spiderman!art who lives one floor above you and he’s swinging in and opens the window and what should be his room to sneak back in and he accidentally sneaks into your room. His cute downstairs neighbor who he’s fairly friendly with. She’s surprised and also excited cause she’s a huge fan of the masked vigilante and has some newspaper clippings taped above her bed about Spider-Man. Now art can’t think or talk to her properly because Jesus she has a crush on him, well not *him* but still. So now he visits her as Spider-Man sometimes just cause he feels more comfortable flirting with her while masked and in his persona. I need a series of this now please and thank youuuuuuuuuuu. Also can I be 🕷️ anon???? If not that’s super cool bestie <3 love ur work!!!
well, yes! and hi, now officially, 🕷️ anon! super sorry for the late reply.
NEIGHBOR-NICE
author's note; i'm so so so happy to be back to writing after neglecting you guys for so long but i fear that i don't like making bots that much anymore and it feels like something i need to do and i don't want it to be a chore plus i think c.ai has really stopped caring about it's creators and users and i've been reading more about the harm of ai and it only makes me want to turn back to traditional writing even more so my cai acc won't be deleted for the sake of the people who really enjoy do the bots but minnie.cai will become minniewrites. i am so glad to be writing something light-hearted and comedic for once!!!!
word count; 3.8k
tags/warnings; basically just fluff and banter, alcohol mention, very slight injury/bruise care, lying? i guess
summary; you thought your upstairs neighbor was just a nice guy with heavy footsteps and bad luck with furniture assembly. what you didn’t expect was the city’s masked vigilante crawling through your bedroom window one night by mistake. he says it was an accident. you’re not so sure. especially when he keeps coming back. now you’re caught between late-night coffee chats with spider-man, the stack of clippings you swore you’d never let anyone see, and the way he calls you neighbor nice like it’s an inside joke you don’t remember agreeing to. it’s not the wrong door this time. it’s the wrong window. and maybe, just maybe, it’s the right person.
................................~⚡︎🕷⚡︎~.................................
Art’s spidey sense, I believe, does not stop him from being clumsy one bit. Yes, he’s Spiderman and he’s good at it but he doesn’t just stop being ditzy.
You first met Art when he moved into your apartment building. He’d knocked on your door, sheepishly asking if you had a screwdriver to spare. You didn’t - but your downstairs neighbor, a seventy-something man who owned the restaurant on the ground floor, did. The only thing you could offer Art was coffee and company. So you sat on his kitchen counter, sipping from your mug, while he pieced together furniture. Occasionally, you held a few screws, which you decided counted as teamwork.
Art had just finished his second year at Stanford, finally allowed to live off-campus. Privacy was important to him - apparently, he couldn’t stand floormates. To you, though, he was just your neighbor: the nice guy upstairs who stomped when he walked, always held the elevator for you, and helped carry your groceries when your arms were full.
When his teammates decided to celebrate his new place, the night spiraled. One drink turned into two. Two into four. Four into him swaying down the hallway, fumbling his keys at your lock. You opened the door to find him stubbornly jamming a keychain that read “Todd” into the wrong apartment.
The first time you realized your new upstairs neighbor might be a disaster waiting to happen, it was close to midnight on that very Saturday.
You were in the middle of your late-night ritual. Warm tea, blanket on the couch, some mindless show playing in the background,when the sound of fumbling at your door pulled your attention away. Not just a soft knock, not even the cautious rattle of a neighbor double-checking if they’d left their keys inside. No, this was aggressive. A metal-on-metal scrape, like someone trying to jam a key into the lock over and over and failing. You froze at first. Living alone had taught you to pay attention to noises like that. It wasn’t exactly comforting to know someone was desperately trying to break into your apartment in the middle of the night. But then you heard it, the faintest curse. Low, slurred, frustrated. Definitely a voice you recognized. You crept closer, peeking through the peephole. And there he was.
Art.
Your upstairs neighbor.
The one you’d met just a few weeks ago when he needed a screwdriver and ended up in your kitchen drinking coffee while assembling his bedframe. The one who stomped like a baby elephant across the ceiling, carried your groceries without you asking, and nodded at you in the elevator like you were old friends even though you’d barely spoken.
