#hobie brown/reader

[aidemint]

To Break A Habit | Routine Doesn’t Get You Kisses Like These

Summary: You kinda-actually find out he wasn’t joking about the spider stuff. Okay. But you’re totally cool about it. Totally.

Word Count: 5.1k

Pairing: Hobie Brown/GN!Reader

Notes: 5 minutes of screentime and i’ve already wrote more about this guy in a week than i usually write about anything in three months jesus christ

Masterpost | AO3 |  Part 1 | Part 3

“40081’s got this hoodoo shit goin’ on.” Hobie sighs as he makes his way down the main hall of Spider-HQ, recounting his mission discoveries from days prior. “Some sort of bad luck spell that’s making the world lose its plot.”

Gwen paces beside him, listening intently. “Sinister Six behind it?” she asks with a frown. “Or do you think it’s something else?”

“Not certain,” Hobie responds with a shrug. “But I’m close to catching the anomaly. Things should reset once it’s out of the fabric.”

“Hope it gets resolved soon.” Gwen sucks in a breath from between her teeth. “Miguel’s not looking too happy these days.”

Oddly enough, the mission so far had been almost deceptively easy—three days into the operation Hobie had already located and shut down a multitude of energy pockets emanating from certain parts of the city. A variant of Mysterio or Osborn was bound to show up soon, as the sites were likely siphoning vitality from the dimension. Now he just needed to gather intel about the effects of the magic while playing the waiting game. Luckily for him, he has a direct source.

“Relax Gwendy, it’ll be fine. I even got in touch with one of the locals for—” Hobie starts assuredly, turning to address his drummer, but pauses and swivels around when she’s noticeably no longer keeping up with his stride.

“You what?” Gwen stands frozen in the middle of the walkway, eyes blown as large as dinner plates with her mouth slightly ajar. She readjusts herself with a shake of her head, though her hands and shoulders remain raised and stiff. “Hobie, please tell me you’re not getting to know a civilian. ”

“Then I won’t tell you that I’m ‘getting to know’ a civilian.” A roll of his shoulder and he’s back walking, half-lidded eyes peering at Gwen when she inevitably joins again, bobbing and weaving through a downcurrent flow of Peter Parkers. “And I won’t tell you that it’s strictly for information about the mission.” A coy smile tugs the edges of Hobie’s lips upward. “Probably.”

Gwen looks just about ready to explode at the last quip. “You just told me— Oh my God, you know that, out of everything, is against protocol. Very against protocol,” she hisses, her voice lowering as her lip curls and she leans further into the privacy of only each others’ company. “What will you do when Miguel finds out?”

“You gotta live freely past the propaganda, Gwendy,” Hobie replies nonchalantly, patting a palm on her shoulder as a point of reassurance. “Just think about it.”

The best Gwen can offer him is a wary glance and a moment of hesitation, but he takes it with a grin anyhow. He’s certain she’ll eventually come around—the extent of their friendship isn’t something so miniscule that a few words of indoctrination would ever be enough to turn her.

It’s a nice notion to have, but he unfortunately doesn’t get much time to dwell on it—suddenly, his watch buzzes with an alert.

Hobie checks the device. “Someone’s ringing me, gotta bounce.” A few taps of an orange screen and a twist of a dial, then a portal opens up just shy of his left arm. “Been fun, Gwendy. Don’t blame me if I come back late.”

No matter how hard she rolls her eyes, Gwen can’t help but give into the smile that creeps onto her lips. “Stay safe, loser,” she responds, bumping her fist against his.

“Safe is practically my middle name.” With that, Hobie ducks into the gateway, and disappears.

How the fuck do you accuse someone of having spider powers without sounding like you’ve gone insane? Since morning you’ve been stuck in a cycle of decision-making for a seemingly hopeless situation. You thought the hard part was over after seeing the guy in the costume swing away on white silly string, but the mostly sleepless night and brainstorming the resolution to be had was another beast altogether. What doesn’t help much either is the fact your favorite pair of jeans are now stained to shit because an idiot thought it would be a good idea to trickshot a half-full Starbucks drink into a trashcan you were standing right next to.

Oh, New York, how it surprises you each day. You swear you’ve never had bad luck like this in your life—and now you’re twenty minutes late, punching in your timecard and hurrying to tie on an apron.

Even through your shift the anxiety doesn’t go away, despite how you try to ignore it. Nervous energy bleeds into your work, shaking hands spilling and dropping drinks; your preoccupied mind is nowhere near as focused as you need to be for the rush—you remake a drink three times in a row before being on the receiving end of a tired lecture from an angry customer.

“Something on your mind?” one of your coworkers ends up asking after most of the crowd has dissipated. “Or just tired?”

You’re on the verge of bursting into tears actually, but you manage to stifle it with a deep breath in. “A lot of both,” you mumble in response. You can’t tell her about Hobie, and it’d be too winding to describe the entirety of everything. She’s pretty good at giving looks of pity and she’s already shot you one following the complaining customer. Honestly another one is the last thing you want to deal with right now. “Maybe I should’ve just skipped work today.”

“Don’t worry, we all have bad days,” she offers with a consoling pat on the arm. “How about you just calm down for a bit and take your break? I’ll make you your favorite drink and get a bowl started for you.”

The gesture does ease your nerves, even if only by a little. You sigh, shoulders slumping, and give your coworker a grateful smile. Parting ways then, she returns to her station to honor her word and you make your way to the back to punch in the start of your break.

Exhaustion starts to seep in when you catch yourself staring blankly at the time card machine, watching the hands of the clock tick away second by second. There hasn’t been significant progress in terms of settling the whole “Hobie Brown is a superhero” dilemma, you realize, just a lot of pain and aching on your part. Maybe it’s time to put the matter to rest just for a brief half an hour—you’ll pick it up later. There isn’t even a guarantee Hobie will show up to the shop anyhow.

Yeah, you have time.

The chunk sound of the punch machine brings you back to your senses and you put away your slip before making your way back to the front of the house.

“Drink’s ready and bowl’s on the way. You can enjoy that while you wait,” your coworker chirps, sliding a cup to you when you emerge from the back. You’re just about to voice your thanks before she cuts in again, gesturing to a spot just beyond the counter. “Oh, and someone asked for you. He’s right over there.”

Your eye is already twitching before you even look. But you suppose you hate yourself and the world at this point, because you slowly turn to where her hand points regardless and find the one man you just made a pact with yourself to not think about.

Hobie greets you by name and gives you a friendly wave. Out of courtesy, you force yourself to return in, lips pressed together in a tight smile with the short extension of your hand.

“Heard it was your break,” he says, approaching the glass panel between the two of you. “Mind if I intrude?”

Yes! you scream internally. Yes I do mind very much!

“No, it’s alright,” you end up saying to him, staving off a growing impulse to whack yourself upside the head.

“Sick,” is all Hobie replies with before he retreats to a nearby table. “I’ll be waiting here—don’t rush yourself.”

It’s right about now that you’re wishing he wasn’t so nice and you didn’t like him so much so that this process of confrontation would go about smoother. Your gaze lingers on him and you bite in the inside of your cheek as you think about the validity of what you witnessed yesterday.

The option to not tell him and maintain your chances of still potentially becoming friends like normal exists. Dodging the awry reputation that comes with the manic conspiracy theorist persona is always good. You’ll get over it one day, right? Leave the suspicions behind and assume that the image was just a hallucination brought about by stress; convince yourself that Hobie Brown is just your average British punk-rocker.

But you can’t fight the feeling in your gut, how it burns, and suddenly you’re leaning over the counter, over the glass.

This is a bad idea. “Hobie,” you call in his direction.

He looks up. “Yeah?”

Shit, this is a bad idea. “I have something to tell you.”

“Wah’gawn?”

“It’s… I think it’s a matter best told in just our own company.” You look around apprehensively, a slight crease in your brow. “Mind going somewhere more private?”

Trying your best to ignore the suggestive look your coworker shoots at you from your peripheral, you beckon Hobie to come into the back. Walking through the kitchen, you usher him into the storage pantry and shut the door behind you when you join him.

“I’m guessing we’re not just here to kotch?” Hobie teases with the sideways tilt of his head.

“Unfortunately.” Your gaze lowers to the ground at the admission, fingers finding one another and squeezing. “Been thinking about something for a while.”

Hobie lets the change in the air stew until it thickens before responding. “Ready when you are.” His voice is softer, malleable, lost of all its previous playfulness and replaced with a certain kind of sincerity.

The slightest incline of your chin brings your stare back to him. You wish it served the simple purpose of just admiring the slopes and angles of his face, but your lips part and your curled hand trembles, and it all reminds you of the gnawing insecurity.

“I need you to tell me the truth.” You say it slowly, sincerely, keeping your voice as steady as you can despite the way your heart rate thunders. “Please.”

In your supplication, you aren’t certain how to appraise the extent of your desperation, but Hobie’s gaze does not leave yours. He nods wordlessly, a glint of something in his eye and it looks a lot like deference.

You take it as permission to continue. “When you brought up Parker”—you swallow thickly—“you were talking about something real, weren’t you?”

A beat of silence. There isn’t any external reaction from Hobie, standing as still as he had the moment he stopped in front of you, face lax and hands tucked away in his pockets.

“Ain’t got a Scooby-Doo what you’re talking about,” he says plainly, unfaltering in every word. Even then he doesn’t move, fortress-like in his disposition.

Perhaps he truly doesn’t know what you mean, you think. The chance is present, albeit slim, though present nonetheless—and how tightly you clutch this sliver of hope. But for a moment, in your hesitancy and under Hobie’s untelling stare, doubt creeps in—your palms grow clammy against the material of your pants, sweat assisting the glide of your fingers against one another. Your eyes search those of the man in front of you, wishing his look could change so you could find the courage to ground yourself.

What if you’re wrong? What if it’s all a fallacy, some trick of the light? New York is no stranger to oddities but even this seems too extreme. Coincidental talk of Spider-People leading to an impossible accusation. Fucking Spider-People don’t—shouldn’t—exist. The idea grows more absurd the longer you question it. Peter Parker got the short end of the stick, if there was even a long end in the first place, so what the hell are you doing?

But what if you’re right?

A breath rattles through you. “Hobie.” With a new waver in your voice and a tremble to your hands, you stand unsure of how your conviction bleeds through what you say but you try anyhow. “I know you’re gonna think I’m crazy, but I saw a masked man walking on the side of a building yesterday.” The admission comes quickly, riddled with cracks, but you’re entirely too focused on the followup to care. “After the conversation we had about Spider-People, after the whole thing about superheroes, tell me that it wasn’t you up there. Because I saw your— your fucking pins and I’ve never— God, I don’t even know! I’ve never seen something like this.”

Your fists clench, fingers digging crescent-shaped craters into the flesh of your palms. The marks bite, angry red and stinging—perhaps aching even more the absence of Hobie’s response, the seconds you give him to reply.

“Who are you?” Dry—your throat is so dry. Your voice can’t be anything above a whisper with how hoarse the question comes, flaking away with every shallow breath you take.

Silence blankets the both of you then, soundless space a limbo between comfort and unease. Unsure of what to do with it, what to make of the situation you stand in now, you let it hang listlessly, drawing upon an empty room and an even emptier conversation.

