YOUR FRIENDLY NEIGHBORHOOD SPIDER-MAN
there was a reason jude bellingham had survived seven years without anyone uncovering he was spider-man. unfortunately for him, you had never been particularly good at leaving impossible things alone.
tags: superhero!au, spider-man!jude bellingham/fem!journalist!reader.
OKAY, LET’S DO IT JUST ONE TIME.
His name was Jude Bellingham.
If you asked the world, they would tell you he was a footballer first. They would tell you about impossible goals struck cleanly into the top corner, about packed stadiums chanting his name until it became something larger than a person. They would mention magazine covers, interviews, trophies lined neatly behind polished glass, and the smile that cameras loved almost as much as supporters did.
They would be right, just not entirely.
Long before headlines tried to summarize him into a handful of words, before reporters began dissecting every movement he made on and off the pitch, before children wore shirts stitched with his surname across their shoulders, Jude had been something else entirely.
He had been sixteen years old and he’d been bitten by a radioactive spider.
And for the past seven years, he’d been the one and only Spider-Man.
You probably know the rest. He signed his contract to Real Madrid, saved a bunch of people, got hit by a drone, and won matches he still can’t quite believe happened.
Most importantly, he learned that no matter how carefully you built a double life, eventually, the two halves started bleeding into each other.
Being Spider-Man had never been the difficult part, it was being Jude Bellingham afterward.
The bruises hidden beneath tailored suits. The cuts across his knuckles explained away as particularly aggressive training sessions. The nights spent chasing armed criminals across Madrid, wrapping up far too quickly because Carlo Ancelotti expected him at Valdebebas by nine the next morning.
Sleep became a luxury, lying became second nature.
Eventually, he grew frighteningly good at both.
There were mornings when he couldn’t remember whether the ache in his ribs came from ninety minutes on the pitch or from being thrown through the side of a building the night before. Sometimes it was both.
The media adored calling him disciplined. If only they knew.
If only they knew that Spider-Man had arrived late to patrol because Jude Bellingham had media duties after a Champions League match.
If only they knew that Jude Bellingham had once missed training because Spider-Man had spent the night hanging upside down from a collapsing bridge, making sure every last person made it home alive.
People often asked him how he handled the pressure. They thought they were talking about football.
He always smiled. “It comes with the job.”
It did. Just… not the job they imagined. Still, somehow, it worked.
Seven years. Hundreds of villains. Thousands of people saved. Countless goals scored. A Champions League medal resting in the same apartment as web-shooters he rebuilt every other week after they inevitably exploded.
His life was chaotic. Complicated. Ridiculous, on occasion. But it was his.
And despite everything, the sleepless nights, the close calls, the secrets heavy enough to break most people, he had finally convinced himself he’d found the perfect balance.
Madrid had Spider-Man, the world had Jude Bellingham. Neither knew the other existed.
Until, of course, there was you.
Your name had never trended for scoring a last-minute winner or saving a city from the brink of catastrophe.
You were a journalist, not the kind who chased celebrity scandals or waited outside restaurants hoping to catch someone famous holding the wrong person’s hand. You investigated patterns, timelines, contradictions. The kinds of stories people overlooked because they weren’t loud enough to demand attention.
Your editor used to joke that if someone breathed suspiciously within a fifty-kilometer radius, you’d somehow connect it to a government conspiracy before lunch. Which was precisely why your latest investigation had become the bane of everyone’s existence inside the newsroom.
Because according to you, Jude Bellingham was Spider-Man.
“…You’re insane,” your editor didn’t even bother looking up from the stack of papers covering his desk. “You’ve officially lost your mind.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do you understand what you’re saying?”
“You’re telling me that Real Madrid’s star midfielder is somehow also the masked vigilante swinging around Madrid every night.”
“The one with sponsorships.”
“The one currently preparing for El Clásico.”
“…And your conclusion isn’t that there are two people.”
“…Or that Spider-Man occasionally resembles him.”
“But that they’re literally the same person.”
Silence. Then, your editor leaned back in his chair. “You know what?”
“I almost admire the confidence.”
“You’ve built an entire corkboard.”
