this video never fails to make me laugh like wdym “as long as security is tight ill be tight” and minutes later you’re on the ground ?? 😭😭 the drive home must be silent asf
pairing ━━ ༯ spidey! michael x fem! reader
author's note ━━ ༯ this is a little hurt/comfort au that i wrote up over the last few days as life has been stressful and imagining michael as one of my fav comic characters has been comforting to me. also inspired by the lovely @amnesia-sc's spidey michael artworks.
w.c; 5.3k
The rain was a silver shimmering curtain call over Manhattan, a hissing, cold veil that turned neon signs into bleeding watercolors and slicked the fire escapes into glistening iron latticework.
It was late in the evening and you were awake because the city never truly slept, and neither did your thoughts. A book lay open on your lap, unread, your attention instead on the rhythmic drumming against your windowpane.
That's when you heard it; a big thud, and then a scraping metal sound, a pained gasp, and the unmistakable, wet slap of something heavy collapsing onto the grated platform outside.
Your heart jumped into your throat. You knew that sound. Well, you didn’t know for sure, per se, but you'd come to recognize the graceless arrival of your… occasional esteemed visitor.
You scrambled off the bed, the book tumbling to the floor, and yanked the curtain aside.
There he was, crumpled in a heap of red and blue, one arm draped over the railing, the other clutching his middle. The rain had plastered the suit to his form, turning it into a second, darker skin. And against that dark blue, spreading from beneath his gloved fingers with a terrifying speed, was a slick, violent crimson.
"Oh, my god," you breathed, fumbling with the window latch. It stuck, as always, and you shoved it upward with a grunt, the chill, wet air rushing in. "Spider-Man?"
He lifted his head. Even through the mask, you could see the effort it cost him. "Hey, neighbor," he said, his voice a strained parody of its usual melodic, teasing lilt. It was hoarse, punctuated by a sharp intake of breath.
"Mind if I… crash the party? Literally." He tumbled over, now fully laying on the ground.
You didn't answer, just reached out, your hands slipping on his wet shoulders. "What happened? You need to get inside before someone sees you… now."
"Got into a disagreement… with a new guy in town. And by guy, I mean ‘alien’ with crazy looking metal wings." He tried to help himself, pushing with his legs, but a full-body shudder wracked him, and he slumped.
"He made his point. Forcefully," his voice was strained but laced with humour.
"Let's just say the giant Pepsi billboard on 42nd street now has a… man shaped hole through the middle of it, from where he dropped me."
You just stared at him in sheer disbelief, not even beginning to be able to picture what the hell that messy scene looked like. And why the hell did this have to keep happening in your city?
With a strength born of pure adrenaline, you hauled him through the window by his arms. He was heavier than he looked, all lean muscle and sodden fabric, and you both tumbled onto your floor in a wet, tangled heap. He smelled like a damp…dog.
"Okay, okay, just lay still for now until I figure out what the hell I am going to do with you," you said, your voice trembling only a little. You were now running your hands through your hair on edge. What if a neighbor had seen you bring him in?
You pushed yourself up, and started mapping the emergency in front of you. The suit was torn across his abdomen, a vicious, ragged split. Beneath it, the wound was a nightmare; a deep, angry gash that wept blood steadily. It looked like some of the fabric of the suit was in the wound as well.
Your stomach turned, he was really badly hurt.
You'd prepared for this though, in a hazy, half-believing way… that maybe your spidey friend wouldn't just come along to your fire escape to watch sunsets and talk about how hot Iron Man was and instead, would need your help.
You'd gone into work after his 5th visit and brought some medical supplies home. The perks of being a trainee doctor.
As you ran to fetch the basket of supplies from your tiny bathroom, he spoke, his head lolling to watch you.
"You should see… the other guy. He's probably really banged up from where I – got him… But I guess we'd never truly know with all their crazy regeneration alien stuff. Probably not a scratch on him." He tried for a laugh; it came out as a wet cough. "I swear I got him good, I swea–"
"Shut up and save your breath," you ordered, kneeling beside him with the kit. You began cutting away the suit around the wound with blunt scissors, your fingers working with a clinical precision that belied the panic screaming in your mind.