It takes a handful of moments for Hobie to even look like he’s processed all that you’ve said. Under your scrutiny, the smallest movement of his eye is the only discernible change to the testament. Whatever goes on inside his head is a complete mystery to you for the few minutes that elapse before he speaks.

Finally, he shifts in his stance. “You want me to just come out with it, yeah?” he asks, not sounding terribly happy, but not as nonplussed as you expected. He sighs when you nod slowly. “Alright. I’ll start from the top, then.”

He tells you his name is still in fact Hobie Brown, and he was bitten by a radioactive spider three years ago. Formerly a runway model, though not a role model, he’s been protecting the streets of his hometown against the PM. When he’s not playing shows, antagonizing fascists, or staging unpermitted political “action-slash-performance art pieces,” he’s out partying with his friends.

“And don’t call me a hero,” he ends with a frown. “Hate the label. Calling yourself a hero makes you a self-mythologizing, narcissistic autocrat.”

When he stops, you have both hands to your temples, pressing down hard. You can deal with his anti-authority spiel just fine—some part of you even agrees with the sentiment—but there is so much to unpack prior to the statement.

“So you— you have actual spider powers? Oh my God?” you sputter, eyes blown wide in an expression of surprise you’re sure looks exaggeratedly dreadful. “What even— that’s— what even are spider powers?”

“Dunno really.” Hobie gives a shrug. “Enhanced hearing, speed, vision, and sticking to walls are the main perks. Also links up to my—”

“Can you shoot webs out of your butt?” you blurt in a sudden horrible realization.

There’s a few seconds of tense silence before Hobie bursts into laughter, arms crossed around his torso to hold himself, shoulders bunched to his ears. The ring of his joy through the air lifts a weight from it and suddenly the atmosphere doesn’t feel as crushing as before.

Witnessing his state, it doesn’t take long for unease to fade away and for you to start softly chuckling with him.

“You’re so jokes,” Hobie cackles, a hand over his eyes as he leans back. A long, shuddering breath tears through him in his attempt to calm down. “But to answer your question, no I can’t shoot webs out of my arse.”

“Thank God,” you breathe, clutching your heart. “Wouldn’t have looked at you the same if you said you could.”

“I don’t think I can look at you the same after you just asked that.”

“Hey, in my defense it was just to get to know you better.”

“I’m sure that’s all it was.” Hobie gives you a pointed look, but is quick to smile after. “Speaking of which, I came in to ask you something as well.”

“Oh?” You blink. The sudden shift in conversation is unprecedented, taking you slightly by surprise, but suspicion is quick to replace your wonderment when you notice a change in Hobie’s features. A squint narrows your eyes. “What are you plotting?”

“Nothing, it’s just I have an excuse now that you know me better.” He pauses briefly, staring at you for a moment. “I wanted to ask if I could know you a little better.”

Your lips purse in confusion at the phrase, forehead pinching. “But you already know me?” you ask, brow raised. “Don’t tell me you forgot everything already.”

“I didn’t,” Hobie reassures gently. “I was just thinking instead of talking over a counter we could do it over dinner? Maybe a movie, if you have the time?”

A beat passes and suddenly realization sets in, drawing all the air out of you. The smallest groan escapes you as you bury your face in your palms, the skin of your neck and cheeks burning hot. Every inch of you seems more sensitive in your mortification—were you always this close to Hobie, and was his cologne always that strong?

“I’m an idiot,” you whisper from between the gap in your hands. “God, I’m such an idiot.”

Hobie supplies a soft chuckle to ease your embarrassment. “You’re not. It came out pretty corny anyways.”

“I can’t believe I’m getting asked out by a guy with spider powers.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

You groan again, a tight breath pressed against your fingers. “You are so lucky you’re cute, Hobie Brown.”

It is as endearing as it is exasperating that you can practically hear how big his smile is. “You free tomorrow?”

“Anytime past five,” you reply softly, slowly inching your hands away from your face to peer at him. “Where should I meet you?”

Hobie’s grin tilts sideways at the query, a new sparkle of mischief brightening his eye. “I’ll come pick you up.”

Dates aren’t exactly a new concept to you—you’ve been on a handful, and they all go about the same. The first time, someone shows up with flowers or a small gift to start the evening right, then you’re whisked away for three hours to some place to hang around and have fun. It’s conventional, it’s safe—sometimes you enjoy the company more than the actual activity, leading to a second or third outing, but there’s nothing too special about the dance you do with routine.

Along this line of reasoning, Hobie crash-landing on your balcony with one of the most ridiculous offers of transportation isn’t exactly the way you imagined your date would start.

“You are not web-swinging me to Manhattan,” you tell him, still inside your apartment, arms crossed and shaking your head vigorously. “I don’t care what you have set up, I’m not gonna risk going splat on the damn concrete.”

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Hobie pushes playfully. “Promise I won’t drop you.”

You frown, brows furrowing and lips pursing as you glare at him. He returns the look as calm as ever, a slight smile edging the corners of his mouth and stance open in invitation. The way he holds himself has uncertainty creeping to you, forcing out your fervent disagreement in favor of consideration in a rather slick way of persuasion.

Perhaps you should’ve known you wouldn’t win, with the sheer difference in your demeanors. Your staredown continues for a couple of minutes before you sigh, breaking eye contact with a reluctant drop of your chin and a gentle moan of diffidence.

“Can I at least close my eyes?” you mumble, walking out and shutting the balcony door behind you.

“You can do whatever you want,” Hobie replies, sliding on his mask and gloves. “Just hold on tight.”

Stifling a breath when his arm wraps around the small of your back and under your thighs, you cling to his shoulders as he lifts you up and climbs on the railing.

“You ready?” His chest rumbles under your touch when he speaks, and you can only give a small nod in your position, heart pounding against your ribs and face buried deep in the nape of his neck.

Hobie laughs—a deep, warm sound—and then launches off your balcony.

There are no words to truly describe the feeling that swallows you while in freefall. Wind blasts past your ears in violent howls, gravity pulls your figure down but your insides up, and the only thing you have to ground yourself is the feel of Hobie as you clutch him with every bit of strength you possess. Adrenaline thrums through every vein, lighting your nerves on fire and prickling your skin with gooseflesh; even your energy to scream depletes into fueling the rush that floods your senses.

Upon the first pull up, Hobie’s web catching a surface to swing from, your gut lurches and a serrated gasp shudders through you. Your arms pull you impossibly closer to him, fingers clawing to dig deeper into the back of his vest.

“Easy now,” he chuckles, sounding miles away with how loud your heart beats in your ears. “I promised I wasn’t gonna drop you, didn’t I?”

“D-Doesn’t make it better,” you gasp, shivering now that the breeze whips against your back.

“Try to relax—we’ll be there soon.” Though he says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world, it proves contrary to the way his grip tightens around you with the next swing.

Despite how comforting the gesture is, you find that you can’t relax much while still flying through New York a hundred feet in the air.

After what seems like days of travel, Hobie finally lands on solid ground, giving you a moment to catch your breath before setting you down gently. His arms are threaded underneath yours as you try to balance on shaky legs, knees bent and feeling all too much like jelly for your own comfort.

“I feel like a newborn deer,” you sigh, voice trembling from the withdrawal of adrenaline. Jitters quiver your fingers, lightly chatter your teeth, and shake the thin chamber of your chest. “My God, how do you even get used to this?”

“Gotta learn to trust yourself,” Hobie hums smoothly. “First time’s always a tad tricky.”

You only nod, gaze now pinned to the ground as he gradually guides you forward, step by step, until you’re stable enough to slowly walk on your own. From there, the slightest incline of your head brings your attention to a small spread of food and flowers laid out nicely on a patterned blanket. A warmth comes to settle in your core at the sight, softening your eyes and easing the tenseness in your limbs—contentment reaches you and the stress gained from the ride here begins to fade, if only by a little.

“Hobie, this is so sweet,” you coo, pleasure lightening the tone of your voice.

His rings just as sweetly through the evening air. “Good to hear—would’ve been gutted if you didn’t like it.”

You laugh at the response, casting an affectionate glance at him that just grows fonder upon meeting his charming reciprocation. The bend of his brow, the part and curve of his lips, the crinkle of his eye—all of it has you transfixed for a generous moment, barely able to notice the way your navel aches with longing in your stupor.

The feeling persists throughout the evening, present in every winding conversation and instance of quiet shared between the two of you. It’s rather freeing to be unconstrained by the formalities usually held by the label of a first date and to sense such endearment for the whole of it. There is no talking to only talk—every sentiment has meaning, every word punctuated by some semblance of tenderness; there is no awkward atmosphere brought about by nervous tension—you rest comfortably, leaning back on your hands, as does Hobie, elbows on crossed legs, positioned towards you.

Hours pass by easily in the space, kissing the sky with hues of orange and gold and violet as they bid a teary farewell, trails of light following in the wake of their departure. Yawning clouds push to the east, unlined shapes dissipating with the fleeting luster. Soon, the New York city skyline is only a bleak, black horizon that cradles a half-yolked sun just shy of its surface.

Golden rays grace your skin, full and temperate and real. You’re just about to gush to Hobie about how this is your favorite time of the day when you’re stopped by the shallow movement of his arm.

He shifts to pick the carnation laid closest to your hand, snaps off the longer part of its stem, then tucks it delicately behind your ear. Wordlessly, he adjusts the petals, and grins when they seem to his liking.

You’re practically bursting at the seams when he retracts his hand, fingers ghosting the curve of your cheek on their path back. Heat rushes to your neck, white-hot on a quick shot up to heat every inch of your face. The sensation catches your breath, widens your eye, tucks the tip of your bottom lip between your teeth, and all you can do is sit and watch Hobie as he admires you.

There’s a look in his eye that you hope is reflected in yours, how beautiful he is. The warm vermillion hue of the sun hits his complexion and it’s like there’s nothing else in the world to behold but him.

Suddenly you find yourself reaching for the flowers on the blanket, clasping multiple in one hand and halving the stems with the other.

Leaning forward, palms stained with sap, you place the carnations in each of Hobie’s wicks, uncaring of the smell of chlorophyll or the tremble of your fingers. You only return to your seat and wipe your hands when you finish, the expanse of his head dotted in small blooms, all that’s left of the original bouquet messily cut stems and loose leaves.

A breathy laugh escapes you at the sight, light and happy and bright. “You are so pretty, Hobie,” you whisper, your heart swelling with adoration. “And I wanna kiss you so bad right now.”

He smiles. “I’m not going to stop you,” he says, then wraps his arms around you when you crush your lips to his.

You feel you must be drunk on something, but are entirely too far gone to care the slightest bit. Hobie is every bit as soft and warm as you imagined, his hold homely, his scent familiar. Breathing him in, bergamot, plum, and sandalwood filling your lungs, a dreamy sigh stutters out of your nose before you start to move.

The kiss takes on a steady rhythm then, perhaps the easiest thing you’ve had to follow. Each press of your lips against his finds just the right amount of resistance, the feel of his piercing snug as it nudges you in every shift. Your hands find purchase in cupping his face, fingertips smoothing the silver studs that line his ears and thumbs stroking his cheeks.

Hobie’s touch rests just shy of your waist, the bend of his elbows against your ribs, palms flat against your scapula. His chest rises and falls with every breath, a slight hitch in the motion when you crawl to his lap, sitting in the space between his legs.

