father figure

"awhoogaa" - god upon seeing men and women and non-binary people and people fall out of the spectrum and etc.

[damnbigguy]

Little Bites

The fandom/game of Food Fantasy is extremely dead, Western community at least, but I like a few of the characters. so. Brownie, Napoleon Cake, and B-52 helping out their attendant. Honestly, it's a pretty interesting game, somehow worse in terms of p2p than genshin but it's cool. I wouldn't reccomand playing it but at least looking at it.

Brownie

"Master Attendant?" He hums, folding the towel he was just using to wipe the counter, looking around as he suddenly realizes you're not around.

He frowns but quickly fixes his expression, it's unbecomming of a butler to show such emotion.

He walks to the kitchen of the resturant, lifting his head to try and spot his master attendant, only finding Ume Ochazuke cooking while Pudding adjusts his glasses and murmurs about what to cook next, but both of them turn to look at him. "Yes?" Pudding raises a brow. "Is Oumarice having another panic attack?"

"No," he shakes his head. "has anyone seen the master attendant?"

"They're getting the order." Pudding gestures to the back.

Brownie sighs in relief that he hadn't allowed his master to get attacked by a fallen and die, but hurries to the back as his shoulder tense - feeling like a failure for allowing you to carry those boxes in without any of his help.

Brownie's footsteps are quiet but purposeful as he moves through the swinging doors at the back of the restaurant. The scent of spices, warm bread, and something vaguely citrusy hangs in the air, drifting in from the open delivery crates. A summer breeze stirs the edge of the white curtain draped over the doorway, and he pushes it aside to step into the sunlit storage corridor.

There you are.

Your back is turned, balancing a heavy box of ingredients on your shoulder while nudging the door open with your foot. Brownie's mouth opens in silent reprimand before he stops himself, brow knitting slightly. This is his fault. He's a failure of a butler. How could he ever hope to be the best of the best if he could allow this.

His steps quicken, and he reaches your side just as you manage to stumble through the doorway into the storage room.

"Master Attendant, forgive my neglience." He grabs the box from your arms, his voice tight with disapointment in himself but relaxed as your form fits his vision. "You shouldn't be lifting those on your own, not with your station."

You sigh, wiping sweat from your brow before chuckling. "Brownie, I'm almost done. Besides, I own the resturant, it sort of is my job to do the order and keep us stocked."

He puts the box down, popping his head into the kitchen to inform Pudding - who has a very spefifc way of sorting everything - that the order is there before turning back to you. "Yes, and as your butler, it is my job to ease your responsibilites and make your life easier."

You once again let out a soft laugh. "You're a food soul, not a butler."

"I want to be a butler." He murmurs, kissing his teeth and remembers murmuring is not becoming of a gentleman, and says it again, more clearly. "I want to be your butler."

He grabs another box, staring you down when you try to grab another and kicking his hip out at you.

"I carry a gun that weighs more than I do into every battle, I will carry the boxes, master."

"Fine, fine." You wave him off, opening the door for him into the dry storage. "You're such a good boy, Brownie."

He flinches like you shocked him, swallowing any noise he might have made. "Ah... t-thank you, Master Attendant, that means quite a lot. I promise, I won't let you down."

"I know you won't."

Napoleon Cake

"Did someone eat my cake?" He asks, pouting as he lifts the cover off the cake stand. He huffs, crossing his arms. "Master Attendant!" He whines, lifting the cupcake he had taken from a passing tray to his lips. "Have you seen my Angel food cake?" He takes a bite.

You pop your head into the kitchen, letting out a long breath. "Napoleon, you already have a cupcake."

"It's strawberry, it's not the same." He kisses his teeth, chewing through the icing and unable to keep the smile off his face from the taste of sugar on his tongue.

You pause, glancing at where you know you hid it before back at him. "Tell you what, I'll tell you where it is and make sure to get whipped cream for strawberry shortcakes when I go to the shop, if you do some general tidying around here."

He takes another bite, licking his lips. "But that sounds so boring, I think I'm just going to search everything I can think of instead. It's not like it's outside the kitchen."

You sigh.

"I can't stop you, but... please?"

He huffs, pushing the last of his first treat into his mouth, murmuring around his mouthful. "Hmh... Maybe." He says, but is already grabbing the broom.