The skin revealed was warm and golden brown, now marred by that brutal tear. You cleaned it with antiseptic, your touch as gentle as you could make it. He hissed sharply, his whole body tensing as you poured some saline over the gash.
"Sorry, sorry," you murmured.
"S'okay. Your hands are… really soft despite all the stingy chemical stuff." His voice was closer to a whisper now, his breathing shallow. "You're really beautiful, you know that?"
You froze, a cotton pad soaked in peroxide hovering over the wound.
Your eyes flicked up. He was looking right at you, the white lenses of his mask somehow managing to convey an intense, unwavering delight despite his pain.
You felt a flush creep up your neck. It was two in the morning. You were in ratty sweatpants and an old faded Madonna tshirt, your hair was a mess, and you had no makeup on.
"I look like I was dragged through a hedge backward," you muttered, focusing back on the gash. "Had a backshift at the hospital."
You began to apply antibiotic ointment, your fingers carefully smoothing it along the edges. "And now you're bleeding out on my floor. Not the time for flattery."
"It's always the time," he breathed. "And you're wrong. You look… gorgeous. Best view in the city. It's why I always come to your fire escape."
You ignored him, or tried to, as you started to place sterile gauze pads over the wound. The bleeding was slowing, thank god. But as you worked, you noticed other things. The way his left arm was held slightly stiff.
The faint, purpling bruise already blooming along his collarbone and sternum; with his beautiful black body hair swirling into the nebula-looking bruise on his skin. You gulped letting your mind wander slightly.
But you were distracted fairly quickly when he'd tried to sit up a little to help you wrap the bandage around his torso, he'd winced, his hand flying to his ribs to stop you.
"You took a bad hit to the head too, didn't you?" you asked, your voice firm. "You've never babbled on about how I look before."
You were concerned at the thought of him getting into these crazy fights; and challenging evil…aliens or whatever they were. A little concussion was the least of his concerns in reality, but not to you.
He didn’t reply straight away, still writhing dramatically in pain… it was hard to watch, but you pushed again to get an answer.
"I need you to think for me. When you went through the billboard. Did you fall head first?"
"Might've… dinged the noggin a little. It's fine. Hard head n'all."
"Mhm, okay can you stand so I can move you onto the bed?" you asked, the sternness still in your voice. “I’ll be able to bandage you up easier if I can stand over you.”
"Be honest Y/N, you're just trying to bed this ol' spidey boy, aren't you?" One of his weirdly emotive white lenses winked.
"Ugh no, you are so annoying. now stand!" He stood up, wobbling slightly but leaning on your shoulder allowed him to be able to hobble over to your cosy bed.
He lay up wincing, agonised sounds choking and spluttering out of him; the pain he was feeling was even making your eyes water.
"You'll need to stay here for a bit, rest. You're clearly in a bad way."
"Uh-huh, it will probably take me around 45 minutes to regenerate that skin on my torso, give or take."
Once his head was on the pillow, you started to think about the long lasting effects of a concussion and then the word vomit was outing your thought;
"Take off the mask."
The air in the room changed. The playful, pained flirtation vanished, replaced by a sudden, electric stillness. Even his breathing seemed to stop. "What?"
"The mask. Take it off. I need to check your pupils, make sure you don't have a concussion. And I want to see the rest of the damage." You sat back on your heels, crossing your arms.
"Don't you get the whole point of why I am masked, Y/N?" he asked, disbelief in his voice.
"You're in my apartment, bleeding on my expensive sheets. You don't get to have secrets right now," you said firmly. "Plus, aren't we friends now?"
For a long moment, he didn't move, he just looked at you through the hollowed out expression of his mask. The only sound was the rain and the distant sigh of traffic far below. Then, a slow, resigned sigh escaped him.
"You play dirty, girl. You know I can't resist you telling me what to do."
"I am not even going to begin to dissect what the hell that means. Off."
"Well I like when you are a bossy boots and tell me to water your plants whilst I am out on the fire escape or to swing over and bring you bagels from your favourite shop in the Bronx, or do whatever you ask, really–"
"Enough, okay, I get it, I tell you what to do a lot. But you come back, right? You may as well show me your face if we are going to be real friends. Your secret is safe with me."
