.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“Okay, Michael.” Your son crossed his arms, looking at his father with all the attitude of an adult. He was apparently very irritated about being asked to clean up his toys.

You watched your husband’s jaw hit the floor. He looked positively scandalized. More, even, than when this same little boy had called him stupid.

“What did you just call me?”

“Michael.”

“That's not my name.”

“Yes it is, Michael. Michael, Michael, Michael.”

“My name is Daddy.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Who in this house calls me Michael?” 

“Mama.”

He looked at you like you’d committed the ultimate betrayal, and you stifled a laugh. Your oldest two had never called him anything other than Mimi or Daddy. They’d spoiled him by being his babies from the start, but the middle boys had given him a run for his money.

“Well, what’s her name?” He crossed his arms, mirroring your son almost exactly.

“Mama.”

He was going to explode.

“How is she Mama, and I’m Michael?” He said his own first name like it was a bad word.

“Because you call her Mama, and she calls you Michael.”  

He looked at you again with that pained, “how could you do this to me?” expression, and you held your hands up in surrender.

“I don’t refer to you as Michael to them! I only call you that to your face.” 

He turned back to your son. “Don’t ever call me that again. That word is officially banned in this household.”

“Okay, Mike.”

His face went the exact color of a tomato, and you knew if you didn’t diffuse the situation, he’d go right through the ceiling.

“Alright. Enough.” You put your hands on Michael’s shoulders, steering him towards the door. “Clean up. Then you can go help your brother clean too, for being disrespectful to your Daddy.”

“Take a breather, baby.” You patted his shoulders, smiling in spite of yourself. You knew he was genuinely disturbed right now, but he was still cute.

“I can’t believe he just said that to me.” He whispered when you were in the hallway and out of earshot.

“Michael, he’s just—”

“Oh, no.” He interrupted you, shaking his head. “That word is banned for you too. I don’t wanna hear anybody callin’ me Michael under this roof.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” You laughed, but he wasn’t kidding.

“I’m serious. Joseph always made us call him by his first name. I don’t wanna be like that.”

That shut your laugh right up.

“Hey, you are nothing like him. Do you hear me?” 

Michael was getting that distant, glassy-eyed look that he always got when you talked about this sort of thing, and you put a hand on his cheek to try and bring him back.

“You are the best Daddy in the world. If that’s what you wanna be called, then that’s what we’re gonna call you. Although… I do miss Mimi sometimes.”

That made him smile the way you hoped it would.

“Those boys are gonna be the death of me.” He groaned, but it wasn't so pained anymore. “How come you’re their favorite?”

“Hey, I don’t wanna hear it. You got five out of seven. Let me have the two.” 

He looked like he wanted to argue with that, but knew he had no ground to stand on.

“Buuut I think Uncle Marlon is going to be the new baby’s favorite.”

That made Michael’s face twist into something like he’d just swallowed a lemon, and he groaned again.

“Not helpful, Mama.”

You laughed and stood on your toes, giving him a peck.

“Sorry, Daddy.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You’re staring at it now, too, with your phone’s sage-green cord wrapped around your finger as you fidget, the receiver up to your ear. Laying down with your feet swirling mid-air, you push your weight onto your elbows and sigh.

Freshly showered and legs shaved, your calves rub against the softness of your sheets, yet all you can think about is Michael. The way he’d lay back on those same pillows, his pretty face slathered in the cream his dermatologist prescribed, arms open and beckoning you. You’d climb up the bed and into his arms to cuddle, and fall asleep with the steady beat of his heart as a lullaby.

Fuck, you miss him. When the hell had you become so goddamn needy?

The almost-nightly phone calls don’t help, either. They just make his absence bigger, like the largest elephant shoved in a room built for kittens or something. He’s halfway across the world touring, and it feels more like you’re a soldier-wife waiting for him to come home. It’s kind of pathetic.

You think it might be because you’ve done long-distance before, and now that you got him back but forced to part with him again, it’s like somebody punched every insecurity into the record player for the worst replay of your life. Every single mile between you doubling in on itself; an endless loop where you have to be okay and chill and breezy.

You’re not chill. And you are certainly not breezy.

(Well, anyhow, him moving to NYC for The Wiz and confessing to you while La Toya was punching Bill’s horn is certainly not comparable to what’s happening now, but it still makes you jittery. Though, if you survived the emotional Armageddon that was 1977, you can absolutely survive a measly Destiny world tour.)

“Mmh,” he laughs through the connection, voice light and airy, “pretty baby picked up… Not too busy for me?”

You took a bit longer to answer, it’s true. Kept giggling because you started picturing him performing, all sweaty and lost in it, your neck flushing by how much you loved to just… breath him in after a show. Are you just plain nasty? Well, shit. By the time it took you to snap out of it, the phone had already gone past the fifth ring.

“Sorry,” you chew through a giggle, legs swinging, “I just got out of the shower.” Right. Not a total lie.