He drags it behind him like a sulking child with a toy he didn't want, but he does what you asked, even kicking the chairs out of the way so he can get underneath them.

He hums a little as he works, off-key but oddly charming, the handle of the broom thumping rhythmically against the floor. Occasionally, he casts a glance toward the cupboards, as if suspecting one of them might reveal the cake on its own.

You watch from the doorway, arms folded. "You know, if you put half this energy into cleaning on a normal day, I wouldn't have to hide your cake."

"You did it on purpose?" He twirls the broom, much like he does as he recharges his gun, now pointing it at you.

"Of course. You don't do anything unless I bargin with you." You grumble. "I just wish you did more around here, you know? The resturant is my dream and you use it as a sweet dispensery."

He tenses, looking down, the broom's bristles scraping lightly across the tile as he goes still. For a moment, he doesn't say anything. Just stares at the floor like it might hold the words he wants. "Your dream." He repeats, nodding. "I'll do better. I promise, Master."

You open your mouth, wanting to apologies for making him feel bad, but he suddenly makes a break for the far right cabinet.

"And next time you hide something, try not to look at it." He giggles, grabbing the box and pulling it down. He walks by you, kissing your cheek as he opens it. "And I really do promise, I'll have the place swept by the afternoon. No doing it yourself."

B-52

He pats the rollups as he finishes them before he kneels, grabbing the salt and pepper. He pauses. "Master Attendant," he calls, voice even as always, looking at where you're standing at the host stand. "I will grab the ground pepper from downstairs, shall I fetch anything else?"

"Hm?" You turn away from Sandwhich, patting his shoulder as you walk over to B-52. "I'll come down with you, I should check our horseradish and garlic aiolis. I'll bring up some tomato juice for the bar too."

"I could handle that all, there's no need for you to come with." He adds, glancing to the side with an umimpressed expression.

"Then, why-?" He cuts himself off, following.

You nod, already walking to the back of house to descend the stairs into dry storage. "Yes, I know."

You head toward the back hallway together, the hum of the kitchen dimming behind you as you push through the swinging door.

He finally breaks the silence as you're reaching for the horseradish tub. "You know, it's inefficient when you insist on doing things that could easily be delegated. You could be upstairs, managing and defeating the dash customers."

"Ichi's taking care of it. He's overjoyed to get some more hands on experience with Milk and Coffee." You wave it off. "And Pudding's been smacking my hand whenever I try to look at our reservations, he has it handled." You smile, waltzing into the walk-in fridge as he reaches up in dry. "You have to stop worrying, B-52, we're running just fine."

He exhales through his nose, the sound soft but unmistakably displeased. "The bar still requires restocking, we're short on vermouth, and the new shipment of bitters hasn't been unpacked."

You emerge from the walk-in with the aioli containers balanced neatly in your arms, offering him a grin. "I know. It's all on my checklist."

He gives you a look - half disapproval, half resignation - and steps aside to make room as you set the tubs into a tray to ease carrying them up the stairs. "Then you’re working from memory again."

"Only a little," you admit, straightening up. "Ichi took my clipboard. Said it made me look like I wasn't in the moment."

B-52 sighs again, adjusting his gloves with a sharp tug.

"You're mad." You sing out.

"I am not." He refutes.

"You're at least frustrated. Or confused." You shrug. "It's normal."

"I-!" He swallows his complaints, blinking at you. "It's... human?"

You nod, grinning at the food soul. "Yeah, it's human. We all get emotions we can't explain, or get upset over little things, or just get annoyed at somebody. It's normal."

He sighs, nodding. "Then, I admit it, I am confused. Why do you insist on doing the small tasks, allowing your staff to do the larger ones? You let Boston Lobster and Spicy Gluten fight through every fallen that gets too close and barely glance at them, Pudding is allowed to take control of the entire resturant while you refill the sauces, why do you do this?"

You shrug. "I trust them."

"Do I have that same trust?"

"Obviously," you snort, flicking his ear. "you're honest, hard-working, strong enough to handle yourself without me having to micro-manage."

He brushes your hand away, staring at the wall. "You're... I." He grimaces like it hurts him. "I trust you as well."

[damnbigguy]

Pavitr - Animals

Going out with Pavitr and, like always, animals crowd him. 2nd pov, gender neutral references to the reader if any, Pavitr special because... I can. Who'll stop me? Nobody.