The two of you share your own pocket of heaven for a minute longer, then with one last kiss, you part. As your eyes flutter open, Hobie slides a hand off your back to thumb your lip, swiping a finger across your bottom one.

You make a questioning noise but remain unmoving as he works, sliding his digit across sensitive skin.

“My lipstick got on you,” he explains when he finishes, showing you black makeup smeared on his thumb. “I liked the look of it, but didn’t know if you did.”

A gentle laugh spouts from you at his kindness. “I’m all for you giving me a makeover next time,” you say with a grin.

Hobie gives a small chuckle back, delight sparkling in his eye. “Good.”

The afterbuzz of the date still tingles the back of Hobie’s neck even hours later. It’s ten o’clock, the moon at highrise and not a single star in sight in the muddy violet pool that overhangs New York. He’s in the middle of a stakeout, monitoring an energy station reopened as bait for whatever, whoever, might come out in response. The task of fully focusing proves rather hard in the wake of remembering the warmth of you as you held him, the brush of your lips against his, and your small gasps of breath, but he tries anyhow.

Hobie’s just finished shaking off the image of your face in the light of dusk when his watch buzzes. He looks down with a frown, noting the peculiarity of receiving a call this late.

“Gwendy,” he greets, an orange hologram of Stacy appearing with the twist of a dial. “What are you ringing me for?”

“Hey Hobie,” she returns flatly, not providing much else before quickly casting her gaze askance.

From her projection, Hobie can gather that something seems off—Gwen’s stance is completely closed, arms crossed and feet together. What looks like nervousness twists her features, pinches her forehead, pulls her lips tight together. She’s never been good at hiding her emotions, but even this seems exaggerated.

Sobriety seeps into Hobie then, the high of hours ago eroding. “Something wrong?” he asks, voice dropping low.

Gwen pauses, hesitating. “Miguel wants you back at HQ,” is what comes from her after a few seconds. “Now.”

“What about the mission?”

“He just says to leave. There’s been some new intel. That’s all I know.” Gwen swallows thickly, her eyes flickering back to Hobie. “See you soon.”

“Alright, see ya.” The hologram blinks twice, then disappears. Hobie taps on his watch to open a portal back to Earth-928, dubiety sinking its teeth into his thoughts. Miguel was ever the autocrat, so he was never quite fond of the guy, but the way Gwen had come to him—with a fresh feeling that extended beyond terror etched in her expression—that doesn’t sit well. He doesn’t need a spider-sense to recognize that something is amiss.

Somehow, he can’t elude the feeling of dread that creeps to him when he’s swallowed by the vortex.

[bluesworldd]

𐀶 ՙ 🎸 · love love love

↳ pairing: hobie brown x reader.

↳ cw/tw: not proofread.

↳ genre: fluff but with emotions ig.

↳ synopsis: “love is underrated” -mac miller

↳ blue says: definitely not inspired by mac miller. enjoy.

spoilers ahead !

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it was almost like a sense of purpose.

well not almost

it is.

his love for you and the love you gave back— yes that was his sense of purpose. it wasnt supposed to be in the beginning. hobie was doing just fine before you, making his music, laughing off with his friends, and saving countless people. this was something he did on a daily and was what he thought his sense of purpose was.

hobies never been in love.

well thats not true, hobie loves everyone in his life and doesn’t know where he would be without them. but this was different.

never has the love he had for others take up a hundred percent of his mind.

never has it made him an irrational person, never has it made him cry thinking you would leave over a petty argument.

never has it made him write countless of songs trying to express the innumerable things you made him feel.

to put it simply you made an impact on his life. so much so, that you made him think about where he was before you and looking back it was a huge blur now. he’s had plenty of memorable moments but the ones he had with you seemed to have outshine the others. you overall seemed to have outshine everyone, thats what made him so attracted to you in the first place.

oddly enough hobie couldn’t put it into words. that feeling when first met you, he thought of it like a passing shooting star, something that happens rarely— but than it came again, and again, until it became permanent. through all of blissful peace, tearful arguments, heartwarming make-ups. it was always there.

that same sense of purpose.

to always continue loving you no matter the moment, no matter how one or the other is currently feeling then and there because no matter the circumstances hobie will always love you. only you.

“you alright?” your tired voice yawned. you shuffled, turning around so that your face would be met with hobies chest. “of course i am” he whispered. thats all you needed to hear before you fell soundless into slumber.

“i love you” he knew you were already fast asleep again but he couldn’t help himself. “more than you know” listening to your muffled snores, hobie drifted to sleep. you being the only thought in his head.

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©️bluesworldd 2023 || All rights reserved. Do not repost, reupload, translate, modify, copy, or claim my work as your own.

[poebot]

Hobie Brown/Genderless Reader | Affection Makes the World Go ‘Round

It was nearly 3AM. You were up late, as per usual. It was hard to get much sleep knowing that Hobie was out there in the streets of Camden putting his life at risk to protect the innocent. Worse yet, he rarely made it a habit to come home this late. He says it’s cause even spiders sleep, but you know deep down that your boyfriend is aware of how anxious you get without him here.

When you finally heard a knock on your bedroom window, you looked over to see Spider-Punk. He was sitting on the edge of your balcony trying his hardest to look tough whilst compressing his side, his mask a little torn up at the edges. Laceration on the left of the abdomen, potentially from a knife wound. You took a mental note of his condition knowing your boyfriend tended to play down his injuries.

“Alright, let’s get you patched up then.” You sighed, opening up the windows wide as he clambered inside and threw his ragged mask to the ground. You tried to remain nonchalant about the injury in an attempt to go down the path of least resistance. This routine was inevitable; the more you worried, the more he deflected. You now had it down to a science.

“I’m just peachy. Thanks for asking, you geezer.” His tone was sarcastic as he approached you and wrapped his strong arms around your waist, leaning down enough to brush your lips in a subtle kiss. A masterful avoidance tactic that you couldn’t help but give in to, offering your mouth up for more. He happily took advantage of your willingness by trying to deepen the kiss, but you were quick to pull away once you realised he was trying to avoid discussing his wounds. He frowned, caught.

“You’re practically indestructible, Hobbie, I barely worry anymore.” You smiled into his mouth, trying to joke back and ease tensions despite neither of you being too convinced. The charade was short lived when you could no longer ignore the way his shirt was turning rouge-r by the second.

“Jesus, that’s a bad gash. Please let me help you disinfect it.” He grimaced as you mentioned it as though just remembering it was there. He looked as though he might resist, but Hobie was no match for your puppy-eyes. “Fine. Whatever helps you sleep at night.” He huffs, laying flat against your bedroom floor to allow you to get to work.

Hobbie watches you from his place on the ground, always observing as though he’s calculating his next move as you bustle around for your first aid kit. You try to act normally as though you don’t notice the feeling of his eyes lingering.

“If I was actually indestructible you wouldn’t feel the need to play nurse all the time, now would you?” He said, wincing when his attempt at a chuckle only worsened his condition. “Good one.” You acknowledged, “Lay down and be quiet.”

Hobie looked almost like a kicked puppy all beat up like this, so you try to make quick work of taking off his blood soaked shirt (“If you wanted me to strip you could’ve just asked darling,”) and pressing disinfectant into his wounds (“You truly are a little sadist.”) You finish wiping down his stomach and bandage it up with medical gauze before pinching his cheek playfully. “There, all better. So how was the fight?”

He makes a weak attempt at escaping from your grasp but is quick to give in, allowing you to pull and prod at his face. “Hey, watch those hands.” Hobie jokes, pretending to chomp at where your fingers were. You stifle a laugh as your brain conjures up a mental image of him as an angry dog at the groomers.

“It was fine, just one dumb crook. I could’ve finished the fight earlier but whatever...” The joking tone was gone from his voice, and Hobie sounded genuinely aggravated at the idea of having left you waiting. His bottom lip jutted out and his eyebrows furrowed in annoyance. You felt yourself melt a little at how much he cared despite his snark. The thought warmed you up from the inside out. You tried to not let the sappiness of your emotions filter into your voice, opting for the safe option of teasing him instead.

“How’d you end up this beat up? You might be losing your touch, Spider-Punk”

“You try fist fighting a drunk racist with a knife” he groaned, stretching out his sore neck. You giggle, watching as he props himself up on his elbows, leaning back onto your bed. It’s almost like your boyfriend is allergic to sitting on things normally.

You take the rare moment of silence to just… stare at him. You take in his beautiful features that are only complimented by his array of piercings, the masculinity in his strong facial structure, the beauty of his endless head of hair. It was just all so him. And you adored every part of him.

It was truly not fair how pretty Hobie was. And sexy, your brain helpfully adds. Yeah. That too.

”Like what you see?” His deep voices interrupts your mental undressing and you barely manage to stifle a squeak. His cocky smirk makes you roll your eyes, way too smug in having caught you in the act. “C’mere…” Hobie beckons for you, and as you approach he yanks suddenly on your arm to get you to sit down on his lap.

“Wah!” Hobie snorts at the noise you make as you land, peppering kisses to your burning cheeks. “Thanks for looking after me, love.” The affection and sincerity in his voice flusters you to no end.

Your first instinct is to bury your face into the warmth of his neck to avoid the loving way his eyes pierce into yours. “You’re welcome, Hobie…” Your voice comes out high and muffled.

[ctrlzirl]

The real barbie is Y/n.

Y/n’s a doctor, a cop, a scientist, an agent, vet, hero, villain, astronaut, lawyer, spy, criminal, artist, chef, engineer, psychologist, architect, journalist, firefighter, event planner, mechanic, photographer, musician, actor, interior designer, bartender, fashion designer, barista, florist, forensic scientist, flight attendant, profiler, tour guide, translator, etc.

[vinamari]

How it feels going to bed after reading some words

It was angst

[skarpetaspodnapleta]

Oh.. the things we would do..

[d1onysusw1n3]

“Fuck-“ I moan out feeling my eyes roll back into my head. Another orgasm crashes over me. My legs start shaking, and I felt like my muscles were on fire. He just looks down at me, with a daunting smile on his stupid smug face. He hooks his hands under my knees pushing them up to my chest, slowly stretching me out with his thick length, dragging against my gummy walls. “Ngh- so tight for me?” He says chuckling softly. He leans down pressing small kisses to my forehead. “Cmon baby give me another one, mmm you can take it? Right princess?” He taunts me as he pulls all the way out from his tip and slams back into me, his hips pressing into my rear.

[cosmosluckycharms]

Bug Like Angel

Till you tell me to leave

As you made your way to the living room, you looked at the long, gothic walls.

You saw all the family portraits.

The same ones you'd been forced to take.

In all the pictures you were in, you had a completely different style than the others

Damian was always telling you to dress a sort of way, just so you could be left out.

Ouch.

It got to a point that Bruce had assumed you were doing this on purpose, just to get attention.

So, he stopped bringing you to get the portraits done.

Thinking about that made you pissed, so you decided to put your mind to something else.

You couldn't wait to get the movie night over with, you could probably sneak away near the end and go a someone else's universe.

You calmed yourself down so the others didn't get suspicious and made your way to the living room.