He yawns, and you can almost picture his face scrunching up as he stretches. “Well, I jus’ woke up. Fresh as a daisy. Not like the rest o’these fools…” He shuffles around a bit, maybe switching sides or turning on his back, settling down with a sweet sigh.

“Wait, wait, wait,” you rush out. “Is Joseph making you share rooms? Is he that cheap—?”

“No, no, no,” Michael says. “We’re not sharing, but the walls are so thin we might as well be! Damn Tito snores like a jackhammer up in my ear all night. Oh, baby, you would’ve—”

At the same time, you say: “Ohhh, my God, Mike, I would’ve beat his ass—”

“—Beat his ass!”

You laugh, and his own sleepy chuckles wash over you through the receiver. And there’s a lull, small as both of you catch your breaths, the silence stretching the distance of the Atlantic until you can almost feel his breath ghosting on your cheek.

“I miss you, Mikey…” you whisper. And, fuck, you sound so clingy. Exactly like those girls you used to make fun of. Funny how life works. “How’s London?”

He shuffles again, voice raspy and scratching through the landline. It makes you shiver. “London’s beautiful… Would be better with you in it.”

Your ears flush, and even though he can’t see you, you duck your face shyly. “Smooth talker…”

“S’true. You’d love it. I’ll take you someday. With no tour or Tito’s snoring. Just us, y’know? I’ll take you anywhere you wanna go, baby. Promise.”

“I’ll hold you to it,” you murmur.

“You better, girl,” he chuckles. “But, enough ‘bout me. How was your day?”

And, God. Hearing his voice almost made you forget the day from hell you just had.

(To backtrack a little bit, here’s the scene.

It’s been four months since you landed your first real job in your field: a minimum wage internship, more like, working as a paste-up girl for LA Weekly. They didn’t care that you never went to art school, because all they wanted was someone who can work fast and have a steady grip. And, you could do that. 

For four months, you come home with your fingers sticky from the wax machine and sporting tiny cuts, courtesy of that old and wanky X-Acto knife they don’t seem too keen on replacing. But, you love it. 

You make filler art for the pages’ blank spaces, too; quirky characters and swoopy typography, stylized splashes that curl around too-short paragraphs and give you exposure with every print. It’s not yet much, but the counterculture LA Weekly covers is the gift that keeps on giving. Thousands of people have seen your art already, and it makes you giddy just thinking about it.

But for every win there’s a drawback, and your own came in the form of Gina.)

Like you said, today was hell. Sunset Boulevard was bustling even at 10AM, and five different paste-ups were waiting for you in the office as soon as you stepped foot inside. And Gina. That old hag Gina, who was probably jealous they wanted your art filling the pages and not hers, those scribbles she tries to pass off as ‘personal style;’ they look like they were scrawled by someone with a gunshot wound to the shoulder.

But, you’re getting ahead of yourself.

“Mike, I’m gonna drag that bitch by her hair one day, so help me God.”

He knows who you’re talking about immediately. He’s spent the last four months listening all about her. “What’d she do again, huh?”

“She treats me like I’m stupid, that’s what! And, and! Y’know what she said? You know what she fuckin’ said, Mikey?”

“You tell her to shut up, baby? You should jus’ tell her to shut up,” he eggs you on. (You don’t know this, but he loves it when you get worked up this way. You get a wild glint in your eye, and he bites his lip at the thought of that look as you lie down your duvet, still sweet from your shower. It has his hips adjusting just slightly, almost unconsciously).

“Somehow, from someone, I don’t know… She found out we’re dating. Yeah, you should’ve seen her face when she saw me this morning. Like I was a whore, or something! She tried to insinuate you had somethin’ to do with me landing the job, as if you have anything to do with this field! Like, what the fuck?!”

You’re so worked up you’re panting, neck now drenched in sweat, indignation pooling. 

Michael’s voice is sharp: “Uh-uh, what? Oh, baby, she’s got you fucked up… Are you okay? What’d you say to her?”

“Nothing to get me fired, don’t worry. I played the ditzy card, like I didn’t even know what she was talking about. She wasn’t too keen on explaining.”

He huffs. “Kept your composure. I’m so proud of you.”

His words wash over you like molasses, warm and sweet. You love Michael, but you’d never use his celebrity to get ahead; it’s something you’ve made clear ever since you got old enough to understand what worth meant. Every job and freelance gig you’ve landed has been because of you and you alone.

And, well, hearing him say he’s proud of you? It always does something.

“Should’ve seen her face, Mike,” you giggle, shifting in place to lie on your back. “I think she got jealous.”

“Of what?”

“Me. Us. Y’know, dating. Like you couldn’t possibly love a girl like me. She was staring me up and down like she was trying to figure out the appeal. She’s such a weirdo, she’s like, double our age. Ugh.”

“Good thing my baby’s headstrong, then. She doesn’t give a hoot about no Gina, right?”

“Right, right… Rise above, all that, I know. And I did!”