Now, he was swaying in front of your door, clutching a keyring in one hand and glaring at your lock like it had personally wronged him.
You opened the door just as he smacked his palm against it in frustration.
Art stumbled forward at the sudden movement, catching himself on your doorframe with a clumsy laugh. His cheeks were flushed, his hair a little messy, his eyes glassy. He smelled like whiskey and cheap bar perfume.
“Hi,” you said cautiously, leaning against the frame.
He blinked at you. “…You’re not my living room.”
“Good observation.”
He looked down at his hand, squinting at the keyring like the letters on the tag might rearrange themselves into something familiar. Then he held it up for you to see.
The tag was bright blue, with bold black letters. TODD.
You stared at it. Then at him.
“You’re not Todd either.”
“I-” He hiccupped, then frowned, then laughed at his own frown. “No. No, I’m not Todd. Unless Todd lives here now? Do you live here? Oh.” He blinked again, taking in your living room over your shoulder like it was brand new information. “This isn’t my apartment.”
“Nope.” He swayed, shoulders dropping as the realization sank in. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t embarrassed, either, which somehow made it worse, he just looked… lost. Like a kid who’d wandered into the wrong classroom and couldn’t figure out where to sit. “You live upstairs,” you reminded gently. His brows shot up like you’d just solved a very difficult equation. “Upstairs! Yes. I live upstairs.” He gave you a triumphant little grin, leaning his entire weight against your doorframe. “You’re smart. You should come help me find it.”
You crossed your arms, trying not to laugh. “You can’t find your own apartment?”
“I could,” he argued, his voice pitching up boyishly. “I just… forgot how doors work. That’s temporary. I’ll be fine.”
“Right.” You stepped aside anyway, because as funny as this was, you didn’t really want him wandering the hallway until he fell asleep in front of Todd’s apartment. “Come in for a minute. You need water.” He brightened like you’d just offered him gold. “I do need water!"
So you led him inside. He nearly tripped over your welcome mat on the way, caught himself on the wall, and then looked around your place with the fascination of someone who thought IKEA furniture was a modern art exhibit. “This isn’t my living room,” he muttered again, squinting at your couch. “You’ve said that,” you replied, handing him a glass of water.
He downed it in one go, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then grinned at you. Wide, lopsided, utterly unbothered by the fact that he’d just embarrassed himself at your door. “You’re nice,” he announced. “Like… neighbor nice. Not everyone’s neighbor nice, you know? Some neighbors suck. But you’re the kind who gives you sugar when you run out and doesn’t yell when you stomp too much. You didn’t yell. That was nice.” You raised a brow. “You’re self-aware enough to know you stomp?”
“I don’t stomp.” His face scrunched up like you’d accused him of something heinous. “I… walk enthusiastically.” You laughed before you could stop yourself. He grinned like he’d won something. The thing was - he was charming, even like this. Maybe especially like this. His guard was down. No polite, casual nods in the elevator. No awkward small talk in the hallway. Just… him. Warm and a little too loud and genuinely delighted by the fact that you’d given him water.
After a few minutes, when the glassiness in his eyes didn’t fade, you sighed. “Alright, let’s get you upstairs.” He perked up immediately, like you’d just offered him a prize. “You’re gonna walk me home?”
“Yes, because otherwise you’re going to end up in Todd’s apartment.”
“I don’t think Todd would like that.”
“Exactly.”
You slipped your shoes on and guided him toward the stairwell. He followed obediently, humming under his breath, muttering commentary about how your building smelled different at night. When you finally reached his floor, he squinted at the doors like he was trying to solve a puzzle. “Which one’s mine again?” he asked.
You pointed. “That one. The one you stomp around in.” He gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “Stomp? Neighbor, I walk like an angel.”
“An elephant, maybe.” He laughed, fumbling with his actual keys this time until the lock clicked. Then he turned to you, smile softer now, eyes heavy but sincere. “Thanks,” he said simply. You shrugged. “Just being neighbor nice.” He leaned against his doorframe, watching you for a moment longer. For a second, you thought he might say something else. But then he just grinned again, wide and boyish, and slipped inside.
The second time someone tried to get into your apartment by mistake, it wasn’t a drunk boy with the wrong key. It was a shadow landing on your fire escape with the soft thud of a cat and the quiet, rueful curse of a person who definitely knew better.