He made a gargled sound of annoyance, but you knew it didn’t run deep. His gloved hands came up, trembling slightly—from pain or nerves, you couldn't tell. They gripped the edge of the mask at the back of his neck.
There was a soft, sticky sound as it peeled away from his sweat-damp skin. He pulled it forward,
over his head, and let it drop to the floor with a damp plop.
The first thing you saw was the hair. A cascade of dark, glossy curls sprang free, tumbling around his face and shoulders, shimmering under your lamplight.
Then, his face.
Sheened with a fine layer of rain water that made his olive skin glow in your orange salt lamp's light.
A small, angry gash marred the high arch of his cheekbone. His lips, which you'd never truly imagined, were full and lush, now busted and bruised at the corner, swelling prettily. That was the witty mouth that had been spouting major attitude at you when you chastised him for making so much noise right outside your window.
But it was his eyes that stole the air from your lungs. Huge, liquid brown doe eyes, wide with pain and vulnerability and a breathtaking shyness you'd never associated with the wisecracking wall-crawler. They held a universe of feeling, framed by long, sooty lashes. He looked heartbreakingly young, and impossibly beautiful.
"Oh," you said, the word leaving you in a soft exhale. You didn’t even realise he’d started to take off his gloves as well.
He averted his gaze, suddenly unable to meet yours.
The confident, flirty Spider-Man was gone, replaced by a young man who seemed to want to fold into himself. "Told you it was just a ding," he mumbled, his voice unmuffled now, a warm, smooth tenor, even roughened by pain.
You reached out, your fingers gently tilting his chin back, making him look at you. Your thumb brushed the unharmed side of his jaw. It was partially stubbly.
"What's your name?" you whispered, well and truly bewildered by the sight of this delicate man lying on your bed.
He swallowed. "Michael."
His eyes were now trained onto yours, brown and dark, and devoted. They were bloodshot from the rain, as he swung through the night.
"Michael," you repeated, and the name felt both strange and perfectly right on your tongue. “Huh. what a normal name,”
After breaking your mesmerised look, you pushed away your feelings of awe and got back to work. He seemed thankful for the change in pace.
You shifted to check his pupils with the small flashlight from your kit. They reacted normally.
"Okay, Michael. Tell me what actually happened. The real version. You seem fairly human to me and I am not satisfied with only knowing parts of your story. I need to figure out if we need to take you to a hospital."
His eyes went wider than they already were; “absolutely NOT. no hospitals - how are we going to explain I was flung through a billboard?”
“You are impossible, you know that?” You asked, mirth in your voice. “I should have told you to shoo the first time you commandeered my fire escape.”
He rolled his eyes and grinned at you. “But ya didn’t! Because you likeeee me.”
And then, he told you what happened. Haltingly at first, then with more flow as he saw you weren't recoiling, weren't fixing to call the news or trying to snap a photo on your film camera.
He told you about the sleek, chrome-skinned alien that had descended in a beam of green light, and how it had backhanded him through the Pepsi billboard like he was a ragdoll.
He had been trying to save the burning apartment block that the alien had set alight with some form of blaster gun. He'd been standing on the sidewalk, giving tiny little toddlers that he had rescued from the building some cuddles before he'd been scooped up by the threat, and beaten within an inch of his life.
This clearly didn't happen regularly—he had never looked this injured before, not in all the times he had come to visit you. He described the freefall, the desperate, dizzying swing across three blocks as he narrowly escaped, knowing his injuries would fail him in his fight. The only thought in his pain-fogged mind was the route back to your fire escape, your window, the one safe harbor he could think of.
"I knew you'd help," he finished, his eyes searching your face. "You always do. Even when I just show up to be a pest."
You finished taping the butterfly stitch on his cheekbone, securely, your hands lingering on the warmth of his forehead.
There was a bit of a tension; you weren’t sure if it was sexual… or if it was just innocent attraction. It had been a faint agony in the background of this whole mess and now had roared to life, crazily poignant in the small space between your bodies on the bed. The air was thick with the scent of him, rain, sweat, blood and then of course the chemicals you'd used on his wounds. Your eyes kept drifting to his bruised lips.
"You're not a pest," you said, your voice low. "You're a mess. A brave, stupid mess. Charming, somehow, despite it all."
