
Break up.
The words echoed in her head like they didn’t belong in a sentence coming from you.
“I still love you,” you were saying, voice breaking now. “I really do. But I need space. I need space to get over the constant disappointment. The constant hurt. I can’t keep waiting for you and wondering if you’re going to show up or not.”
Alysa finally found her voice again, but it came out desperate and shaky. “Please don’t do this,” she said quickly. “I’ll change. I’ll drop skating if I have to. I’ll be here more. I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t— please don’t do this.”
You shook your head immediately, crying now but still trying to talk through it. “No,” you said. “I’m not going to be the reason you stop doing something you love. I know what skating means to you. I know how hard you’ve worked for it.”
“I don’t care,” Alysa said, voice cracking now. “I care about you.”
“I know,” you whispered. “I know you do. And I love you too. I just… I can’t do this right now. Maybe later. Maybe when things calm down and we’re not so stressed and we actually have time for each other. Maybe we can try again. Because I do love you. But I can’t keep feeling like this.”
You finally looked at her then, eyes red, tears running down your face, and Alysa felt like she was watching something she loved get taken away from her in slow motion.
She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know how to fix this. She could stop robbers and hold cars in place and swing across buildings without thinking, but she had no idea how to stop this.
Her instinct was to fight. To argue. To convince you. To promise anything.
But she looked at you and realized you’d already made up your mind. You weren’t angry. You weren’t yelling. You were just… tired. Sad. Done.
So she did the only thing she could do.
She gave you what you asked for. Space.
She stood up slowly, feeling like her body didn’t belong to her anymore, like she was just moving because she knew she had to. She grabbed her keys from the table without looking at you again because she knew if she looked at you she would fall to her knees and beg.
She walked toward the door, every step heavy and slow, and when she opened it she could hear you start sobbing behind her.
Her hand tightened around the doorknob so hard her knuckles turned white.
Everything in her wanted to turn around. To go back. To hold you. To tell you everything. To rip the mask off her life and tell you why she was gone all the time, why she was tired, why she was trying so hard and still failing you.
But she didn’t.
She stepped out into the hallway and closed the door quietly behind her.
And for the first time in two years of being Spider-Man, for the first time in all the nights she’d almost gotten hurt or almost gotten caught or almost fallen from a building, Alysa Liu felt like she had just lost the most important fight in her life.
———
Hi! I know the poll is still active but majority has so far voted for Spiderman Alysa so I had to go with it first. But I’m sure I’ll write Spiderman reader eventually too bc I’ve gotten so many requests and they’re all so good 😊 soooooo
———
Tag list :P
(Plz if u want a tag just message me or inbox I feel like comments get lost too easily)
———
@eternalcitadeltotem @lyzsaphrodite @mrtwizz @petrolprettyplease @gaytrashgoblin @graceeeeeesblog @slippinthrumyfingers @aka-persephone @moltenessencepuppet @sani-sunny @mochi-nugs @yournextdooralien @bobthegoldfishhere @raiex @internetgurll @urwavvy @falleo4d @exclusivitymajor @fruitgirl329 @wintrjen @givewandahugspls @mannslvr @gimbapab @kozukenapplepi @blueslashephaim @ririhatesmen @jenxninja