You had been awake for no real reason - honestly, because your brain liked to grab onto nothing and turn it into a parade. You’d stacked your pillows into a lopsided mountain and were reading by the light of your bedside lamp, the room warm with that late-night hush where the building sighed and the radiator ticked and the city outside made its broad, indifferent noises. You had your little ritual: tea gone lukewarm on the nightstand, a pair of fuzzy socks, the window cracked because you liked the night air even when it made your toes cold. Your wall of clippings, headlines and grainy photos and printouts carefully taped above your headboard, stared back at you whenever you glanced up.
Spider-Man catches thief on rooftop.
Masked vigilante foils late-night carjacking.
Who is he?
You didn’t have answers. Just the wordless itch of admiration. A crush, if you would admit it to yourself (you did not, except sometimes, when you were brushing your teeth and smiling at your own ridiculousness). You told yourself it was about the idea of him: brave, funny, anonymous. A secret you wanted to hold. So when your blinds rattled and the night stuttered around the sound of someone outside your window, your heart knew before your brain did. It wasn’t the clumsy clank of a branch or the gusty throw of wind. It was the purposeful, careful scrape of a gloved palm sliding along the frame, the whisper of fabric, the hush of weight. You sat up, book sliding off your blanket in a soft papery avalanche.
Then the sash lifted. A draft slid across your room. And a silhouette climbed through your window as if it belonged there. He half-crouched on the sill, one hand braced, one knee bumping your desk with a muted knock that sent a pencil rolling. Your lamp caught the red and blue first, the sleek geometry of the suit, the webbing that glinted faintly. Then the mask. Those wide white eyes that somehow still managed to look stunned and sheepish.
You didn’t scream. Later, you would credit the late hour, your tired brain, your unhelpful habit of fantasizing. In the moment, it felt more like gravity giving up: your breath dropping out of your chest because reality had changed shape right in front of you. He went very still, half in and half out of your life. The night air pressed at his back. His shoulders rose, a slow inhale, as if he were tallying possibilities: leave, apologize, pretend this was normal, vault back into the dark and take the error with him. “Uh.” His voice, when it came, was deeper than you expected. Not disembodied or robotic. Warm, alive, threaded with something you couldn’t place. “Wrong… window.”
You blinked at him. Your mouth did the thing where it decided to bypass cleverness entirely. “...You think?”
He stared at you, then at the room: the lamp, the plant that refused to die, the cluster of mugs on your desk, the blanket sliding into your lap, your feet in socks with little clouds on them. His gaze skittered past your headboard and then snapped back so fast you heard the faint shhht of fabric. You tracked his line of sight, the way the mask-eyes widened. Right. The clippings above your bed: the printed photos, the headlines, the ballpoint pen circling the word vigilante like you’d been grading the city paper with hearts instead of check marks. “Okay,” he said, and you could almost hear him talking to himself, not you. “This is... nope! This is not going to be weird. This is normal. People… decorate.”
“You climbed into the bedroom of someone who decorates with your face,” you said faintly, “and the poster part is the part that’s going to be abnormal?”
He made a sound like a laugh and a wince had a baby. Then he shifted his weight, and what little humor tugged at the air evaporated with your next inhale. There was a hitch in the movement. A stiffness across his side you wouldn’t have noticed if you weren’t watching like you were. He planted one hand flat on your desk and took the rest of the window in a slow, careful swing, landing on the floor with a grace that was a little too rehearsed; grace that existed to hide the places where it hurt.
You slid your legs off the bed without thinking. “Are you-”
“I’m fine,” he said. The reflex was automatic, quick. Then he adjusted, shaking out his hand like it had gone numb. “I mean. I will be. Wrong window. Not..." He seems to carefully consider his words, trying not to give up where he really lives. "The right building. My bad."
You tried to anchor yourself, to remember this was real: Spider-Man was in your room. “So, uh. Are you gonna... leave through the same wrong window? Or should I offer you water like a polite host?”
His shoulders relaxed by a fraction. “Water sounds… neighbor nice.”
Your heart did a funny stutter. Neighbor nice. You knew that phrase. You knew it. But before you could dig into the déjà vu, he was already crossing the room with those careful, controlled movements, like someone pretending he wasn’t sore somewhere.