He gave a lopsided smile. "You forgot handsome."
"You've got nerve fishing for compliments, Michael."
He seemed startled at the use of his name; almost like he forgot he even told you or that he had removed his mask. Every single interaction you’d had before was with it on; and despite that you’d still been attracted to his personality… his voice. Now that you knew what he looked like; those feelings were going to be hard to push down.
Your dating life was already a mess; you didn’t want to start courting a literal superhero. I think after this you’ve dealt with enough aliens to last a lifetime.
He began to lift himself up a bit on the pillows, so that he was eye level with you.
"Suppose so. I guess it's just because you're looking at me all weird and I want to know whether or not you find me attractive."
You were staring, admittedly. You couldn't stop.
"Does it matter if I do or not? I am helping you, aren't I?" you smirked, starting to pack up your medical kit.
"Well, yeah. I care what people think of me." His eyes had gone vulnerable again, sparkly and light.
"Didn't you tell me no one knew of your identity?" you asked, side eying him.
He started shifting in the bed again, uncomfortable, and hissed again.
"Shit—Michael, are you ok?"
"M'fine, it's just the regeneration can be a bit painful when the wound is this bad." You didn't even question 'regeneration' because, what the fuck? He looked human, but was clearly not.
"People know me in my normal life—I go to college and work in a recording studio when I'm not… taking care of Spidey business."
Once he settled against the pillows again, the shyness was melting from his expression, replaced by a warm, vulnerable affection that made your mouth go all dry.
The rain, the darkness, the intimacy of the wound-tending, it had stripped away every barrier of friendship you'd once had with this masked vigilante.
He was just a boy, a startlingly young man, sitting half-naked and injured on your queen size bed, and you were just you, and the world outside had ceased to exist.
Without overthinking it, without letting the fear or the absurdity of the situation stop you, you leaned forward. You closed the gap, and you pressed your lips to his.
It was soft, chaste, a mere brush of skin against swollen skin. But it sent a jolt through you both.
He went perfectly still for a second, then a small, sound escaped him; a mixture of pain and pleasure.
His hand came up, his fingers; bare now, you realised, slid into your hair, cupping the back of your head.
He kissed you back, carefully, tenderly, mindful of his busted lip. It was sweet and hesitant and flooded with a warmth that spread from your lips down to your toes. He tasted of something sweet, like nerds gummy clusters or something silly like that.
When you pulled back, his doe eyes were wide, dazed. A faint blush darkened his cheeks.
"Whoa," he breathed.
You sat back, your own face flaming. The reality came crashing in. The mask on the floor. The bandages. His age. He looked… he couldn't be older than twenty, he couldn’t be ages with you. You’d just turned 24. He had to be younger.
"Oh, my god," you said, the words tumbling out. "How old are you?"
The blush deepened. "Nineteen."
"Nineteen?" You stared at him, flabbergasted. All this time.
The fearless protector of New York, the quipping hero who'd faced aliens and other vigilante’s, was a teenager.
A teenager with incredible hair and soulful eyes who blushed when kissed. The absurdity of it swelled in your chest, wonder tangled up right alongside it. Underneath both sat a protective ache that was almost overwhelming.
He looked down, suddenly self-conscious. "I know, I'm…ugh, I should get home. I've imposed enough, and—"
"Don't you dare," you cut him off, your voice firming. The shock was receding, replaced by a fierce, surging certainty. You stood up, offering him your hand.
"You can barely stand. You're not swinging anywhere. If you need to stay the night to rest, you can. The couch pulls out. It's not much, but it's dry and it's safe."
He looked from your hand to your face, that vulnerability shining in his eyes again.
Slowly, he reached up and took it. His grip was strong, even now. You helped him to his feet, steadying him as he swayed.
"You're sure?" he asked, his voice small.
You led him the few steps to your couch, guiding him to sit. "I'm sure." You fetched a blanket and a pillow from your bed.
"Now, lie down. Try to sleep. I'll be right over there if you need anything."
He obeyed, settling back with a weary sigh that seemed to come from his bones. As you tucked the blanket around him, his hand shot out, catching your wrist.