You saw everyone sitting down, except for Dick, who was probably in the kitchen, getting snacks.

Everyone was talking and not noticing you, you were glad.

As soon as you turned around and were about to make your way back to your room, you heard it.

"Birdie!"

Dick.

You turned around on your heel, your spidey senses helping you dodge Dicks bear hug.

You saw how for a split second he had a slight face of shock, his blue eyes widening.

He put his hands on his hips. "And where do you think you're going?"

You tried your hardest to put on a poker face. You didn't want him to know you were slightly intimidated by him.

Sure, you weren't scared, or terrified, as you once were.

You were stronger now, everyone knew that, but now you didn't have the comfort of your friends to keep you grounded and safe.

"I, uhm, went to get a bottle of water. I'm thirsty." you lied through your teeth, you just wanted to get away from them.

Dick raised an eyebrow "From where? I just got back from the kitchen."

"From my mini fridge." you weren't exactly lying, you did have a mini fridge from years ago when you decided you didn't want to burden everyone by getting necessities like food and water.

His eyes lit up as if he just had a lightbulb moment. "Don't you think all those snacks and drinks are expired by now? We could go to get some more together!"

"No thanks." you shut it down before he got any ideas "I like going shopping by myself."

Before Dick could protest, you heard Tim's voice.

"Can you guys shut up and sit down?" he was clearly annoyed.

Before you knew it, Dick dragged towards the couch, patting the seat next to him.

You pretended to not notice him patting the seat and made your way towards the seat at the end of the couch.

You hesitated to sit down there, you weren't used to being invited to family hangouts.

You could feel everyone's judgemental stares towards you, you knew basically everyone but Dick and Bruce still didn't want you around.

You sat down by yourself while everyone was huddled up together.

You glanced at Dick and saw how saddened he looked that you didn't sit with him.

You could almost feel bad for him.

"Time to choose the movie." Alfred placed the remote on the glass table, and before you knew it everyone but Bruce, Alfred, and you were fighting with the controller, pushing, pulling, and punching.

You could almost laugh at how silly this was.

You almost felt like part of the family

Bruce watched as you had a sad smile on your face, and got an idea.

"Let Y/N get a chance to choose this time."

Suddenly everyone that was fighting froze in place. You suppressed a chuckle at how stupid it was.

Jason begrudgingly passed you the controller, somewhat aggressively.

You started scrolling through the movies trying to find one to watch.

You could hear the others whispering to each other, obviously a little mad they didn't get to choose.

You got nervous and took a minute or two picking one.

Everyone was getting impatient.

You finally found the movie you had been wanting to watch for a while.

One that you never got to finish.

Scary movie.

Literally, that's the name.

You clicked on it, and all the memories flooded back.

You and the other spider kids decided to sneak out to the movies.

You were walking towards the entrance of the theater, holding Peni's hand.

Gwen was holding hands with an obviously smitten Miles.

Pav was secretly taking a picture of them.

It was so cute how he had a crush on his own girlfriend!

Peni was holding your hand, and holding Margos in her other hand.

You had Bruce's credit card in your purse, which also had a bunch of snacks you were gonna sneak in.

Hobie was standing next to you.

You and he had yet again raided a 7/11, this time you hid the snacks in his hair.

Every time he took a step or slightly moved, you could hear the crinkles and crackles of the snack bags in his hair.

You tried not to laugh when you both made your way past the ticket booth and security.

While the others were discussing what they thought the movie was gonna be about, they felt a strange silence.

One that was only there for around 15 seconds.

One that was usually filled with laughter and joy.

Peni looked confused for a moment before asking, "Where did Y/N go?"

Before you knew it, everyone started scattering around looking for you.

Hobie and Pavitr both looked inside some of the theaters, maybe you snuck into a theater?

You weren't there, so they kept looking.

Margo and Peni were looking in the security cams, only for them to be broken because a certain someone (Hobie) 'accidentally' webbed them in a penis shape.

Gwen and Miles looked in the parking lot, maybe you went to get something from the car?

They all decided to meet up together to find you.

As soon as they got to the lobby, they found you buying all the overly expensive snacks and giving them away to other families.

Peni ran to you and tackled you in a hug "Y/N!" her tackle somehow managed to throw you onto the ground

You hugged her back, slightly confused "Hey guys!"

Margo offered you your hand "We were so worried about you!"

"Why? I was gone for like, two minutes!" you chuckled, taking her hand

Gwen dusted off a piece of chocolate from your cheek, presumably from a chocolate bar you had around half an hour ago "I swear, we need to put a harness on you!"

"Oh c'mon, don't you guys think it was a little overkill to go around panicking looking for me?" you playfully punched the side of gwens shoulder, smirking

"One time we thought you went missing for a week only for you to be on an earth no one is allowed in and somehow made a horse army?" Miles crossed his arms in a way that sort of reminded you of his mom.

Pavitr nodded "One time you didn't reply to any of us for a month because your phone was dead and you lost the charger, and you also lost your watch somehow, so you were literally off the grid"

"One time we were at the mall and I turned around for a minute and somehow we found you across the mall at a petstore." Gwen added

"This is my life and y'all are just living in it." you dramatically put your hands on your hips, which made Peni giggle.

"Just to let you guys know, the movie starts in like, 3 minutes and we haven't made it to our seats." Margo pulled up the tickets from her pocket

You all looked at each other and booked it to your seats.

You all made it just in time, the trailers had just ended.

The movie was good, but what made it great was all your friends around you.

Hobie was asleep, his legs leaning on the chair in front of him.

Peni had her head on your shoulder, watching the movie.

Miles and Gwen were playfully throwing popcorn at each other and Margo was the only one 100% focused on the movie.

After that, it was all a blur.

All you can remember is an anomaly coming in and wrecking everything.

You and the others had to fight off the anomaly together, and secretly bring it to the society without the spider parents knowing.

Unfortunately, that meant you never got to finish the movie.

You smiled at the memory, which surprised the others because a jumpscare had just happened.

"L/N, why are you smiling?" Damian asked, his green eyes squinting at you.

"Nothing, I just remembered something funny. Also, I don't use L/N anymore, I go by O'hara now."

Bruce grabbed the controller from your hands and paused the movie.

"What?" you saw his eye slightly twitch

"Yeah, don't worry about it." you tried to unpause the movie, only for the controller to be barely out of reach

"Did he make you change your name?" Dick got up and questioned, standing next to Bruce

"no, he didn't force me, I'm attached to him like a parasite. He's never getting rid of me." you joked, nervously. You just wanted to go back to your room.

"How exactly did you change your name?" Bruce put his hands on his hips

"surprise adoption." you fidgeted with your bracelet out of nervousness,

"what does that even mean?" Jason spoke up, turning his head to look away from his phone and instead at you.

"I got hurt one too many times, and while I was delirious I asked him for probably the millionth time if he could adopt me. he obviously couldn't, so we met halfway and he let me have his last name." you said casually.

Suddenly dick and Bruce were scolding you.

You pretended not to be affected, and just got up and stomped back to your room.

You locked the door and started crying.

You could lie and say that you didn't care about them, but the truth is that their yelling at you made you feel 10 years old again.

You felt like the same kid that was ignored and pushed around by them.

You just wanted to go home.

Suddenly, you heard a slight buzzing.

You looked for where it was coming from and saw it was coming from under your bed.

You looked under your bed and saw it was your watch.

You quickly typed Hobies universe number and left.

As soon as you got there, you made your way to his trailer.

You knocked on the door and made your way inside through the window.

As soon as you got in, you sat down on his chair that could spin.

You tried to go on your phone to check the time, only to remember you left it on your bed earlier.

Hobie walked in, holding a cup of water "Coulda’ just used the damn door, you know."

You spun around in the chair playfully "I don't believe in using doors!"

"Good. Neither do I. Doors are overrated." He leaned on the wall next to him.

You guys fell into silence. Not an awkward one, but a comfortable one.

You stood up, stretching "Wanna get outta here?"

"thought you'd never ask." Hobie grabbed his guitar, and you both walked out

Your family was at the dinner table.

Dicks leg was shaking, and Bruce was staring at the spot you were supposed to be seated at.

Everyone else's conversations were still going on, but there was a slight linger of your perfume there.

It was ironic that even after years most of your family didn't notice you were gone.

They were halfway through their meal when a portal popped up close to them.

Their eyes all widened as you fell in your suit, crashing into the fancy glass table, fighting a green goblin, Hobie not far behind.

While you were trying to push Green goblin back into the portal, you looked around to see your whole family looking at you, concerned.

"For fucks sake!" you punched Green goblin and you both fell into the portal again.

This just left your family with more questions than answers.

As they studied the now broken glass table, they also thought about the portal you fell through.

How many times has this happened?

How many times have you gotten hurt and they hadn't noticed?

A couple of minutes later, they watched as you and Hobie both fell through another portal, this time without the green goblin.

You flopped onto the floor and Hobie flopped onto the couch.

Dick started running to you about to ask if you were alright, only to hear you start laughing out of exhaustion.

Hobie got up from the couch and helped you get up.

You realized your family was in the room, and decided to introduce Hobie to them.

You grabbed his wrist "Uhm- this is Hobie, uh, is my friend.

"Your family watched as you nervously fidgeted with hobbies studded bracelet.

Everyone stared at you awkwardly, and you just started walking to your room.

"Y/N-" Bruce started

You ignored him and started walking faster.

After an hour or two, there was music blaring throughout the manor that vibrated through the floor.

Everyone could hear it despite having earplugs in.

It was time to put an end to this.

Jason started making his way up to your room, preparing himself for the worst.

He didn't even bother knocking, he just made his way in.

He expected to see you both sneaking out, smoking, or just anything bad as an excuse to kick Hobie out.

Only to see you and him gossiping and giggling while you were putting makeup on him.

Jason tried to make out what you guys were saying, but it was impossible due to the loud music.

Your spidey senses went off and you both looked at Jason.

Dick slightly flinched at you both looking at him in sync.

"Can you guys put down the volume? No one can sleep and it is 1 am." Jason put his hand on his neck

"Yeah, my bad." you put down the volume and continued gossiping with Hobie.

You felt his stare on you as he stood next to where you were sitting on the bed with Hobie.

You raised an eyebrow at him "Can we help you?"

He sat down next to you, only for you to scoot away from Jason and move closer to Hobie.

The room fell into an awkward silence until he finally left.

As soon as the door closed, you let out a sigh of relief.

"Jeez, can they hop off my dick for once?" you rolled your eyes in annoyance.

"tell me about it."

You started falling asleep towards 3 am.

You were trying to stay awake despite it being late at night (or early in the morning?)

Either way, you ended up falling asleep while leaning on Hobies lap.

Hobie smiled as he picked you up bridal style and tucked you into bed.

It wasn't the first and he hoped it wouldn't be the last.

He kissed your forehead and left through the window.

An hour or two later, Dick went to check up on you, only to see you peacefully sleeping in bed.

You had a black lipstick stain from Hobie on your forehead.

Dick frowned from that but started making his way out of the room.

That was until something caught his eye.

A guitar.

Not like the one you had, this one was red and had..unique stickers...

He grabbed it and made his way out of your room.