“It helps visualize connections.”
“You connected training schedules to crime statistics.”
“You tracked Spider-Man sightings over three years.”
“You requested hospital admission records.”
“Every time Jude reports a muscle injury, those records vanish, conveniently and consistently.”
“You interviewed paramedics.”
“They described someone matching his height.”
“You compared voice recordings.”
“Eighty-nine percent similarity after masking crowd noise.”
“You measured his wingspan.”
“You measured his wingspan.”
“It was publicly available.”
He stared at you for a very long time, then, sighed. “If you ever publish this, every newspaper in Europe will laugh at us.”
“They’ll apologize afterward.”
“They’ll revoke my press credentials.”
“They’ll give them back.”
You smiled. “They will when I’m right.”
He groaned loud enough for the entire newsroom to hear. “Find me one.”
He pointed dramatically toward the door. “Until then, stop accusing footballers of being superheroes.”
“I never accused anyone.”
“You literally just did.”
The newsroom had stopped pretending not to listen several minutes ago. Someone in the back whispered, “Is this the Spider-Man girl again?” Another voice answered, “Yeah.”
“Still thinks Bellingham’s Spider-Man?”
You ignored every single one of them. Because unlike everyone else, you were certain that Spider-Man was Jude Bellingham.
The only problem was proving it, before he realized someone had finally figured him out, and decided to do something about it.
The first time Jude saw you in person, he didn’t know your name. He knew your face, which, somehow, was infinitely worse.
Mixed zones were muscle memory. Smile. Answer. Reveal nothing. Repeat.
“Congratulations on the win!”
“How are you feeling ahead of the Champions League?”
“Did Ancelotti say anything at halftime?”
The cameras flashed in relentless bursts. Microphones were pushed toward him from every direction, each one bearing a different logo. He answered automatically, years of media training allowing him to speak while barely thinking.
“It was a difficult match.”
“The team worked incredibly hard.”
“We’re focused on the next game.”
“It was a collective effort.”
He hated how good he’d become at sounding genuine while saying almost nothing.
“…Do you know where Spider-Man was tonight?”
The question didn’t come from one of the usual football correspondents. It came from somewhere near the back of the crowd. A woman with a notebook instead of cue cards, a recorder in one hand, and eyes that didn’t look at him the way everyone else’s did.
“…I’m sorry?” Jude’s laugh was polite, reflexive.
“Spider-Man,” your voice was calm, almost conversational. “There was an armed robbery less than two kilometers from the stadium during the second half. Witnesses said he never showed.”
Several journalists exchanged confused looks. What kind of question was that?
Jude blinked once. “I’m afraid I don’t keep track of Spider-Man’s schedule.”
A few reporters chuckled. You didn’t.
“You usually know everything happening in Madrid.”
“I try to keep up with football.”
His grin widened by exactly the amount his media coach would’ve approved. “I’ve found that’s enough to keep me busy.”
Your pen scratched across the page.
Jude noticed, of course he noticed. God, you were writing things down.
You thanked him politely and stepped back, allowing another journalist to ask about tactics. The scrum moved on. Jude’s attention didn’t. Not once.
The moment he reached the locker room, he ducked into a bathroom stall, locked it, and had his phone out in seconds.
Spider-Man girl. Nothing.
Investigative journalist Spider-Man. Nothing.
Reporter Spider-Man Real Madrid.
“Patterns of Vigilantism: Why Madrid’s Hero Is More Predictable Than We Think.”
“The Missing Eight Minutes: Every Time Spider-Man Failed to Appear.”
Jude felt his stomach drop. No. No, no, no—
He opened the latest piece.
“…Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
That night, Jude did something profoundly stupid.
He didn’t sleep. He didn’t ice his knee or review match footage or do any of the things Carlo’s staff had carefully scheduled for his recovery. Instead, he sat on the edge of his bed and read every single article you’d ever written. All of them. Twice. Then he read the comments. Then he read a Reddit thread where strangers were, God help him, agreeing with you.
By three in the morning, he’d made a decision.