He chuckles. “And, you did. Wish I could be lyin’ next to you right now…”

“Me too, angelface,” you sigh into the receiver. It’s hot against your cheek, growing hotter.

“Do you miss me?” he asks, and it somehow sounds lower, coming from deep within his chest even though his voice is the softest sound you’ve ever heard.

You pause, staring a hole into your ceiling. Legs shifting, your shorts bunch up, chest falling and rising sharper now. Your breath a little shorter, neck a bit warmer. “Already told you I do,” you whisper. The silence crackles.

“Mmh, you did?” He draws the syllables out. “I don’t remember.”

He’s being a little shit. Too bad it’s working.

“I miss you, so much,” you say, voice trailing off into a breathless chuckle. “Keep falling asleep in your Disney shirt.”

He shifts again, something scratching against the landline, his breath heavy. His voice is shy, that sweet cadence you’re so used to. “Is… Is that what you got on? Right now?”

Oh. Oh?

Fuck. Your thighs clench, teeth sinking into your lip. You know he cannot possibly mean it the way you want him to, the way you’ve been craving for years now, but it does something to you anyway.

“Yeah.” You swallow. “It smells like you… Makes me feel like you’re here.”

A pause, before he rasps out: “Is that… all you’re wearing?”

What. The. Fuck.

It can’t be healthy, the speed at which you feel heat gathering. Oh, God, you’re so nasty. He’s being sweet and you’re being fucking dirty. He’s asking you about your pajamas and you keep thinking of him touching you, ripping your shorts in half and having you. Having his way with you.

Woah.

“No, um,” you say tentatively, “I have my shorts on, because… Well, y’know our house is always hot. And they’re really light, so…”

You play with the cord, anything to stop your hands from trailing. And suddenly, all those raunchy magazines and X-rated tapes you’ve stolen from your brothers’ stash come rushing forward. The way those girls talk to their men to get their way, to get them going.

What the hell, he’s miles away, you might as well. Right?

You continue, shyly: “If you were here I’d,” a huff, a giggle, “I’d probably be sleeping in my panties…”

Your voice broke into an uncertain breath at the word ‘panties,’ and instead of seductress it gave more of girl-who-doesn’t-know-what-the-fuck-she’s-doing. Which, to be fair, that’s exactly what you are, but still. 

You wordlessly wince at the silence that follows, begging God to just put you out of your misery already. But God is probably asleep, because your hips shift into a grind again and the movement leaves you swallowing a gasp.

“R–really?” breathes Michael. “Why’s that?”

You love your boy’s voice so much. And, shit, a girl has needs. But what you’re about to do is so, so beyond foul it has you going back and forth. Your hand drifts down and up again at least five different times. What Michael doesn’t know can’t hurt him, right? Fuck…

“‘Cause, you’re so, um,” you bite down on your lip hard, cold finger sneakily slipping past your waistband and your hairs, circling your slick before finding your nub. “Warm. You’d feel like a sauna, Mikey.”

You hear him softly laugh through the receiver, and you can picture exactly the face he’s making: head ducking, lips spread wide and the apples of his cheeks just begging you to take a bite.

“Which panties are you talkin’ about? The ones with that–ah…” He takes a breath. “The white bow?”

Your fingers keep working your clit, swirling and bucking against your palm, and it’s becoming increasingly harder to stay silent. “Y–yeah, the ones you found cute… With the, um, lacy frills?”

“Ye–ah… I remember. You look so pretty in ‘em, baby… Oh, I’m sorry,” he exhales, hard. “I’m bein’ real dirty right now, aren’t I? I’m sorry—”

“No!” you cut him off, and it works in your favor because it helps mask a whine you couldn’t swallow fast enough. You gather some slick again, your fingers returning to your clit featherlight, teasing, making your thighs shake. It boils you from the inside out. It feels so good. “Y–you’re not being dirty, Mike. We’re just… talking, aren’t we? Couples… talk…”

“Yes,” he agrees, almost too quickly. “Yes, you’re right. I just miss my baby… I miss having… Havin’ your head on my chest. Your legs around me while we sleep. I don’t sleep so well when we’re apart…”

“Oh, Mike…” you cry. Panic swells in your chest, thinking surely you’ve been caught, but he doesn’t comment on it right away. There’s only his labored breathing through the landline, and the distant sounds of something moving. It’s probably your own hand under your shorts.

God, you’re such a floozy. A girl of loose morals and whatever else those neighborhood ladies used to say about you when you started wearing skirts shorter than their husbands’ dicks. Skirts that had Michael flushing and sweating deeper than a sinner in church.

Fuck, your Mikey’s so sweet… You shouldn’t be—

“Are you… doing anything?”

His question makes you freeze. There’s nothing bouncing around your skull other than the echoing drumming of your heart, so loud he might be able to hear it over an ocean. 

Swallowing around the lump that formed in your throat, you punch out: “No.” Too fast. Rookie mistake.