His touch was warm and his hand… so big that it engulfed your wrist entirely.
"Thank you, Y/N," he whispered. "For… everything. My aunt would have murdered me herself if she saw the state I got into. She doesn't understand that I can heal from this sort of thing."
Really you didn't much believe it either or understand the science behind it. You just smiled, shaking your arm away from his grip.
You turned off the main light, leaving only the soft, golden glow of your bedside lamp.
You climbed into your own bed, facing the couch. In the semi-darkness, you watched him. His eyes were already closed, his long lashes fanning over his cheeks, his bruised lips slightly parted as his breathing evened out into sleep.
★⋆.
The first thing you became aware of was warmth. A deep, cocooning warmth that seeped into your bones, delicious in the way it cradled you in a state of perfect, sleepy contentment.
You were floating in the hazy, golden space between dreams and waking, and in that space, there was only him. Michael.
His face painted itself on the inside of your eyelids in exquisite, lingering detail. The memory of last night was a vivid recollection; a sensation, a tapestry of feeling woven from the lamplight.
The shocking softness of his curls between your fingers when you'd checked his head for lumps. The way his big, brown eyes had held yours, wide with a vulnerability that had cracked something open inside your chest.
The feel of his jaw under your thumb, the prickle of stubble against your skin.
And his hands. God, his hands. You dreamed of them. Long, elegant fingers, surprisingly graceful for all their strength. You saw them peeling off the damp mask, trembling slightly.
You felt them again, cupping the back of your head while you kissed, his touch so tender it made your heart soar. In your dream-state, those hands were everywhere; brushing hair from your face, tracing the line of your jaw, and going further and further down your body.
Their warmth seeped into you, claiming you in the gentlest, most possessive way.
A soft, sighing breath escaped you, a smile touching your lips as you nuzzled deeper into your pillow.
Then, a tickle. A faint, warm puff of air against your forehead. Your dreaming mind incorporated it—his breath, as he leaned in close. But the rhythm was off. It was too steady, too… present.
Your eyes fluttered open, blurry with sleep. And found themselves staring directly into another pair of eyes, mere inches from your own.
They were brown, liquid, and crinkled at the corners with unmasked, utterly delighted amusement. Michael was lying on his side, propped up on an elbow, his head resting on his hand.
He had clearly been watching you sleep for who-knows-how-long, a soft, goofy grin plastered across his beautiful, bruised face. His curls were a wild, glorious mess on his head, from having slept on them.
A jolt of pure, undiluted shock electrified your spine.
A strangled, gasping scream ripped from your throat; less out of fear, more out of the sheer, overwhelming proximity of him.
Your body spasmed backward, forgetting the edge of the bed existed. With a yelp and a clumsy thud, you landed in a heap on the floor, the blanket tangling around your legs. Your heart hammered against your ribs.
"Oh, shit! Sorry! I was trying to be funny!" His voice, laced with genuine alarm and a leftover trace of sleep-roughness, came from above. He was peering over the bed at you.
Before you could even untangle your limbs or process the embarrassment, strong hands were hooking under your arms. He hauled you up from the floor as if you weighed nothing, the motion so swift and effortless it stole your breath anew.
He meant to set you on your feet, but his strength, even injured, was miscalibrated.
You were pulled into him, your body colliding flush against his bare chest in the ripped spiderman suit. One of his arms banded around your back to steady you, the other still gripping your arm.
You were pressed together from chest to thigh, the thin fabric of your sleep shirt and his suit doing nothing to mask the solid, warm reality of him. The air left your lungs in a soft rush.
He looked down, his eyes wide with apology that quickly melted into something else. Something hotter, more intense.
The playful grin was gone, replaced by a look of dazed wonder. His face was so close you could see the individual flecks of gold in his irises, the faint scar bisecting his eyebrow. His bruised lower lip was slightly fuller than the upper.
He was leaning down, his head tilting. His gaze dropped to your mouth. The intention was as clear as daylight: he was going to kiss you. Again.
The morning-after kiss, without the blood and the panic, just the two of you, breath mingling, hearts pounding in a synchronous rhythm. The tension was insane, pulsing in the air between you.
Your own lips parted instinctively, drawn to him like a magnet. The memory of last night's sweet, hesitant kiss bloomed fresh and urgent.