Mumbattan has a large number of stray and feral animals - dogs, cats, and one time a rabbit thump'd right into view when you were passing by (Though that was followed with Pavitr sprinting after it to make sure it's safe, seemingly forgetting that he's still holding your hand). And every single animal seems to understand one thing: your boyfriend is the person to go to for attention or food.

Sometimes, you have to agree.

He goes out of his way to make sure every creature is cared for.

You’ve watched him share snacks with dogs like he’s known them for years, untangle kittens from fences, and even hold a crow like it was the most natural thing in the world. There’s probably a squirrel somewhere who owes him its life.

He's a Disney Princess; he even has the same incredible hair.

As charming as he is, to both the animal and human populations, it does make it hard to find any real alone time with him - from curious relatives, both of you having school, his weird hobby of dressing up in a costume and defeating bad guys, and him always having to make time for every animal he sees, you two barely have any time together.

Of course, his kind personality is part of why you fell for him, and you can't blame him for going out of his way for everything sentient (though you do blame him for the time he carried a stick for an hour before tossing it into a pretty lake because it was 'reaching out to him'), but sometimes you wish he wasn't such a magnet.

But also, watching him crouch and show a group of kids how to greet a dog is very... him.

"Ah, try to keep your hand open, okay? And don't make eye contact too soon, you might scare him," he explains, voice soft as he shows them what to do, though the dog starts lapping at him before pushing its head into his open palm.

You watch from a few steps away, hand carrying the little plastic bag of snacks you two had picked out for the movie (that will be playing on the laptop, which is stuffed into his bag) while he was talking about how he found a really private rooftop you two can get to without any cameras or people bothering the two of you.

You shift the bag in your arms, half-smiling as Pavitr breaks into a grin at the dog’s affection. He’s glowing in the golden-hour light, crouched low in his too-nice jeans without a care in the world.

The dog finally wanders off after a solid few minutes of ear scratches and praise, and the kids scatter too, leaving behind laughter and the faint sound of a bouncing rubber ball. Pavitr rises with a soft groan, dusting off his knees like he didn’t just spend five minutes as the neighborhood dog whisperer.

"Okay! That was the last one," he promises cheerfully, rejoining you and reaching to take the snack bag from your arms.

You raise a skeptical eyebrow. "You said that three dogs ago."

"I meant it at the time!" he protests, nudging your shoulder with his. "But this time I really mean it. Straight to the rooftop. No more side quests."

You squint at him.

He grins, shifting the bag to his other hand so he can intertwine his fingers with yours, leading you through the crowds near the traffic-clogged streets toward the fire escape he swears no one ever uses - despite the fact that you’ve already caught two pigeons nesting under one of the rungs last time.

The rooftops of Mumbattan during sunset are a kind of magic all their own, hot pink clouds bleeding into rich golds, the wind tugging gently at clothes and hair, and the far-off hum of life buzzing below like it’s on a different planet. Pavitr climbs ahead of you, and when you finally haul yourself up after him, it’s to find the promised spot: tucked between a water tank and a crumbling satellite dish, just enough space for two people and a slightly tilted screen.

He lays out the blanket like a ritual, dramatically smoothing out the corners while you set the snacks down. The laptop boots with a wheeze, the sound of it old and familiar, and Pavitr sits cross-legged, patting the space beside him.

A cat mrrhm's as it slips into view, curling over his legs like it's its birthright, a crowd of feline eyes twinkling in the shadows like the night sky and staring at you as you find your spot next to him. The cat in his lap, some sort of tabby, lifts its head to look at you like Pavitr is their boyfriend and not yours.

He chuckles, petting its small head with an easy hand, his other rummaging through his bag before pulling out a DVD case.

"…Okay, so - hear me out," he says, brandishing the case like it’s sacred. "It’s The Princess Bride. But I’ve never actually seen it. And everyone says it’s a classic, so now we can watch it together and I can finally understand, like… half the memes."

You blink at him. "Wait, you haven’t seen The Princess Bride?"

Pavitr shrugs, unbothered. "I was busy! You know, doing homework. Being bitten by radioactive spiders." He leans forward, smiling proudly. "Meeting the love of my life. Usual stuff."

"We have a math test next week. You really think we'll be together for our entire lives?"