You got up, half-dazed, and went to the kitchen. The mundanity of filling a glass grounded you. Tap hissing, glass cool in your hand. When you came back, he was hovering awkwardly near your desk, gloved fingers tracing the edge but not touching anything.
“Here,” you said, offering it.
He looked at the glass, then back at you. And that was when you realized the obvious problem: the mask.
“Oh,” you breathed. “Right. You can’t-”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his hand came up slowly, like he was thinking it through, like this was big. And then he tugged the mask upward, just enough to bare his mouth and jaw. It was the smallest glimpse of him, but it knocked the air out of you. Pale skin, faintly flushed from exertion, the sharp line of a jaw you’d never seen before. And lips- soft, chapped at the edges. Real.
You looked away before your stare gave you away, heat rushing to your face. He took the glass, drank in a few quiet gulps, then lowered the mask again in one smooth motion. Like pulling a curtain shut. “There,” he said softly, almost as if to himself. “Now I’ve ruined the mystery.” You shook your head, clutching the edge of your blanket again. “No. You just… made it worse.”
That laugh again. Warm, low, unguarded. It made your chest ache.
“You can sit,” you said, nodding toward your desk chair. “You’re making the room nervous.”
“I’m making the-” His head tilted. The mask didn’t allow for facial expressions, but somehow he looked amused. “The room?”
“She told me herself.”
“Right, and does the room accept your apology for letting masked men crawl through her window at midnight?”
“She does not,” you said, handing him the water. “But she’s willing to compromise if you promise not to bleed on the rug.”
He took the glass, gloved fingers careful. “Noted.”
He didn’t sit. He took a sip, and the lamplight slid across the smooth curve of the mask’s jaw, the thick seams where suit met skin. He moved the way athletes do when they’re trying not to show they’re injured. Compact, precise, with a little too much stillness between actions. Every time he breathed, your body echoed it without permission.
You shouldn’t have done it. You did anyway.
“You sure you’re fine?”
He paused halfway through another sip. The mask-eyes glanced briefly toward his side. “Minor disagreement with… a ledge,” he said. A tiny messenger of mischief hopped up in his voice. “The ledge started it.”
“That’s what ledges do,” you agreed solemnly. “Menace of the skyline.”
“Exactly.”
Silence took three slow steps through your room. It set down a new feeling. You scuffed your toe along the rug’s edge because it had suddenly become very important to ruin the rug’s straight lines.
“Want me to-” You gestured vaguely, because no part of your brain had a map for this. “I’ve got a first-aid kit?”
His head snapped up. The mask made emotion a grammar exercise, but you saw it anyway: the reluctance, not because of pride, but because the world probably asked him to be a symbol more than a person. You thought of your clippings, how every photo tried to freeze him into a myth. You were offering to treat him like a human. You hoped he said yes. You were already halfway to the bathroom.
“Are you sure?” he asked. The words bent a little at the edges. “I don’t want to intrude...”
“Too late.” You held up the little white box from under your sink. “Also, you already climbed into my room. Let me have one normal thing.”
A beat. Then: “Fair point.”
He moved to the chair finally, lowering himself with exquisite care. You dragged your desk closer to the bed so the lamp reached. The first-aid kit clicked open between you: bandages and antiseptic pads and a pair of tiny scissors that had only ever had to fight a hangnail. You told yourself your hands weren’t shaking. You told yourself that he wasn’t watching your hands.
“How do we…” You gestured at his suit, the glossy, almost-living thing of it. “Is there a zipper? Am I going to ruin your… whole vibe?”
“Please don’t ruin my whole vibe,” he said earnestly, and that startled laugh flew out of you before your dignity could catch it. His shoulders relaxed half an inch at the sound. “I can—” He reached back with a careful twist, pressed somewhere near his ribs, and a thin seam eased open with a whisper. The movement flashed a slice of skin: a quick, specific intimacy that made your breath misbehave. He tugged the fabric aside just enough to reveal a shallow, angry scrape and a bruise already blooming the colors of a storm.
You swallowed. “The ledge was rude.”
“The ledge had opinions,” he agreed.
“Hold still.”