He could ask you about it the next morning.

i have a headache help

this took SO LONG im so tired help

this is ass lmfao sorry its so rushed it felt not rushed while writing it help

taglist(please lmk if i forgot you!): @bath1lda @mariadvorak @coralaura @tsxukikami @hjgdhghoe @coffeeaddictxd @cxcilla @kaitense1 @star-girl-interlud3 @sukaretto-n @welpthisisboring @itsberrydreemurstuff @lovebug-apple @crazycaoticsimp @bellethesleepypotato @blackhood1229 @jsprien213 @sirenetheblogger @awawage @holybatflapexpert @vanessa-boo @ryuushou @whiskeygirl7 @seemeee3 @inojinieeee @oliviaewl @djpuppy-kittens @w31rd3rg1rl @br33zy-blizzardz @eyeless-kun @strangelymid @twismare @cat-lover-over-9000 @jaemindontberude @galaxypurplerose @paastaboi @senhoritaapple @whiskeygirl7 @chezze-its @toastloverr @antov828 @mirai-in-the-headspace @vanilliona @anuttellaa @the-dumber-scaramouche @writing-flower @otterluver05 @wizzerreblogs @mycatateit @icryat2 @lunamonkeypower @1abi @ghost-Orch1d

[sp1der-wid0w]

guys.. i have a problem 🤦🏾‍♀️

[nu11lar]

he would be the type of person to go wayy too far into fucking you, wether it will be during a dinner gathering or... in the balcony. he would either have your stomach pressed against the cold railings or make you hold onto them while he abuses your sopping hole from behind. it doesn't matter if it's too risky, embarrassing, or humiliating, he would not care. not even a single bit.

it will turn him even more on if someone across the apartment building is also out in the balcony, having the chance for the person to see just two people making love at night in the balcony, now that's some murda b shit.

he'll press his chest against your back and place his hands ontop of yours, keeping you still. his lips inches closer to the shell of your ear as his hot breath fans over it. you're practically begging him to slow down and do this somewhere else but he refuses, he just wants to show the world what kind of slut you are for your boyfriend/fiancé.

"hm? you're sayin' that this is embarrassing? then how come you're creaming all over my dick and tightening around me huh? silly girl, you're enjoying this."

"tsk, tsk, what a whore. you enjoy being watched by the people across from us while i fuck you dumb eh? i should do this more- fuck- more often.."

he just loves to humiliate you, doesn't he?

🦢 ㅡ GOJO SATORU, TOJI FUSHIGURO, geto suguru, RAN HAITANI, HANMA SHUJI, manjiro "mikey" sano, izana kurokawa, scaramouche, CHILDE, wriothesley, hobie brown, DAZAI OSAMU, CHUUYA NAKAHARA, fyodor dostoevsky, NIKOLAI GOGOL, sanemi shinazugawa, DOUMA, + any of your faves !

[corollaservant]

There’s just something about lanky men. (18+)

You know, the type of man who’s scrawny, awkward and with a small ribcage (not from working out, genetics, you cuss). The one who doesn't put emphasis on his clothing, wearing whichever clean tshirt he can find, a pile of dirty clothes accumulating in his bedroom. The one who has water bottles, take out bags, cigarettes or weed papers and a nasty sink in his apartment. The one who has messy hair, tired eyes and cannot socialize for the life of him. The one who scratches his head, looks down awkwardly as he crosses his legs and sits weirdly on a chair. The type to never initiate a first move, friendship.. let’s not even talk about sex. There’s something about these men, you wouldn't call it a fetish, no, you don’t judge people by body types, that’s weird. It’s just that you notice a pattern here. Cause everytime you find these traits, you kind of guess their personality too. And maybe sometimes..you’re wrong.

They’re the same ones that will bend you in half, once they get the slightest hint you might be into them. The type to inexplicably know how to work their fingers in your little cunt, hell, you’d think they were pros in another life, the mastery in pace, roughness and multitasking is crazy here. These guys have you wet your panties like you can’t. By yourself. Alone. They kiss you while they’re at it too, don’t think they can’t do both. They kiss softly, open mouthed but desperately at the same time, kind of like they don’t want you to be able to breathe anymore. And… you can’t, but they don’t stop until you push their shoulders back, breathing through your nose isn't enough.

They’re the type to stay silent when you suck them off, concentrated and focused on your performance. They might bite their lips and hum softly, you’d think they don’t even like it even when you’re gagging down their whole length (palm included, as they’re large and girthy). Your throat aches and you haven’t even stopped the act and here they are silent and unappreciative, you might think. Well, you’re wrong. They appreciate it more than they let on. Do you know what it took for them to master this composure? Endless nights of jerking off just to the sight of your pretty pussy, cumming and cumming until they could build up some endurance. Mind you, they are talented but lack in the sexual experience department. Porn doesn’t get them off, they think it’s performative and staged, can’t get hard watching some poor woman fake moan and look at the camera, they think it’s embarrassing. No, instead they can easily picture you, with your legs spread and your pretty cunt glistening — anticipating their touch. Be it their skilled, slender fingers, their drooling mouth (yes, they drool inside) or their throbbing cock, they can’t get enough of your widened eyes and parted mouth and you can't stop silently begging just for a touch. And they cum, they aren’t too loud even when alone so imagine how much they try to stifle their moans when with you. You may have started deepthroating them, but their cock jerked the moment you ran your tongue down their shaft once, didn’t you notice it? They take it, you didn’t. They are close to cumming, they bite their tongue and can feel the metallic taste of blood their sinking teeth left, shit, they wouldn’t be able to taste you properly later on; they think and cuss instead of thinking the trouble they'll have swallowing down food. 

They quietly push you off, they really want to cum but these men are selfless. They don’t want to put anyone's pleasure above yours so they throw you on the bed. That’s where you were wrong too. You see them, a skeleton in clothes and think ‘’damn, this guy really is a loser’’..well, if he is, then he certainly is a strong one, these dudes have muscles you can’t even see and the rage that fuels them, makes up for it. They want to lick up a strip from your hole trickling down your left thigh, shit, they're so tempted, they might come on the mattress for all they care but their cock throbs when you ask them to fuck you instead.. if that's what you want, who are they to say no?

Their lanky chest presses against you, you can feel the pressure from their protruding bones on your skin, as they sigh, their sticky slit coming in contact with your also wet (soaked) entrance. They might just sigh but their brain is fighting a hard battle right now, to not cum just by the friction and the mess of fluids. Once you beg repeatedly (‘’please—baby, please!’’) and they can’t take it anymore, they awkwardly push the length past your folds, it slams in you violently as their sternum clashes onto you. You moan, it feels heavenly, a remarkable girth that stuffs you to the brim. They don't bottom out yet, you think fuck it, there's more? Oh sure, there is. They will shyly push more in, inch after inch, these men are NOT talkative but will make sure you are ok for good measure, wouldn't want you fainting or in pain due to their stupid cock. Little do they know, you want more and fast, but that's ok, whatever you order, they deliver. You can't tell, if they do it with skill or instinct but the thrusts are calculated and timed and they bring you close to an intense orgasm, they know it — they are observers, noticing the type and volume of moans that exit your mouth each time, that is why a slender pad of their finger is brought against your clit. They know how to hover and tilt their hips inside you simultaneously as they tease you. ‘’B–baby, oh my god.. please’’ you mewl, you shut your eyes and they’re close too. You just squeeze too damn much, whether you know it or not (they never tell you that they'd sell their soul to feel like this every day). Soon enough you're cumming, screaming loudly, only.. it's real with you, your body can’t lie and so can’t your eyes, glossy and ready to spill teardrops. These men will not be vocal (or at least they'll try not to be) but this is their breaking point, it's too much — you're too much and they finally whimper, not loud but just enough for you to hear as they let a big load inside you. They’re a deprived and awkward mess, that doesn't believe you would even bat them an eye, when you met them. Well, maybe it's their time to re-evaluate you.

—

(wrote this with surprise surprise.. Shiggy in mind but it suits others too)

L, Mello my man, black hair Dabi, Aizawa, Fyodor, Aku, literally anyone from Nana cast, who’s not a child and please! let me add Hobie Brown.

[aidemint]

To Break A Habit | Maybe You Should’ve Stuck With The Chopped Cheese

Summary: When Hobie Brown hits up your workplace, you find that your life changes. For the better or for the worse, that’s up for you to decide.

Word Count: 5.5k

Pairing: Hobie Brown/GN!Reader

Notes: hello all <3 been obsessed with the movie recently (and hobie, duh) so just reviving my account for a bit to stop by and say hello and feed the fandom! also, earth-40081 is marvel’s “powerless” series, where peter parker gets bit by a spider but his arm withers instead of him getting powers.

hope you enjoy!

Masterpost | AO3

Hobie Brown of Earth-138 is one of Spider-Society’s best and brightest.

Being part of the crew for so long (or rather, volunteering to be part of the crew, as he likes to call it), high-priority operations are no stranger to his assignment board. The mission he’d been tasked with this time around is a ten day-long solo recon that demands the “utmost attention” for catching the anomaly lurking within the fabrics of Earth-40081. Miguel, in his usual fashion, had been strict about the expectations—minimal damage, quick ins and outs, and no downtime. The last condition had been strongly emphasized.

Unfortunately for O’Hara, Hobie isn’t really one for following orders.

“So I can swing around the city and destroy buildings but can’t stop for a small tumble down the sink?” Hobie mumbles to himself with a roll of his eyes. “Proper geezer. Old man’s gone off his rocker.”

Earth-40081’s New York isn’t unlike anything the vigilante knows: the city’s layout is more or less identical to his world’s. The shops and stops aren’t much different either, save for their names—his favorite bodega is conveniently located right across from where he’d usually get his guitar fixed, and he’s quick to familiarize himself with the metro stations positioned around town.

It isn’t a bad place to spend the next week and a half. 

The thought keeps Hobie company as he continues down Fordham Road, past bustling crowds and busy streets. He’s heard good things about the district from other Spiders that have visited this world—despite this reality’s supposedly lackluster timeline, the cafes here boasted a hefty reputation amongst Spider-Society.

After Pavitr found time to compliment 40081’s coffee and tea culture, Hobie was resolute on finding out what was so special about it himself. 

Though he isn’t normally big on afternoon drinks, there isn’t exactly a Spider-Barista readily available at HQ, and Osborn Corp. on Earth-138 isn’t too keen on handing out quality drinks to its homeless population either. Plus, instant coffee can only get you so far—and give you so many shits before you start to seek out another alternative.

Currently, Pavitr’s recommendation leads Hobie down the street to a less-occupied stretch of way. The store’s awning displays the shop’s moniker, “Jules & The Juice,” soft, fluttering, jade-green arches of fabric framing white text. Specializing in pressed kombucha and afternoon tea is certainly an odd combination, Hobie notes, but he promised his friend he wouldn’t knock it until he tried it.

Stepping forward and pushing open the door, he mentally gives Miguel O’Hara the bird before entering the cafe.

You’ve always been a person of routine—it’s what keeps you together, keeps your world together. Not that your life is much extraordinary, dissimilar enough from others to necessitate strict scheduling or patterns, but you like knowing what’s going to happen in a day.