“Oh… ‘Cause I thought I heard—”

“Are you? Doing something?”

Equally as fast: “No.” 

“Okay.”

“Yeah.”

Your hand resumes. “You were, um, saying something…?”

And, the most devastating thing happens. The worst thing that could’ve possibly occurred. Your eyes, clouded and hazy as they are, zero in on the innocent picture on your bedside table. Zero in on Michael. 

“Jus’ telling you how much I miss you, mama. That’s all. Can’t wait to get back home to you, y’know?”

At his pretty face, those lips you can feel on your cheek and mouth and neck like phantoms, and you start thinking deeper. About the way his body feels against yours, about how gorgeous he looks when he’s dancing, sweating with the rhythm. How his slender, lean arms wrap around you whole, squeeze you against his chest; how the dip of his waist feels like it’s made for your palms to cling to. At his legs. His pretty Bambi-like eyes. His mouth. His hair, be it the beautiful afro you’ve become accustomed to or the shorter cut he’s started sporting now.

Fuck. He’s still saying something to you over the phone, in that airy voice you love so much. Soft-spoken and sweet. Your baby’s voice is beautiful, and you just need him so much, and you miss him, and you love him—

Your orgasm washes over you suddenly, with no warning. You’re still staring at his picture, listening to his voice over the phone, writhing silently as you bury the receiver into your duvet in hopes he doesn’t hear anything. 

To your credit, you stay quiet; it’s a well-honed skill at this point. Growing up in a full house means it’s something you need to master quickly.

The shame washes over you just as violently.

“Baby?” you hear him, muffled because the phone is still pointed away. Your fingers stumble over themselves to bring it to your ear again. “Ah… Um, are you there? Kinda lost you for a sec…”

You nod, even though he can’t see you, biting on your knuckle. “Yeah, yeah I’m here,” you say groggily, hoping he falls for it. “I think I fell asleep,” you trail off in a yawn.

You’re so disgusting. He’s being a sweetheart, the most romantic boy you’ve ever loved, or rather the only boy you’ve ever loved… Telling you how much he misses you, how being away from you is torture, and all the while your mind’s in the gutter. 

Fuck, fuck! You shouldn’t have done that… God, you’re so appalled with yourself you could burst into shameful tears.

“Oh, that’s okay, sweet girl. It’s late, huh?”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “I’m sorry, Mikey. I wanted us to talk more…”

You’re sticky and gross, your now ruined underwear squelching uncomfortably as you shift and adjust. Just downright nasty all around the board. 

But, you’re still glancing at the picture; the phone receiver balanced handsfree between the bedding and your ear as your neck is turned. Running a finger over his form, nothing more than printed RGB and CMY filters, secured in a pretty heart-shaped frame your friend gave you. One of your favorite pictures together.

“No, don’t feel bad, baby. I want you to rest. We’ll, um,” he pauses, mutters something sharply under his breath you don’t catch that makes your brows furrow. “I’ll call you again tomorrow, alright?”

“Okay. I love you,” you sigh.

“Love you more.”

You giggle, you can’t help it. And before he has a chance to hang up, you pucker your lips and give the most obnoxious kiss to the phone receiver. You started doing it a while back, when he was still in New York. 

Even though you hear him groan, you know he loves it when you kiss him through the phone.

(What you don’t know, thank the Lord, is how hard he is as he punches the hotel-room phone shut. His hand’s been wrapped around his aching dick ever since you told him you’ve been sleeping in his shirt because it smells like him. He felt so guilty as he ran a finger up and down himself, softly and tentatively, imagining it’d be how your fingers would feel. Shy and unsure.

God, he feels so dirty. He should’ve never done that. You were missing him, a continent and an ocean away, and here he was being lewd and nasty and ungentlemanly. Maybe you’d slap him silly if you knew. The thought made him twitch. Fuck…

He didn’t get to cum, not that he deserved to. Not like this. Talking to you as if nothing’s wrong. He even lied to you, straight through his teeth right in his baby’s face. He slaps two palms over his eyes, exhaling a hot breath into the stale hotel air whose walls reek of cigarettes and champagne he never ordered.

A loud knock sounds on his door. Tito.

“We gon’ miss breakfast, Mike! Get your ass up.”

“I’m comin’!” he yells, voice cracking, messily tucking himself back in his pajama bottoms because he distinctly did not get to do just that.

It’s going to be a long, long ass tour.)

3leni © 2026 — i do not consent to my work being republished on other platforms or put into ai. do not copy or plagiarize.

NYC, 1981

“Look! Look! It’s Spider-Man!” A little boy’s voice echoed across the sidewalk, rapidly drawing the attention of everyone nearby. Conversations died mid-sentence. A businessman stopped checking his watch. A woman carrying grocery bags looked up so quickly she nearly dropped them.

Y/N had been on her way home, struggling with all the papers and files she had been carrying, when she stopped abruptly and followed the kid’s pointing finger toward the skyline.