Then, your nerves, frayed by the fall and the overwhelming onslaught of him, short-circuited your brain-to-mouth filter.
Just as his lips were a whisper from yours, you blurted it out, voice squeaky with adrenaline.
"You smell like a wet dog."
He froze. His gorgeous, soulful eyes blinked once, slowly, the romantic haze evaporating into pure, unadulterated bewilderment. "I… what?"
"A wet dog," you repeated, the words gaining momentum as you committed to the bizarre sabotage. "You should… you should probably shower."
A beat of silence hung in the air. Then, a slow, bewildered smile spread across his face, transforming his confusion into delighted amusement.
He threw his head back and laughed, a rich, warm sound that filled your small bedroom. It was a beautiful laugh, unrestrained and genuine.
“You think I am smelly and don't want to give me a kiss? I wish I could say I am surprised but most girls don't want to kiss me." He loosened his hold, letting you find your footing, and gave you a weird little half-wink-half-blink. That was something you certainly did not believe. That girls didn’t kiss him? He was a literal superhero.
You remained silent and motioned to the bathroom. He just tutted and padded to the bathroom. a few seconds later the spray started hitting the bottom of the tub.
You had mere minutes to change a bit and make sure you looked more presentable. You pulled on some clean jeans and a tattered sweater and then quickly fixed your crazy hair in the mirror.
The shower shut off just in time for you to be done with the pruning.
The door opened, and steam billowed out. Michael stepped out. Your breath caught.
The only thing covering him was one of your towels, slung low around his narrow hips. The towel was tied loosely, dipping below the sharp cut of his hip bones and the beginnings of a faint tan line.
The water clung to his deep, rich bronze skin, gleaming under the morning light. Droplets traced paths down the defined planes of his chest, over the faint, dark dusting of hair that formed a tantalizing trail from his navel downward.
That happy trail disappeared beneath the towel, pointing like an arrow to the pronounced V-cut of his obliques that framed his lean, taut stomach. He was oh so lean.
Your eyes fixed on his abdomen. The place where the vicious, bleeding gash had been last night. Only to find smooth, unbroken skin.
There was no pucker where he’d been sliced, not even a pink line. Nothing.
His curls, wet and free, were a riot of dark, springy coils framing his face. Water dripped from the ends onto his shoulders. He saw you staring and a slow, shy smile touched his lips.
"Better?" he asked, his voice breathy. “Or am I still smelly by your standards?”
You stepped closer, poking a finger directly at the center of his flawless stomach.
"Explain this."
He looked down, then back up, feigning innocence. "Explain what?"
"The hole that was here. It's gone."
"Oh. That." He had the decency to look sheepish. "Yeah. That tends to happen."
"You were milking it," you said, a smile threatening to break through. "All that 'ahh, the pain' drama last night. You were totally milking it."
A grin spread across his face, bright and unrepentant. "Okay, maybe a little! But in my defense, it did hurt! And you were so… nice about it." He shuffled his feet.
"It's usually the other way around. I'm the one looking out for everyone. I liked you looking after me. I didn't want your attention to wander. Sue me."
You laughed, shaking your head. "You're ridiculous."
Still chuckling, you turned and scooped his suit off the floor. You walked back and shoved the bundle into his arms. "Here. Get dressed. I've got class to go to."
He clutched the suit, the towel dipping even lower. "Yeah! Me too. Biochem. Wouldn't miss it." His eyes danced; he was a terrible liar.
"Right. Well, go get ready."
He grinned and ducked into your bathroom, closing the door most of the way. You busied yourself gathering your books. The door pushed open a moment later. "Uh, a little help?"
You turned. He was struggling into the top half of the suit. The tear you'd cut last night ran diagonally from his hip almost to the opposite side of his waist. Because he was leaning to pull it on, the torn fabric gaped open.
The torn material revealed a long, lean strip of his lower abdomen and hip, and the very low line of dark, curling hair that led downward. You saw a fleeting, breathtaking glimpse that made your mouth go dry. Huge. genuinely massive. Shit. He had to go or you were going to try sleep with him and you really did not need a casual relationship with a fucking SUPERHERO right now.