Mondays and Wednesdays always demand that your alarm clock goes off at seven in the morning before you rush to catch the metro for class at eight with a bagel half-eaten in your hand. Classes last until four-thirty, then you’re off for the day to either keep your peace at home or head to Rajji’s Deli for a chopped cheese with lettuce, onions, and tomato. It’s always your favorite part of the day—he’s called you “boss” since November and it’s probably the closest you’ve felt to another person for a while.

On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays you get to sleep in until nine, maybe get in a morning walk if you’re up an hour early. Classes are shorter too, ending at around two, giving you ample time to wander or study until your three-to-nine shift at Jules & The Juice. You end up here at the same time on Sundays too.

It’s a good gig—pays above minimum wage, provides free meals, has friendly coworkers, and rolls at a pace that’s easy to keep up with; it’s normal—it’s nice. 

Sure, sometimes you get bored and think about living your life doing something new, but you like this routine you’ve somehow fallen into. At least the weight of your college tuition seems a little less burdening when you sink your teeth into a nice meal or take a stroll in mellow weather.

And perhaps the mundaneness of doing it day-by-day is what keeps all those little insecurities from taking hold and completely ravaging you—everyone has different ways of coping, you think. Therapists are expensive. A nice, hardback journal only costs twenty-five dollars a month, seventeen-fifty if you catch a holiday sale.

So if routine is what keeps you sane, binds all your creaking and worn parts together, you’ve learned to accept it.

It’s a nice notion to hold on a slow Tuesday like this one. The store is largely devoid of customers, save for the students dotting the booths on the walls—but you know how it is, not wanting to be bothered while studying, so you leave them be.

You’ve decided to busy yourself preparing ingredient stock for tomorrow’s morning shift until the front door chimes and someone new steps in.

“Welcome!” comes your reflexive response, succinct before you turn around to properly greet the guest. Your eyes come to rest on the figure and almost immediately, something jolts inside you.

It’s rather funny to think how sure you were of your contentment in modernity just moments ago. Your ordinary life, job, and crowd—everything about your being up until this point you deemed conventional.

The figure that walks in seems to be the physical embodiment of anything but.

Large puffs of dark wicks frame half-lidded eyes with four glints of silver just above his brows and six more around the edges of his ears. Studded cuffs line his wrists and waist, an additional arm garment and neckpiece matching the detailing on his vest. A faded, ripped blue shirt and patched black crust pants covers the expanse of his body, and if the chunky, blue-laced combat boots aren’t enough to draw your attention, the un-cased bass guitar slung on his back does the job just fine.

Within the span of a few seconds, you feel like your world’s been turned upside down. 

And somehow, you find that you’re more than okay with it—the sudden closeness of your throat and the slight heat to your cheeks indicates a possibility that you even  like  it.

It’s pretty hard to pass someone this tall, dark, and handsome.  

“Hi, what can I do for you today?” you manage with your best customer service smile when he approaches the counter.

At your address, he meets your stare with a slight raise of his head. You lock your knees to keep yourself from keeling over at the sight, your chest thrumming with energy.

“My mate told me this place was good—you recommend any drinks?” he says, his eyes flitting up to the menu overhead.

The momentary break from his gaze pushes a silent sigh of relief from between your lips. “Our most popular is the Green Tonic and the Energizer, but my personal favorite is the Matcha Madness.”

“Taste like anything?”

The edges of your mouth lift at the query. “Hard to describe in detail, but there’s a sweetness from the blueberry and an earthiness from the matcha. Good balance all around, I think.”

“Sick,” he replies off-handedly, nodding. “I’ll get that then. I trust your judgment.”

“Alright,” you chirp, typing in and sending the order, trying to ignore how hard the last phrase made your heart thump. “Seven forty-eight is your total.”

While the stranger pays, you keep your vision glued to the tenner he hands you, a fleeting glimpse of chipped black polish meeting you before you dig into the drawer for change.

“Two fifty-two and your receipt”—you rip the paper from the printer and slide the change in the same hand—“here you are.” When you reach to give it to him, still a bundle of nerves, you notice the badges fastened to his vest.

“Nice pins, make ‘em yourself?” slips out involuntarily, your mouth moving before your brain can process the words. You flinch when you hear yourself, but make a point to recover quickly for the prospect of your blunder going unnoticed.

Thankfully, the man in front of you doesn’t seem to discern the mistake. “Yeah,” he replies with a small smile. “Can’t take credit for this one up top, though. Another one of my mates did it. Wicked, innit?”

When he holds the collar of his vest out so you can see it better, you feel something new replacing the anxiety broiling in your gut.

Something new—the two words together are almost unreal. A life of routine never heralded this sort of sensation. Perhaps the most adjacent to it you’d felt ever since starting this station were the small bursts of satisfaction that came when you did well on a test or paper.

It isn’t simply feeling at ease with the moment, nor just adequate happiness. His gesture combined with the faint scent of his cologne as you lean in closer to inspect his pin sparks excitement. In it all, the brittle energy of restlessness transforms into something lighter, something sweeter. It keeps you talking as tenseness drains from your limbs, unlocking your knees and shaping the smooth bend of your arms to press palms against the counter and stand yourself a bit taller.

The conversation takes its own shepard and leads it into greener pastures, then—vitality blooms in swirls in your chest the more you chat with the stranger in front of you.

You soon learn that his name is Hobie Brown, former runway model turned aspiring punk anarchist artist. He mostly plays shows as an occupation, finding himself a rather popular figure in his town—though he notes that he hates the label—and when he’s out of the venue and on a different stage, he’s dedicated to political activism.

“Better to smoke fags than be a fascist,” he says with a smirk. Is it too early to ask yourself if you have a crush?

To your delight, he seems to enjoy the time too, listening intently as you list the few things that are interesting about you, then a handful of normal details thrown in just so you can get a smile out of him. You tell him about your move to New York for school, your university and all its little quirks. When he asks about the job, you joke that it’s nothing notable but end up spilling all the encounters with customers you can remember—the best and the worst of everything.

By the time the conversation ends—a bittersweet close forced by your coworker reluctantly asking for your help, despite being unwilling to spoil the former exchange—Hobie’s halfway done with his drink and you’re thinking you might need one yourself. It’s a good place to leave off, you think, and the unspoken prospect of meeting again has you nearly floating to the salad station.

Perhaps the occasional change of pace isn’t too bad after all.

Wednesday comes and goes as it always has, save for the Italian sub you order at Rajji’s.

The bodega owner looks at you with a curious expression when you say you’re “trying something new” and while you can’t really blame him, you don’t think it’s enough to warrant the ogle. Admittedly, you forget that not everyone reflects the mindset you go into each day with—the newest “let’s try new things for the first time in years because I met a guy” one  is  a rather shocking development.

But you repeat yourself regardless and he obliges this time around, layering lettuce and tomato on mozzarella, prosciutto, oil, vinegar, and herb seasoning. Squishing it all up in a hero roll, he wraps it, tapes it, then takes it to the register.

“Tired of my chopped cheeses?” Rajji teases when he goes to ring you up for the sandwich. “Or is something on your mind?”

“Nah, just wanted to try out your other stuff,” you reply with a chuckle. “Think I could switch it up a little from my usual routine.”

“You?” Rajji raises a brow. “Switch it up?”

A slow but half-hearted roll of your eyes precedes your response. “Hey, I’m not  that boring.”

“I didn’t call you boring, it’s just not like you,” the shopkeep comments with a shrug. “Eh, but if it’s what makes you happy, I’m also happy to see it.”

You expect it to end there—the supposition for him not to pry much after holds steadfast in the pregnant pause that passes by the both of you. There isn’t a need to tell him about Hobie, no reason to exchange anything more than light conversation and the same old greetings and gestures. It’s how it’s supposed to be, to stave off any awkwardness that sprouts from new things.

But within the beat of silence, you find that, unfortunately for you, Murphy’s Law and all its little variants still exist.

Rajji is a man of consideration, of surveillance—for a moment you wonder if he’s always been this way—and he eyes you as he counts your change.

Something changes—shifts—in the air when his stare flits back to the drawer. “You didn’t happen to meet someone, did you?”

It’s hard to not regret saying anything or feeling stupid when the question comes from him, when you consider your previous doubt. Interacting with people—reading them—had been his job for the past thirty years, and you of all people were no exception to his scrutiny, a loyal customer to his bodega for the most recent two.

The notion sticks but your breath hitches in your throat anyhow, his observation too on-the-mark for your liking. “N-No,” you stammer, coughing lighty. “Why, uh— Why would you think that?” Embarrassment finds you swiftly and your gaze is quick to hit the floor after your sorry attempt to brush the matter off.

Rajji just hums in response, his eyes narrowing with a smug grin. “Whatever you say, boss,” he snickers, dropping the return of bills and coins into your open palm. “I’ll see you next week, when you’re totally not in love.”

Your only response is a coy roll of your eyes and a brief wave before you quickly duck behind your shoulder to conceal the heavy heat you know is creeping to your cheeks.

“Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man?” You’re in the middle of a bite of food, voice muffled by grains and veg, when you repeat the moniker. “Are you talking about Peter Parker?”

It’s Thursday and you’re on your break—Hobie’s come around again, his bass guitar propped up comfortably against the back of a booth as he sits with you. Another slow day today allows you the luxury of meaningful conversation, unhurried by any rush of customers or important obligation. Gratitude is easy to meet in moments like these, delight even easier when you’re nearly elbow-to-elbow with someone whose smile makes you melt like butter under a hot knife.

“You know him?” Hobie seems mildly surprised at your response, brows raising a bit with interest.

“Well not know-know, but know of, I guess?” you consider, tapping two fingers to your lips in thought. “Huge medical case a few years back or something—the kid got bit by a spider and his arm withered. Went by Spider-Man online, but it was more of a joke thing. I’ve never heard ‘Friendly Neighborhood’ in front of the user, though. Think it sounds more like a superhero name that way rather than an internet slapstick.”

“Superhero, huh?” Hobie hums, shifting to lean on his elbows. “You believe in that kinda stuff?”

The query earns a thoughtful frown from you. “Like the whole super-speed, flying, teleportation kind of thing?” You wave your hands around to exaggerate the terms as they come.

Hobie laughs—man,  that laugh. “Yeah, something like that.”

“I mean, it would be cool if they existed, I guess?” you offer, affording a modest smile with the supposition. “When I was younger I used to dream about being able to fly places, but I guess you grow up and learn it’s not so simple.”

“That right?”

“Yeah. Not too sure about the whole political and moral-ethical logistics of it all if you wanna go there. But I guess I’ll always be happy to welcome people who won’t take advantage of the power, if there’s even anyone like that nowadays.” 

“You think there could be?” When Hobie asks, there’s something peculiar about it—there’s genuine interest hidden somewhere in there, but somehow it feels like he knows more than he lets on. You study him as he leans into the booth, crossing a leg over the other, an arm slung across the back of the cushioned seat.

His demeanor has you at a loss for words. “Dunno,” you finally murmur after a handful of seconds. An upward tilt of your chin levels your own gaze with his. “But I hope so.”

In the sheltered quietude that elapses, you’re allowed three more bites of your meal until Hobie huffs a wisp of a chuckle from his nose, the edges of his lips curling in a smile. The crinkle of his under-eye follows in tandem with the motion, beginnings of crows-feet showing at the corners.

