Between Peter Parker/Spider-Man and Gwen Stacy and Harry Osborn and May Parker as romantic.
The city never slept, but neither did he. Swinging through the canyons of steel and glass, Peter Parker—a.k.a Spider-Man—chased the rhythm of sirens and the chaos of the urban jungle beneath him. His spider-sense thrummed a constant melody of vigilance, a companion as faithful as the webbing that carried him from one precipice to the next. Yet tonight, the tune changed, an odd dissonance that pulled him towards an alley where physics, it seemed, had decided to take a night off.
There it was—a shimmer, a tear in reality itself, a vertical pool rippling against the stark brick wall. Peter's feet touched the ground, the distant city sounds dampened as if he’d stepped into an invisible bubble. His scientific curiosity piqued, obscured for a moment by the infinity of possibility that lay beyond that otherworldly gateway. Was it a trick of light, a Mysterio-level illusion or something more?
Before caution could overtake wonder, the rift pulsed like a heartbeat, and Peter was through, tumbling into daylight and a sky scrubbed to a brighter blue than the one he'd left behind. He picked himself up, instantly aware of subtle differences—the architecture, the faces, the way the air whispered gossip of a different New York.
A scream splintered the moment, instinctively turning his head and watching as a familiar figure clad in white and teal, moving with the same acrobatic grace he knew so well, clashed against a swarm of mechanical drones. Peter's feet moved before his mind did, launching him up to take his place by her side. His arrival didn't go unnoticed, the figure's masked eyes casting a surprised glance his way in the midst of combat.
"Who are you?" she shouted over the cacophony of screeching metal and exploding circuitry.
"I'm—" Peter started, throwing a drone aside with a well-aimed web. "I'm like you. Spider-Man."
She nodded, a silent agreement to table the where and why for later. For now, in the unspoken language of two people who knew what it was to balance on the edge of responsibility, they fought as one. Drone after drone fell until the silence returned, save for their staggered breaths. She was a mirror, he thought, the same fire, pain, and resolve burning in her eyes that he felt in his own. Gwen Stacy was Spider-Woman, and New York was her city to protect.
Yet, as their gazes met and held, there was an uncharted world of differences to explore between them, and the feeling of being drawn to her, someone as marked by destiny as he was, felt both completely alien and entirely like coming home.
Harry Osborn watched from his shadowed office, the monitors flickering with the aftermath of the fight. The emergence of another spider had not been part of his calculations. No, this was an anomaly, a spanner in the works of his meticulously laid vengeance. Still, he mused, anomalies could be studied, manipulated, and in due time, crushed. For now, he had two spiders to attend to, a thought which turned the corners of his mouth upwards in a slow, predatory smile.
On the ground, Gwen extended her hand, a silent offering of allyship, and Peter took it, the bond between them secured with the warmth of skin against the coolness of their gloves. Together, they would navigate this strange resemblance of lives shared and lives apart—a tapestry of love, loss, and the indefatigable spirit of heroes.