‘There he is.’ She thought to herself.

A flash of blue and white swinging effortlessly between Manhattan’s buildings, disappearing behind one skyscraper only to reappear from another only a heartbeat later. Graceful and weightless. So smoothly it was almost criminal. Like New York City itself had decided gravity was optional for exactly one person.

A small grin appeared on Y/N’s face as her eyes caught the afternoon sun reflecting off the rhinestones scattered across the single glove Spider-Man wore over his right hand. Nobody knew why only one of his hands sparkled while the other remained hidden beneath the blue fabric of his suit. Rumors ranged from it being good luck to some elaborate superhero technology, but no explanation ever stuck.

It had simply become part of him, you know? The sparkly glove. Whenever the sunlight caught it just right, it flashed across the Manhattan skyline like a shooting star, announcing his arrival before anyone even laid eyes on him.

The crowd collectively gasped and pointed. Some waved. A few children jumped excitedly, convinced he could somehow see them from thirty stories above.

Nobody screamed hysterically anymore, not these days, no.

Spider-Man had become less of a mystery and more of a friendly neighborhood protector. Of course, nobody knew who he was. And nobody seemed particularly interested in ruining the mystery of his identity, There was an unspoken understanding throughout the city that some secrets were meant to stay secrets. And as long as he kept catching muggers before breakfast and dangling purse snatchers from traffic lights, new yorkers were perfectly happy minding their own business.

High above them, Spider-Man released one web and caught another. 

“AOW!” His voice bounced between the buildings.

The little boy burst into laughter. “Oh, he so does that on purpose!” he exclaimed, delighted, pulling at his mother’s elbow for excitement. “Awo!” He mimed in his tiny voice.

Y/N couldn’t help smiling. “He’s such a dork,” she murmured to herself, shaking her head fondly at the familiar figure.

Spider-Man disappeared around another building, only the occasional glimpse of blue between the steel and glass letting the city know he was still somewhere overhead.

She kept watching until he vanished completely into the skyline. A sigh escaped her.

It had become a small routine at this point: whenever she happened to catch a glimpse of him, her day somehow got a little better.

Y/N wasn’t one of those people who collected newspaper clippings or claimed they’d spotted him every other Tuesday. She simply liked the comfort of knowing that somewhere above the city, someone was looking out for it. It made New York feel… safer, in a way.

“One of these days,” she muttered to herself again, adjusting the strap of her tote bag, “Michael will introduce us.”

Her boyfriend, Michael, somehow, possessed the worst timing of any human ever. Which was particularly ironic considering he worked as a photographer for the Daily Bugle.

You see, the two worked for the newspaper, Michael in photography and Y/N writing. Well, now she was starting to call herself 'spider-writer', since their boss and chief editor, J. Jonah Jameson had been making her write solely for one topic and one topic only: your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.

Y/N was starting to get bored, to be honest. People always circled back to the same tedious questions — “WHO IS SPIDER-MAN?” or“HOW DID HE GET HIS POWERS?”. But Y/N had outgrown those wonders—now she had interests in things like why did New York trust him? What was his moral compass? Would he be there whenever needed? Why on earth did he war that bedazzled glove?

At least Jonah allowed her to get into those matters.

Michael, on the other hand, had photographed Spider-Man more than one time. He had sold front-page pictures of him and even claimed the guy was ‘actually really nice’. Meanwhile, Y/N had yet to see Spider-Man do anything more exciting than swing between buildings yelling nonsensical little noises.

He always seemed to catch the interesting parts. She seemed to always miss those spicy bits. It was beginning to feel personal, truly.

What Y/N didn’t know, though—what she couldn’t possibly know— was that she had, in fact, seen Spider-Man every single day face to face. Usually over breakfast, wearing oversized sweaters and apologizing for being more than five minutes late.

🕸️ྀི

“Excuse me!” His voice rang through the air. “Oh, careful there, miss!” He swung from a traffic light to another. “Hee-hee!” He yelled. 

Michael swung through New York as fast as he could, trying to make it to his girlfriend’s apartment before movie night officially became ‘Michael’s late again’ night.

“Oh, shoot!” He cursed as his eye caught the time in a digital watch nearby that hung off a nearby storefront. He looked around for a few seconds and spotted a familiar face shaking their head negatively at him. 

Bill Bray, who Michael considered a friend and was lucky enough to have as father figure, stood with his arms crossed over his chest, a bouquet in one hand and an unmistakable scowl of disapproval on his face, staring at Spider-Man as though he were one of the bad guys.

Michael sighed before dropping directly in front of Bill. The man stood in the street in front of a little flower cart wearing a beige hat, an elderly lady standing behind said cart looking a little taken aback. Her eyes wandered from Bill to Spider-Man a few times before she mimed Bill’s disapproving expression in a very comical way. Spider-Man was truly becoming a regular client nowadays. 