You would’ve thought nothing of it if he hadn’t dropped his gaze to his boots and rolled his tongue in his cheek. This way, his expression of contentment seems more melancholy than anything—but you don’t pry. You just wait for him to speak because it seems like he needs the opportunity.

“Hope’s a good thing to have,” is all he says after the pause, not making a move to mention anything else. The rest of your meal is continued in comfortable silence.

When your break ends, he bids you goodbye and exits the shop—your eyes follow him all the way to the end of the window-wall until the last of him disappears beyond the cutoff.

All you’re left with are curled fingers around a ceramic bowl holding whatever’s left of your dinner, and the manifest thought questioning who Hobie Brown really is.

Friday arrives and Hobie is a no-show.

You don’t know exactly why the quality of your evening hinges on this and this alone, but it’s probably because of how shit the morning and afternoon had been. Missed your train for the first time in years, left on an empty stomach, and forgot your laptop at home. At the very least, one of your friends had been kind enough to share their notes with you after you’d spaced out all class—a win was a win, you convinced yourself. You just wish the day had more, following the walk to work where you stepped on gum and got shoved by a mob of tourists.

Everyone has bad days, you’re sure of the fact, but this is one truly unlike any other. 

It’s hard to quantify disappointment in a position like this—sure, stumbling around with a lump of bubblegum on your sole wasn’t exactly the best experience, but it’s foolish to count on Hobie’s arrival so assuredly. He’s got things to do, and you barely even know the guy so why does it matter? 

Still, as much as you try to reason with yourself, the feeling lingers in a cavity you can’t seem to reach.

You do your best to ignore it through your shift, stifling dismay with moving hands and fruity drinks, smushing guilt and unease by pressing vegetables and putting tuna melts together. Somehow it’s even easier to follow your usual routine in your state of heightened focus, itching to move on from contrition. This time around you don’t even make a note of how the same old company winds up in their same old spots, how despite the fact that the store is lined with customers, you’re left feeling as lonely as ever. 

Nine o’clock comes quicker than expected, a ginger toll ringing from the back of the house to let the shop and its people know it’s time for closing. By now your composure has long faded and you’re sure you look crazy, but Hobie didn’t come, so what’s the point in caring?

You usher the stragglers out and lock the front door, sighing tiredly when you remember the overzealous dish pileup in the sink.

Maybe you can put it off for a while longer—make it  two  things to shove to the back of your brain for tonight—so you choose to take inventory before the worst part of closing comes. Grabbing your clipboard and a pen from the register, you count stock, leaving notes for the morning shift as you trail along. 

Nine-thirty breezes by and you’re finally standing in front of the mess of dishes loaded into the basin. Like always, you mumble and groan for a minute before finally deciding to get it over with, plunging your now glove-laden hands into the soap solution the ceramic is soaked in and scrubbing until it shines.

You’re about halfway done with dishwashing, down to the plates and bowls and a few batches of forks when a knock sounds from outside the kitchen. Knuckle against glass, the rap echoes once more after you freeze, blood suddenly running cold. It has to at least be ten, with how long you’ve been working—you doubt it’s a customer dropping by for a query, or even a visiting friend from class looking to pass time.

It’s a serial killer! your heart screams, slamming a heavy rhythm against your ribcage. We’re gonna die! We should’ve stuck to our routine!

Holy shit, calm down, your head replies. Just look outside to see who it is. The door’s locked anyway. And there’s a back exit.

The thumping in your chest quiets down at the more logical reassurance, enough for you to muster the energy to creep quietly to the double acting door. Bit by bit, you crawl until you’re at its foot, then raise yourself just high enough to peer through the gaps in the window bar.

Relief floods you almost immediately when you see an all-too-familiar spiked cuff waving at you from outside. If only you had less dignity, so you could crumple to the ground like a ragdoll right then and there.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you breathe, instead hurrying to get the front door for Hobie as he waits with his hands stuck in his pockets. You make sure to shoot him a pointed look before you unlatch the lock.

Hobie just smiles and saunters in when the door swings open. “Thought I’d be out there forever,” he teases, and you don’t know whether to be irritated at him for how he scared you half to death, or relieved that he’s actually here today, albeit exceedingly late. 

The latter probably takes less time and energy, but your chest can’t help but tighten in annoyance. “Yeah, well you’re kinda hard to miss,” you counter snappily, finding some edge to sharpen the words. “Why’d you come at this time anyways?”

Hobie doesn’t react much to your change in tone, offering a nonchalant shrug in response. “Wanted to visit earlier, but got caught up in some stuff.”

Guilt pricks you then, a wince raising gooseflesh on the back of your neck, but you maintain your furrowed brows and pursed lips when you sigh. “Look, I really appreciate the sentiment, but you randomly knocking at the front of the store at”—you check the clock—“ten thirty-six, Jesus, you nearly gave me a heart attack. I lost twenty fuckin’ years off my lifespan.”

“Yeah, maybe it wasn’t the best time,” he says, a crooked smile tugging on his lips to match the glint of amusement in his eye. You hate that it’s so hard to stay mad when he looks at you like that. “But at least I’m not a serial killer or nothing like that.”

“You could very well be,” you muse, slipping back into the kitchen to finish cleaning the last of the cutlery. “I don’t know that.”

“Oh yeah?” Hobie says, disregarding the bolded “Employees Only” sign strapped to the door and following you in. “What’d you do if I were?”

“Run, hide, or be dead already, probably,” you note with a scoff. “Or maybe I’d call on one of those superheroes to come and save me.”

“Would you now?” Hobie leans on the wall, back pressed against beige, with folded arms and a tongue-in-cheek look. 

The part of you that you think he’s scrutinizing burns red-hot. “Yeah, I would,” you contest anyhow, polishing off two forks at a time. “Maybe in some world that Parker guy would’ve gotten powers instead of an atrophic arm.” Freaking radioactive spiders—how does that even happen? You scrub harder at stainless steel, still feeling Hobie’s stare on you. “But it’s whatever. Superheroes are overrated and Spider-Man’s a stupid name for one anyways.”

You’re not usually this cynical, but the anger comes easily and you’re tired of keeping it under thick skin. A new swell of indignation pushes a churning warmth to your gut as you count how many white plates and silver tools still lie in the basin. All you can do however, is continue to stand and clean—stain by stain, sud by sud.

It’s all you can do while Hobie stands by, idly watching. Shame seeps into the afterburn of irritation under his wakeful eye. You don’t know what he’s thinking, looking at you like that—you’re not sure you even want to. So you give yourself time to swallow your grievances and flush out the last of your frustration in your scouring.

Silence descends upon the two of you then, wordlessness lasting until the last of the dishes are put on the drying rack and the forks, spoons, and knives are sorted into their respective bins.

A sigh of relief escapes you when you finally drain the sink, a pool of water and soapy foam gathering at the bottom grate.

The last of your resolve seems to run down the pipe with the whirlpool that forms, sucked into the void of tubes. You don’t even bother addressing what had you so riled up before like you had planned originally—not having the patience nor the willpower to go on a metaphysical deep-dive with yourself at the moment—you just know that  God,  you’re exhausted.

Closing your eyes and pressing your palms to them, you emit a small groan before sucking in a long breath and releasing, shoulders falling with the compress of your chest.

“Sorry if I seemed out of it today.” You break the quiet first with the breath, words mumbled but still comprehensible. “Don’t think I need to tell you I didn’t exactly have the best time.”

“Don’t apologize,” Hobie responds. “Isn’t your fault the world’s a cock-up today.”

You manage a smile—though it’s shaky and unrefined, the weight on your back lightens. “You had a bad day too?”

“Somewhat.” Hobie scrunches his nose as he says it, but waves it off with a brush of his hand against the empty air. “Need company on the way home?” He leaves his perch on the wall to draw two steps nearer. The bridged distance—his presence being close enough to be perceived as a gesture of comfort but far enough to allow you your own space—is rather mindful.

But as much as you appreciate it, you shake your head slowly. “I couldn’t ask that of you,” you reply abashedly, so sure that he has better things to do, so sure that you can’t risk disappointment again.

Hobie seems to pick up on the sentiment—“I’m not offering because you’re asking, I’m offering because I want to,” he says with a tilt of his head. 

The words strike you in a tender spot, a place that feels awfully similar to the one crevice in your heart you couldn’t even fathom before. Suddenly the ache in your limbs is an afterthought, the mess of anger in your gut a pastime. Your conviction bleeds flesh-red, the pink trail it leaves smudging against the skin of your weathered fingertips as you close up, flicking off the lights, clocking out, locking the door.

Hobie nears you when you head down the steps of the back, his shoulder barely ghosting your own in your descent, and the color creeps up your arm, singing at his proximity.

By the time you arrive home, the air around you is tinted rose.

You’ve never been so grateful in your life to have an entire day off. Saturdays were always idyllic, but none so much like this one—you wake up at one twenty-nine with the high rise sun peeking through the blinds and spilling onto your sheets. Those thirteen hours of sleep still weigh heavy on your eyelids as you blink the blurriness out of your vision, a heavy yawn shuddering your frame as you sit up with a soft sigh.

A part of you wants to collapse back into the comforter, take another few hours to nurse your puffy eyes, but the growl of your stomach forces you onto your feet and into the bathroom to start getting ready. Brushing your teeth takes three minutes, skincare takes ten, and after the combined thirteen you’re feeling fresher than ever, whisking yourself into the kitchen to check what you can throw together.

Working in food retail has its perks, you think cheerily to yourself as you snag a couple condiments from the top shelf of your pantry. By the time you’ve finished scavenging and scouring, the ingredients are sorted on your kitchen counter and you’re firing up the stove with a crack of the dial. There’s no resolute plan, but the overall idea is to make something simple. Maybe a little stir fry with oyster sauce—throw in some vermicelli when the cauliflower cooks through because why the hell not.

You slice the carrots and dice the scallions, sprinkle in sesame seeds and let the flavor of white pepper and soy sauce marinade in everything else. The smell of it all—whole and warm and welcome—dances along the kitchen lining, plumes filling the space with spice.

When the dish is done cooking, you flick the fire off and grab a dish to plate it. In the same motion, you unlock the door to your balcony to let fresh air in—as much as you enjoy the scent of stir-fry now, it’ll probably grow stifling in a couple hours.

The door slides open and you take a large inhale, gasping in satisfaction at the light breeze that brushes by. It’s rare for New York to have clear skies nowadays, but the weather heralds just that today: crisp, bright, and blue over a stunning city skyline. You almost forget how good your view is up in your high-rise, you realize, so you decide to eat on the balcony to take in the scenery.

I should do this more often, you reckon silently, a homely feeling settling into your bones as you sit and eat. Things are easy when life is this simple.

Maybe it’s the little things in life that make it go round. Like watching the cars bustle and beep, surveying the billboards, mapping out the trail you take through the streets on the daily, noticing a little figure standing sideways on a building—

Noticing a little figure standing sideways on a building? You immediately set your lunch down and rush to the railing, your eyes widening, narrowing, then widening again as you try to confirm that you’re seeing things right.

A small figure stands on the side of some distant corporate building, absolutely perpendicular to the surface. 

Two fingers come to pinch the skin of your forearm but still, nothing changes. If anything, it gets more bizarre as the figure begins to walk upwards.