He did. And you spent the next few minutes seeing the person beneath the headline. Up close, he smelled like cold air and city grit and something clean - tea tree soap, maybe. Sweat at the edges because he was human and not a poster. You dabbed gently, ridiculous concentration etched into your face like you were defusing a bomb that also happened to be a boy. He didn’t flinch. He watched you with a steady attention that made your skin prickle. The mask made his gaze unreadable, but something in the line of his body told the story: a little uncoiling, a quiet stretching-out, like you’d opened a window he hadn’t known he wanted. He exhaled when you smoothed the bandage down, and you felt the shape of that breath in your own lungs.
“I have to say,” he murmured, when you were finishing up, “this is a first.”
“Climbing into a fangirl’s bedroom and letting her patch you up?” You sat back, a smile in your voice you couldn’t quite help. “Not your usual Tuesday?”
“More of a Thursday mood, really.” He set the glass down and looked past you again, up toward the collage - the clippings that now felt like the loudest thing in the room. “So you’re… a fan.”
You could have laughed or lied. You didn’t. “I’m a fan,” you said. Then, quieter, honest enough to feel like a confession, “Of the kind of person who tries.” The mask couldn’t soften the way a real face could, but somehow those eye-shapes did anyway. “That’s… nice.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” you said. “I have a reputation to uphold.”
“Oh?” His voice perked. “And what reputation is that?”
“Unflappable, stoic chick. Master of minding her own business.”
“A noble calling.”
“Somebody’s gotta do it.”
He rolled his shoulder like he was testing the work you’d done. “You’re good at this.”
“I watched a lot of first-aid videos because my downstairs neighbor is in his seventies and refuses to stop carrying crates up from the restaurant like he’s starring in an inspirational film.” You tried to sound casual. You succeeded halfway. “Also, I have a terrible habit of tripping over nothing.”
“Nothing is a very aggressive opponent,” he said gravely.
“Close second to ledges,” you said. “Natural enemies of heroes and people with Tweety socks.”
His head tilted. “Tweety socks?”
You lifted your foot a little, wiggled your toes sheepishly. He looked down and let out a little wheeze in a way that told you he was absolutely grinning beneath the mask. “Those are…” He made a searching gesture. “Very stealth.”
“I wear them for covert operations,” you said solemnly. “Like staying up at three a.m. to pirate all the Barbie movies.”
“The greatest foe of them all.”
He came back after that, in a rhythm neither of you named. Some nights he was a sweep of motion, a quick hello before the rest of his life yanked him onward. Some nights he stayed, sipping too-hot tea and complaining about pigeons and letting you dab at a scuff on his knuckle while you argued about whether or not socks were a form of self-expression.
He flirted like it was easier to aim his heart when his face was hidden. It wasn’t one-sided; you gave as good as you got. It felt safer to step closer when the mask gave him that little square of distance. Safer to lean your shoulder against the window frame next to him and call him a menace when he made you laugh too hard. Safer to say that you liked his company. Safer to admit that you’d taped strangers to your wall and then let the stranger drink from your favorite mug.
There were nights he looked at the door instead of the window, and you saw it - the parallel crocheted between you in a tidy little loop. The wrong door. The wrong window. The wrong place, twice, somehow turning into the exact right one.
Once, you said it out loud. He’d been telling you about a ledge that had opinions (again), and you’d been telling him about a professor who thought deadlines were imaginary, and then you’d turned your head at the same moment and run right into each other’s quiet. You gestured between the window and the door like a person who didn’t know how to be subtle.
“You know,” you said lightly, “you could always try the door first.”
“Feels more permanent,” he said, and the truth in it made you inhale too fast. “Windows are for people who want to visit. Doors are for people who want to be let in.”
“And which one are you?”
“Still deciding,” he said, but the way he said it made a promise out of the question. That night, when he left, you stayed at the window longer than usual. Your palm against the cool pane, your reflection faint and strange against the city. You thought of a drunk boy at your door, keychain that said Todd, smile loose and soft and unguarded. You thought of the masked boy at your window, laugh low and warm, shoulders strong and careful. You lined those two silhouettes up in your mind until they cast one shadow. Your heart did not argue.
You didn’t say it. Not yet. Not even to the room.
But you knew.
And the room wrote it down.