“I know, I know!” Michael complained, voice sounding tired, as he tried to reach for the bouquet. Bill retracted his arm, keeping the flowers out of Michael’s reach. Instead, he reached up and fixed Michael’s blue mask, smoothing it out where it’d shifted. Then he brushed a bit of dust from one shoulder. “Thanks.” Michael said softly. 

And then Bill pointed a sharp finger towards him. “You gotta watch out, kiddo,” He licked his lips. “One day that girl will get tired of these poor excuses of yours!”

Michael sighed again and ran his gloved hand through his face covered by the Spider-Man mask. “She believes me.” He argued. 

“No, no,” Bill cut him off mid sentence. “She loves you! And it’s about damn time you fill her in, and you know it!”

“Yeah, I know, I know.” 

The lady’s eyes darted between Michael and Bill with obvious interest. Then they drifted down to the bouquet. Every week Spider-Man would show up and grab a bouquet. Sometimes it was lilies, sometimes it was sunflowers. This week was sunflowers.

“Does Spider-Man have a special someone?” Curiosity got the best of her and she couldn’t resist in asking.

Spider-Man’s body language changes completely. He scratched the back of his neck and looked away, as if someone could see the blush that crept its way into his cheeks.

Bill rolled his eyes. 

“I, uh—Maybe.” Michael said in a shy tone, a little nervous laugh escaping through his lips.

“Ya know, ‘maybes’ buys flowers every thursday.” The lady mocked, an amused smile crossing her sweet wrinkled face.

“She’s uh,…” He bit his bottom lip underneath the mask. “Ehm, she’s a… a pretty young thing.” You could actually hear his smile.

The florist’s own smile widened. Even Bill fought back a grin.

“Oh?”

“Mhm.”

“And does Pretty Young Thing know she’s dating Spider-Man?”

Michael let out a breathy laugh and shook his head.

“No, she doesn’t and it’ll bite him in the butt!” Bill answered before Michael had the chance. 

“Oh, you must tell her, then!” The lady sided with Bill and Michael (besides recognizing signs of some irritation at their persistence) knew they were right. 

But the thought of it alone made his stomach tighten. Could you imagine if one of enemies found out she mattered to him? That could go wrong really quickly. All it took was one enemy. One photograph. One wrong person putting two and two together. Suddenly Y/N wouldn’t just be his girlfriend—she’d be a target.

And sweet, caring, love-of-his-life, Y/N deserved something as close to normal as he could possibly offer her. And Michael felt selfish enough to keep her as his girlfriend, even if that meant hiding the truth for as long as he could. She was everything to him. Everything.

He let out another sigh before checking Bill’s wristwatch. “Can I go now?” He asked, softly. Tiredly.

Bill clicked his tongue and let out a huff. He extended the bouquet to Michael and let him grab it. 

“Sunflowers are her favorite.” Michael said with a tiny smile taking over his masked lips. “Thanks, Bill.”

“No problem, kiddo.”

“Thank you, ma'am.” He tapped two fingers against his forehead before pointing them toward her with a boyish smile underneath the blue mask. “See ya!”, then launched himself back into the Manhattan skyline.

The florist watched him disappear, then turned to Bill. “He’s hopelessly in it, isn’t he?”

Bill didn’t bother looking up. “Yup.”

“Sweet boy, though.”

“Too sweet for his own good.”

🕸️ྀི

As Michael swung through the familiar streets and avenues on the way to Y/N’s apartment, something caught his attention, like it usually would: an orange cat was stranded on the fire escape of a six-story apartment building, meowing pitifully while an elderly man leaned out of his window a floor below.

"Oh, Mr Buttons…” He pleaded helplessly, one hand over his chest. "Please, please don't jump."

Michael sighed. "Really?" He looked toward the skyline. Then at the cat. Then toward the skyline again. Then at his wrist, which had no watch. Well, was already late. Might as well, right?

"AOW!” he yelled dramatically to absolutely no one before changing courses. A web caught the side of the building and, seconds later, Spider-Man landed smoothly on the fire escape.

"Oh, thank goodness!" The elderly man sighed with relief at the sight of him. Michael waved politely at the man.

He placed the bouquet under one of his arms, trying and hoping too keep it at least, somewhat, secure.

The cat blinked up at him with its enormous amber eyes.

"...Hi."

It let out one tiny, pitiful meow in response. 

Michael smiled beneath the mask. “M’kay, here we go..." He reached out carefully, scooping the orange fluff into his arms.

The transformation was immediate. Claws, teeth and hisses—all at once, everywhere.

"HISSSSS!"

"Oh my god!”

The kitten twisted like it was possessed, every paw going in a different direction. Michael kept trashing around along with the feline, trying to get ahold of it.

Sharp, tiny claws latched onto his forearm. Then his shoulder. Then— "Dang it!" One particularly offended swipe caught him clean across the cheek, getting a small rip through his mask.