Is this a stunt? Is someone shooting a movie? Maybe it’s a prank—it has to be. Newton, you hardly know the guy, though you’re quite a vehement believer in his theory of gravity. But the longer you look, the less you can comprehend—there’s no visible harness and no film crew, no crowd below in awe of the spectacle.

And there’s no time to consider if you’re the only one who’s seeing this or not as you realize something peculiar upon closer inspection. With your phone out of your pocket and the camera app pulled up, you position the lens, zoom in, and watch what it picks up.

The figure is masked, face under red cloth with spike accents at the top of their head. Though they have their back to you, you can make out a one-piece suit and an overlay of a silver-studded vest and crust pants that transition into heavy combat boots. It’s familiar, but only reminiscent of styles you’ve seen.

Your phone screen holds still for a moment, your mind going a million miles a minute, then the figure turns around—

Everything goes quiet. “Holy shit,” you whisper, your vermicelli lunch now sitting like lead in your gut.

—and reveals the exact array of pins Hobie had attached to his own collar.

[divine-girl02]

hes so freakishly tall and lanky <3

[ctrlzirl]

me when I reach the angst part of the angsty fic that I specifically chose for the angst

[4mrplumi]

01. spiderwocky ── 'spidey' bot

platonic | spiderverse x spiderman!reader x batfamily | ms. list

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤdisclaimers on masterlist!

index. prologue , chapter one , chapter two , chapter three ... to be continued. based on this

“there are more advisable ways to source materials, (name),” a robotic voice ushers in your ear, “i could run a route for the nearest hardware store, safe enough for you to reach”.

you wave her out of your head, murmuring around your breath as you examine the multimeter in your hand. “‘s alright, spidey… they won’t mind me borrowing.”

you’re cooped up behind a large cargo box in the batcave, looking for throwaway tools to use, hoping to be able to fix the sp//dr suit before returning to queens. you’ve known bruce’s tech since you first came around, piecing out the fact he was batman soon after. batman and his batplane, his batmobile, his batgrapple… hell, maybe even a batGPT? he won’t notice if you snatch a little something.

“they’re out, can’t be too bothered to roam out in gotham when there’s perfectly available gizmos here, can i?” you chew on a fruit candy you nicked from the kitchen earlier, it might be damian’s, you’re not sure, “won’t be back till… eleven, tops?”

sp//dr crawls down your arm, her metallic legs causing a pin-prickly sensation, and making you shiver. “rather still, (name), i do not like advocating for such behaviour. what would your father think of you stealing?”

you stiffen for a second, pressing your lips into a thin line. “yeah, what would he?” you manage to scoff, shutting the lid of the box you were scouring through. “run a scan on the tech in here, would you? maybe there’s a micro-comm i can slip out-”

a shooting sensation of anxiety fills you, and you’re suddenly skittering to the nearest wall, sp//dr following close in suit. the water-curtain in the batcave parts to make way for a jet, the engines whirring so, so quietly, you think you’re hallucinating it. 

the hatch starts to open, and sp//dr whispers at you to climb up the wall, hide in the dark before you can run off. batman and the littlest robin hop out, their conversation to far away to eavesdrop on… for a regular person.

you narrow your eyes at them. super-hearing isn’t something you’ve experimented with, but you know it’s there, recalling the way your ears nearly exploded the first time your spidey-sense kicked in. maybe if you really concentrate? you squint at them, and the quiet becomes clear.

“perhaps it’s an installment… such work has become very popular as of late.” the little robin says, crossing his arms as batman types away on the long, long keyboard at his computer. “i doubt it,” he replies, his voice always sounds like gravel being rubbed against cement when he puts that cowl on, you think, “witnesses say it ‘showed up out of nowhere’, and the footage glitches out before the structure came in.” the screen in front of them switches to a recording, in black and white, crunchy even with the computer’s high data compatibility. 

you don’t stick around, scampering up the wall to the shaft you came in through, quiet as a bug as you stalk out from behind the grandfather clock that decorates the opening. the batman can figure out weird happenings in his city, you just need to be capable enough to help yours.

spider crawls onto your wrist, her metal parts rearranging themselves to turn into a bracelet. her voice hums out from a little blue dot on it, forever monotone. “please now, (name), return to your room without detection, fixing the suit can wait for tomorrow.”

you can’t help but smile a little at her instruction, slipping your new tools into the pockets of your jacket. “maybe it can,” you mutter back, under your breath, swiftly making distance from bruce’s office after you leave it, “but it’s not going to, is it?”

(name), duke notes glancing at the kid, who seems thoroughly submerged in schoolwork at the dining table, is more quiet that he’s accustomed to.

now- that’s not to say he’s used to (name) at all, having barely spoken to them last year, and missing them the year before that when they went off on some trip over the summer.

but it had been impossible to ignore the atmosphere of supreme awkwardness that followed the kid like a ghost, when they shifted on their heels, wanting to ask dick if they could hang out, or tim if he could look at some “cool question” they got as homework. now, that awkwardness had just been replaced with something… quiet. something still, and simpler. it was a drastic change, making him purse his lips into a thin line each time he saw them run back to their room the second everyone got back home from patrol. 

he wants to ask if anything's wrong, but… how? what would he even say? duke isn’t close to (name) at all, and it’s not like anyone else is either. heck, he’s barely even seen the kid. the house is decorated with pictures, relics from everyone (but... you) that bruce keeps up. in comparison, you drop in to the manor for a few months, haunting the place, before leaving just as quickly as you came. he didn’t even time to acknowledge you existed the first time he met you, too tired from patrol to be able to entertain any of your questions. wouldn’t it be weird to just… bluntly ask what in the world’s wrong with them, when he doesn’t know what’s supposed to be right?

duke looks away sheepishly when (name) glances back, seemingly aware of his staring. he’ll ask, he will. he just needs to figure out how… and when. when tim creeps into the living room, still in his suit, (name) crawls away up the stairs without acknowledging him, quiet as a bug. before… everyone just chose to excuse the noise (name) made. 

tim turns his head to where duke’s looking, the space now empty, and shrugs in dismissal. (name)’s not sitting there anymore.

you haven’t blinked in ten minutes, the thought drifting idly at the back of your head. you’re camped out in the dingy stairwell of some building, sp//dr’s little inbuilt projector painting a slideshow on the wall in front of you. her voice buzzes out from microscopic speakers.

“everything i could compile in the given time,” she speaks, “the information was protected quite fiercely… barely existed at all.” 

“so- what? like this doesn’t have a lot of notes or something?” you ask, scribbling down the words you see onto sticky notes, pasting them on the pages in your journal. sp//dr pings in acknowledgement on your wrist, switching to the next slide.

the batwing suit, one of the most high tech wearables you’ve ever had the opportunity to look at. call it inspiration, you’d murmured to sp//dr when she inquired about why you wanted the files on it, it’d be both a development in your knowledge and good for the sp//dr suit.

really, it was. the interior skin had similar properties to the hypothesized “nanotechnology” a guy at school had talked about, and the extra features would have genuinely enamored any mecha-geek.

your notes were simple. the “system” acted similar to sp//dr, and she already had a compartment in your suit, so it wouldn’t be too important. gyroscopic assist… that’d be interesting. most of your time’s spent swinging around, and the motion control on your suit is pretty good already, consider it an upgrade?

what’s most interesting about the suit is the toxikinesis, and energy negation. now, so to speak, you’re aware of the batman’s cautions against metas. apart from the signal, you’re not too well aware of anyone with any kind of powers in gotham (apart from yourself right now).

but hell, releasing poison mist? nullifying energy? that’s got to be cheating! even with all the other things the illustrious spiderman can do, it’s too cool of a thing to let up. before having to move into the manor with bruce wayne and his entourage of coloured birds, you’d lived with your father’s files taking up all the room on his desk, leaving only the stuffed drawers for the pictures you made for him. 

he’d been illustrious in his own right, taking out the little time he had to spend time with you. but not really be with you. still, in his interest, you took to technology too, tinkering with little robot kits your father’s friends gifted you. and it stuck. even after you were pulled out of school one day, the teacher’s expression looking unfathomably sad. the remorseful hunch of the officer’s back who’d eased you into telling you about your father’s accident was the only thing you looked at, your little kiddish throat feeling dry. 

it had stuck with you after you were put into bruce wayne’s house, as per your late mother’s wishes. it stuck with you after you were sent away from the manor to boarding school for most of the year. it stuck with you even after the sharp pinch of the spider that bit you a few months ago, changing the trajectory of your life in a way you couldn’t complain about.

in the midst of your “studies”, you hear a doom slam, and shouting ensue. in regular gotham fashion, it’s vulgar, filthy and loud. spiderman responds to conflict with fight. (name) prefers flight. you shove everything into your bag, scuttling down the steps as the shouting gets louder, something about hogging the elevator before it starts making your head feel hot and dizzy from anxiety.

the suit’s going to need work. the batwing suit’s fairly slimmer than your bulky mecha, making the components proportionate would take time.

maybe you could ask… no, he’d be too busy anyway. your tongue feels like lead when you lie to sp//dr. she asks; “what are you thinking about?”, you say, “a lot of things.”. you're not thinking of anything at all.

in your silence, sp//dr’s monotonous company is like a soothing balm. so soothing in fact, you don't see a stray sticky-note glitch in red and blue, and then; disappear entirely.

₊˚⊹ a/n : was this bit kind of a nothingburger... maybe. next entry sometime soon,, we'll get to see the society there. thanks for reading!!

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[tvgals]

face sitting!! but..backwards??

“y’sure im not too big, doll?” he asks, a sheepish smile on his face. “i’m sure! i can handle it!” you plead, laying on his built torso, the black compression shirt bringing out his muscles. “if you say so.” he grins, picking you up and putting you on your back gently. “if you wanna stop, tap my thigh three times, got it?” he asks, kissing you between words. “got it!” you giggle. he shimmies out of his sweat pants and sits on his knees, just below your breasts.

“are you a thousand percent positive?” he asks one more time. you roll your eyes and slap his ass playfully, jolting him forward a bit. “yes! now hurry up before i change my mind.” you say, caressing his toned thighs. he shuffles toward your face, his musky smell overpowering your nose, your eyes being glazed over with lust. he pulls his dick out of the hole in his boxers and taps your lips a couple of times. “open up, mama” he says. you open your mouth and your tongue lolls out, you looking up at him in anticipation. he taps his tip on your tongue, slowly sliding it in with a meek groan.

“fuck..” he whispers, slowly dragging himself in and out. “there we go, doing so good for me baby.” you gag and sputter a bit, a sign that he was doing his job. his pace starts to speed up, knocking the top of your head into the headboard, loud ‘thud, thud’ noises being audible from downstairs. he can’t help but let his eyes roll back as your mouth drags along his cock, draining him slowly.

“‘m not gonna last much longer…” he whimpers, speeding up so he can drain himself inside your mouth, his load sliding down your throat easily. he pulls out of you, your spit and a mixture of his cum stringing from his cock and your lips. “so beautiful, baby.” he grins, rubbing an assuring hand over your cheek. “thank you.” you smile, kissing his semi-hard cock one last time before pushing him onto his back.

“my turn.”

GOJO, TOJI, connie, EREN, hobie, JEAN, simon, konig, keigo, rengoku, INO, your faves i can’t name rn