You gulped audibly.
"Okay! You're good! Suit's on!” You clapped your hands with finality, and turned around to grab your back.
“ I need to go, so please finish getting dressed and get out. And be safe. And don't scare me like that ever again."
He finally got the suit top settled, the material sealing most of the way.
He stepped out, now fully suited except for the mask. He took two quick steps toward you, leaned in, and pressed a soft, warm kiss to your cheek. His lips lingered for a second. He pulled back, eyes sparkling.
"See you soon, neighbor." His eyes were quite literally twinkling. “We can continue this,” he gestured between you, clearly marking the tension and the vibes exchanged. “At a later date.”
He pulled the mask on, gave you a little salute, and slipped out your window onto the fire escape.
You rushed to the window to make sure he was going to get away alright, and partially to make sure none of your neighbors were out for a cigarette or something.
He stood on the grated platform in the morning sun. He looked back at you, gave a final wave, and then simply stepped off the edge.
Your heart lurched. He fell, a plummeting streak of color, for one terrifying second. Then, a web shot out.
The line went taut, and his fall became a breathtaking arc, swinging him out and up into the open orange sky. He swung away, growing smaller against the city.
You let out a shaky laugh, your cheek still tingling from where he kissed you goodbye.
i know everyone likes spideymj but would it be crazy to ask for a spideyjaafar? hes so peter parker coded it’s crazy
ooooooo i love love love this ideaaaaa!!! i know @humannatures has some things written for spidey!jaafar (plus everything they write is phenomenal!) if you’re looking for more but i will happily try my hand at it for you my dear <3
spidey!jaafar who always has insane scrapes and bruises and tries his best to talk his way out of them without revealing his secret. he’ll either give an incredibly specific explanation that is so detailed it cannot possibly be the truth or he’ll just shrug and say he must have bumped into something and didn’t notice. either way, you don’t buy it for a second, but he can be weird about it if that’s what he wants.
spidey!jaafar and the way you always happen to bump into him seconds after spider-man swings away after saving someone from a mugging or stopping an accident before it happens. you’ll see spider-man, mask and all, and then suddenly jaafar just happens to cross paths with you and he’s a little out of breath and is tucking something back into his backpack before you can catch the flash of bright red and deep blue.
spidey!jaafar who catches you right before you’re about to cross the street, as a car races around the corner. it happens so fast you stumble over, but spider-man keeps you upright with a solid arm wrapped around your waist. and you can’t tell, but with the way the eyes on his mask squint, you think he’s laughing at you.
“don’t you have more important things to do?” you ask, irritated that this masked stranger seems to be teasing you even though he’s just saved you.
“weird way to say thank you,” he jokes, voice sounding vaguely familiar if a bit muffled and distorted, “and no, actually, i don’t.”
“really? no super villains to take down? no cats stuck in trees?” now it’s your turn for joking, even though you cross your arms across your chest.
“already met my cat quota for the week.”
that finally makes you crack a smile, and you wave goodbye before continuing on your way. behind the mask, jaafar’s grinning from ear to ear because there’s nothing he loves more than making you smile.
over the next few weeks, you see more and more of spider-man and jaafar. on your walks home from work or trips to the store or evening wanderings to clear your head, spidey always ends up swinging by - literally. sometimes it’s incredibly quick and leaves you wondering if you’re imagining things, but other times he’ll lower himself to the pavement and walk alongside you for a while.
you always bring up the same question, asking him if he has anything better to do.
and his response is always the same, that nothing is more important than your safety, and he quickly adds that he means the safety of all new yorkers not you specifically and now he’s rambling and he’s so grateful that you can’t see his face because he knows it would make things so much worse and he’d stammer and his face would flush.
bumping into jaafar more and more too and he always plays it off like a coincidence because how could he know which route you like to walk home on fridays??? and you feel like something’s up, like he’s not telling the whole truth.
but you like walking with him, and getting to know him better, so for now, you don’t question it.
* ATTENTION: This is a pre-order. Orders will be taken during July 1 - August 1. Predicted manufacturing times will be early August. Shippin
also good news for american buyers my new proxy is significantly cheaper so the base price for shipping will be $12! (taxes calculated separately by bigcartel themselves)
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