At that Michael nearly lost his footing on the fire escape. "Hey, hey!" he pleaded, desperately trying not to drop the tiny menace. "I'm literally rescuing you! C’mon, don’t make this difficult!” The cat responded by attempting to climb onto his head. "No, no, no—we don't need to be up there!"

It hissed again.

“Now you're just being dramatic."

Another hiss.

Michael sighed, gulped and reached one delicate hand out, trying to pet the cat. “I know you're scared." The kitten bit his gloved index finger.

“Ouch!” He jerked his hand away. “Okay, maybe you're just mean."

The cat somehow managed to hook all four paws into his suit at once, dangling from his chest like an angry orange ornament.

Michael sighed.

“Out of all the dangers in the city, this is what will take me…” Michael complained under his breath, slowly starting to turn towards the old man’s window.

He finally managed to peel the cat off his suit one tiny paw at a time, cradling it firmly enough that it couldn't launch into another attack.

The cat glared up at him. Michael glared right back through the white lenses of his mask.

"We are never doing this again." He warned, pointing a sharp finger at the cat.

It sneezed in his face.

Michael closed his eyes. “Alrighty, then.”

A moment later, he lowered the little orange menace safely into its owner's waiting arms. The transformation was miraculous--It immediately began purring.

Michael stared in complete disbelief. "Oh, so now you behave?"

The old man laughed. "Mr Buttons can be... spirited."

"Spirited?" Michael touched the fresh scratch on his cheek, grimacing at the stingy feeling of touching it. “Sir, respectfully, your cat just tried to kill Spider-Man."

The cat blinked innocently.

“Oh, don’t you gimme that look!”

🕸️ྀི

A few moments later he reached the familiar alley he always hid his suit and ‘transformed’ into simply Michael Jackson, the photographer and boyfriend, before going to Y/N’s place.

Michael caught his reflection in the rain puddle at his feet and stared. The suit looked exactly as it always had: royal blue from neck to boots, broken only by crisp white panels sweeping across his shoulders, forearms and sides like the sharp lines of an expensive suit tailored for someone who spent more time in the air than on the ground. A black spider stretched across his chest, its long eight legs blending with the white. The mask's white lenses reflected the city lights back at him, giving away nothing of the tired eyes behind them. His right hand glittered--tons of tiny rhinestones caught even the weakest light, turning the glove into a shooting star whenever he swung between buildings. Most New Yorkers assumed it was part of the costume, some flashy signature, something Spider-Man wore simply because he was Spider-Man.

But in reality, the glove served a purpose: it was stitched with fine grip pads along the fingertips and palm, giving him greater precision whenever he aimed a web or caught the edge of a building at impossible speeds. The rhinestones weren't just decoration: their texture gave his fingers subtle tactile reference points, allowing him to adjust the angle of his wrist without ever taking his eyes off where he was going. The sparkle had simply been Michael's idea.

'If I have to wear it every day,' he'd once reasoned while tailoring the whole suit, 'might as well be pretty.'

He wiggled out of the blue suit before putting it away in a handbag he kept hidden behind a metal trashcan, the rhinestone glove being the last thing he placed inside the bag. He took a deep breath and zipped it shut, placing it hidden and shooting a web at it to keep it secure. You never know, right?

His curls were messy and a few stubborn locks stuck to his sweaty forehaed. Cheeks flushed bright red and the scratch on his left one (curtesy of Mr Buttons) stood out in bloody maroon. He hadn’t notice it, since it had stopped stinging.

Michael jogged with the bouquet in his hand to the familiar building where his girl resided. He finally made his way up to her floor, two steps at a time.

A little disappointed huff left him as he caught sight of the (now ruined) flowers as soon as he reached her door. Couldn’t even get her proper flowers, he thought. Shaking his head, he finally knocked. 

Y/N opened the door about two seconds later, a wondering gaze on her eyes. She was still in her work clothes, dark pants, white shirt and black vest on top. Michael gulped, looking away for a split second. He loved her in those outfits. But then again, he loved her in anything (specially nothing).

She lifted a brow and tilted her head, leaning against the doorway and crossing her arms over her chest. An amused expression crossed her face. “Well, did they fight back, at least?” She asked while nodding towards the wrecked flowers. 

Michael looked down at the bouquet and smiled shyly. “Bravely.” 

Y/N shook her head and reached out for it. She lifted the bouquet up to her nose and took a deep breath, sighing and closing her eyes at the pleasant fragrance. Then, she turned her eyes to Michael’s face, frowning and reaching out delicately for his cheek. She softly crossed her thumb across the bloody scratch. Concern started to kick in.

“Did you get hurt? What happened? Did you get into a fight? Do you need me to-” 

“Baby, baby-” Michael cut her off and took her wrists delicately into his hands. A warm smile appeared on his lips. “I’m okay. Just a scratch, isn't it?” He shook his head, quicly trying to come up wiht a good excuse. “I just, uhm, the camera, you know?”

Y/N narrowed her eyes at his response. “Yeah, right,” She pulled him inside by the arm. “the camera.”