Your apartment was on the fifth floor of a building in Lavapiés. He knew this because he’d spent twenty minutes finding your address through a combination of press accreditation databases, Instagram geotags, and an alarming amount of luck. The window leading to your fire escape was unlocked, he’d checked that, too, from a neighboring rooftop with a zoom lens that had no business being that sharp.
Reckless. Stupid. Unbelievably dangerous.
He landed on the fire escape without a sound. The mask stayed on.
Through the glass, he could see you at your desk, laptop open, bathed in the cold glow of the screen. Printed maps covered the walls. Highlighted schedules. Photographs connected by colored string like something out of a conspiracy theorist’s fever dream. At the center of it all, pinned above your monitor like a trophy, was a photograph of Jude Bellingham celebrating a goal at the Bernabéu. Arms wide. Grin massive. Next to it, a grainy image of Spider-Man in an almost identical pose.
You didn’t scream. You didn’t flinch. You just turned, looked at him through the window, and for one horrible second, he realized: you’d been expecting this.
Then you smiled. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”
He slid the window open and stepped inside, trying to project the kind of confidence that had absolutely abandoned him the moment your eyes met the white lenses of his mask. “We need to talk.”
“Do we?” You leaned back in your chair, utterly unbothered. “Because I was under the impression you’d been avoiding me for weeks.”
“I don’t know who you are.”
“Sure you do.” You gestured vaguely toward your corkboard. “You’ve read everything I’ve written. You probably read it twice. You seem like a twice kind of person.”
He said nothing. The silence was damning.
You stood up, and he tensed instinctively, but you just walked past him to the kitchen counter. “Coffee?”
“I’m not here for coffee.”
“That’s a shame. It’s good coffee.” You poured yourself a cup anyway, took a slow sip, and watched him over the rim. “So. Are we doing the whole thing? The menacing vigilante routine? The ‘stay away from this story or else’ speech? Because I have to warn you, I’ve been threatened by better.”
“I’m not here to threaten you.”
“Good. Because I’m recording this conversation.”
Jude’s blood went cold. “You’re what?!”
You tapped your collarbone. A small, black microphone was clipped discreetly to the neckline of your shirt. “Journalist. It’s what we do.”
“You’ll what?” You raised an eyebrow. “Web me to the ceiling? That would make a fantastic headline. ‘Spider-Man Assaults Reporter’. Very heroic.”
He hated you. He hated you so much in that moment, and he didn’t even know your name.
“What do you want?” he asked, the words coming out more tired than threatening.
You set down your coffee cup. For the first time, the playful edge in your expression softened into something more serious. “I want to know if it’s true.”
“You already know it’s true.”
“I have evidence. That’s not the same thing.” You took a step closer, studying him with the kind of intensity that made him feel like a specimen under glass. “I want to hear it from you. What actually happened?”
The question hit him like a crosswind he hadn’t seen coming. Nobody had ever asked him that before. Not directly. Not like this.
“Because I’ve been chasing this story for three years. Because I’ve lost sleep, friends, and at least one job over it. Because I need to know if the person wearing that mask is a hero I can trust, or just another celebrity who’s gotten very good at hiding.”
Jude was quiet for a long moment. Outside, a siren wailed somewhere in the distance. Inside, the only sound was the hum of your laptop and the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat.
Slowly, he reached up and pulled off the mask.
Your expression didn’t change. No shock, no triumph. Just a small, almost imperceptible nod, like he’d finally confirmed something you’d known for a very long time.
“Okay,” you said, your voice quieter now. “Then sit down, Jude. Let’s talk.”
He should have left. Every instinct screamed at him to leave, to disappear into the night and never look back. But instead, he found himself sinking into the chair across from your desk, still holding the mask in his hands.
You reached over and switched off the recorder.
“Off the record,” you said. “For now.”
Jude exhaled. It wasn’t relief, exactly. It was more like the moment before a free kick, when the wall was set and the crowd was silent and everything in the world came down to a single, terrifying, perfect point of focus.
“My name is Jude Bellingham,” he said, “and I’m Spider-Man.”
You smiled. It was different from before, softer, genuine.
“I know.” You slid the coffee pot toward him. “Now tell me something I don’t.”
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