Michael closed the door behind him and pulled Y/N back into him by the wrist, kissing her temple before she made her way to her kitchen, searching for a vase for the flowers. She stopped on her tracks briefly, though, turning around and pecking his lips not once, not twice, but three times. Michael kissed her back, leaning in for more, but was met with nothing but disappointment as she made her way to flower-care.

He looked down in a bummer, but trailed after anyway. That was until something caught his eye. A few papers laid messily around the coffee table in front of her couch, notes scattered and some cut-out newspaper pieces with Spider-Man’s name and pictures. His heart skipped a beat.

Among the scattered newspaper clippings and notes, one hastily written headline immediately caught his eye:

'WHY NEW YORK TRUSTS SPIDER-MAN?'

“Another Spider-Man article?” 

Y/N didn’t bother looking up, concentrated on making the flowers fit the vase. 

“Mhm.” 

“I’m starting to think you have a crush on him.” Michael teased, crossing the living room and placing himself right behind her, arms around her waist and chin resting on top of her head. 

Y/N raised her brows at that, shifting around to face him. Her back was now against the kitchen counter and her front faced Michael. “Well, if anyone has the hots for him, it’s Jonah,” She slipped her arms around his neck, lacing her fingers together behind it. “The man won’t let me write about anything else besides Spidey content. It’s annoying, really.”

“Mhm,” Michael nodded, a teasing smirk on his face. If only she knew how much he enjoyed reading her words on him. “Spidey, huh?” Oh, if only she knew. 

She frowned. “Are you jealous of Spider-Man, Mike?”

“What? No! That’s ridiculous!” He immediately replied.

Y/N burst out laughing at his defensiveness. She shrugged. “Oh, well, at least Spider-Man is pontual!”

Michael let out the most offended little gasp she'd ever heard. “You take that back!”

🕸️ྀི

A few minutes later, they were curled up together on Y/N's couch, wrapped beneath a shared blanket.

Michael managed to keep the bowl of popcorn equilibrated on his stomach as he laid with his head resting on Y/N’s tights. She sat up, a hand playing absentmindedly with his curls. 

About 15 minutes into the movie he fell asleep, little snores coming out of his mouth selling him out.

Y/N was used to it by now and she didn’t mind it—stopped pretended to get upset over it months ago. She carefully reached for the bowl on his stomach, placing it on the table next to her side of the couch before letting her fingers wander back into his hair. She looked down at him and softly ran a finger through the cut in his cheek. 

Before, she meant to clean and take care of it, not wanting him to get it infected or anything. Michael had protested, of course. “It’s barely even a scratch!” He had complained. “It’ll heal on its own.”

Y/N just stared at him looking very unimpressed before cleaning it with antiseptic spray and applying some healing ointment over it.

Michael secretly loved whenever she took care of him. He thanked her afterwards with a kiss.

Now, a warm feeling took over her chest as she stared at him. He was painfully handsome. And Y/N was painfully aware of it. But not only physically beautiful, no. He couldn't walk past someone who needed help without stopping. He remembered everyone's birthday, always gave away more than he kept for himself, and carried the weight of other people's happiness as though it were his own responsibility. Sometimes she worried he cared so deeply about the world that he forgot to leave a little of that kindness for himself.

She brushed another curl away from his forehead, smiling to herself. She loved him. It almost hurt just how much.

Her gaze drifted toward the stack of papers on the coffee table, and her stomach tightened ever so slightly. Jonah had been making her life miserable over the Spider-Man article for days now, despite the fact that the deadline was still a week away.

Her thumb gently brushed another curl away from his eyes. She let her fingertips linger against his cheek, smiling when a tiny snore escaped him. Her thoughts, however, betrayed her once more.

Spider-Man.

Y/N had stopped wondering about his identity long ago. Whoever hid beneath the mask had proven, time and time again, that he loved this city enough to bleed for it. To put strangers before himself. To keep showing up. That was enough for her.

Outside her appartment, the city didn’t sleep.

If you got really quiet, firefighters sirens could be heard several blocks away. Car horns and curses from angry civilians could be heard as well. A police helicopter crossed somewhere above the rooftops. People cursing. Shouting. Laughing. 

All across the city, crime carried on. New York never slept. Neither did danger.

But just for a little while, for just one quiet evening, Spider-Man did. Just for one quiet, rare night off, the mask sat forgotten inside an old handbag hidden in a forgotten alley.

The webs could wait. So could the city. Just for a little bit.

For a moment, Spider-Man allowed himself to be simply Michael Jackson. A shy photographer who was always running late; a hopeless romantic who bought wrinkled flowers every tuesday and who fell asleep on his girlfriend’s lap over movies.

Y/N smiled down at him one last time before closing her own eyes, still hoping Michael would introduce her to Spider-Man, someday. 

And somewhere in the coffee table, an unfinished articled asked:

'WHO IS SPIDER-MAN?'

The answer? Slept quietly in her lap.

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