He pauses, looking down at the laptop as he slides the disc in. "Why wouldn't I?" He hums, looking over at you as he starts the movie, leaning back and putting an arm around you. "I want..." he sighs, lips unable to hide his little grin as he brushes his fingers through the grey fur of the cat. "I want to spend my life with you. I know it sounds corny, but I really can't imagine my life with anyone else."

You glance at the screen as the movie starts, the familiar hum of the title sequence filling the small rooftop space, and lean into him, letting your head rest on his shoulder. His arm tightens around you instinctively, and you feel him press a kiss into your hair.

"I don’t think it sounds corny,” you murmur. “I think it sounds like you."

The cat purrs in his lap like it agrees.

[damnbigguy]

In Jealousy

Hobie Brown, Pavitr Prabhakar, and Miles Morales [1610] deal with jealousy, gender neutral reader, gender neutral references to reader, 2nd pov

Hobie Brown

He doesn't get jealous in any traditional sense. Well, he does, but he finds that it's more his fault than anything he has to talk to you about.

He'll send a look to whoever you're talking to - a lazy, disinterested thing on the surface, but there's a sharpness underneath. It's not about possession. It's about respect. If the person you're talking to has any sense at all, they'll catch the warning and steer right.

You always notice it, the subtle shift in him. The way his jaw ticks once, maybe the way he leans just slightly closer, hand brushing your lower back like a silent, you good? check-in.

If you're laughing, genuinely, and it's all harmless, he lets it go. Goes back to whatever he was doing without a word. But if you look even a little bit uncomfortable - maybe you shuffle a step back, or your smile doesn't quite reach your eyes - he's there in a second.

Doesn't make a scene. Doesn't grab you or start something loud. Just drapes an arm over your shoulders, casual, protective, heavy in the way that says, actually, fuck off.

"Oi," he might say with a lazy grin, squeezing your shoulder lightly. "Don't think we've met."

If you introduce him all casual, he'll back off, he gets it, you deserve friends he isn't familiar with (he's keeping Gwen and Miles from you, other than he'll go hang out with his 'out of country friends'). If you don't seem casual, he'll lean in and murmur for your ears only: "You alright, love?"

If you shake your head or hesitate, he's looking right up at them and just shrugging. "Sorry, man, we've got somewhere to be." He'll say this no matter what. You two could actually have things to do, or just go to the park and toss a handful of seeds at the pigeons, maybe stop by the pub, maybe just bring you somewhere pretty just to show you something pretty.

Sometimes they don't back off, at which point he'll punch somebody or drag them outside. He doesn't like leaving you alone after something like that, so he usually just webs them to the wall and comes back.

"Hey, love - that prick? No, he's staying outside. Let's just get groceries."

Pavitr Prabhakar

Hates being seen as a jealous boyfriend; every bit of media he's consumed either has a jealous boyfriend getting dumped for someone more loving, or they're incredibly possessive and sort of creepy and make him cringe - he doesn't want to be either of those. Besides, he doesn't want to get bombarded with questions from curious mothers and aunts, it's easier to seem super, totally casual.

But sometimes he's also dumb and just wants his partner with him instead of someone else. The worst time was at a picnic he had spent days planning and weeks praying that the weather stayed sunny and months building up the confidence to ask for a picnic date; something far more romantic (in his eyes) than watching a movie or doing homework together.

The picnic had been perfect at first. He set up the blanket under the biggest, greenest tree he could find, packed way too much food because he wanted you to have options, and even remembered bug spray. He kept sneaking glances at you like he couldn't believe you said yes. The sun was warm, the breeze gentle, and you were smiling at him. 

Exactly how he'd imagined it.

Then came along the upperclassman, someone with all lazy smiles and a much deeper voice. He vaguely recognized him as another student, but you obviously knew him better because you two started chatting.

He tries to distract himself by twisting the cap off a soda, moves to stacking paper plates from his favourite to his least (then switching it around, and one more time before he moves on), then pretending he's just changing the way he's sitting and 'accidentally' nudging you with his knee, then digging through the bag he brought for bugspray, then just staring at you two.

This takes place in exactly a minute and fifteen seconds.

You don’t notice him struggling at first, too busy laughing at something the guy said, and that - that stings. Not because you’re doing anything wrong, but because Pavitr had built this entire day around you. Around you and him, together. And now there's someone else here, cutting into a day Pavitr had rehearsed in his head a thousand times.

He tells himself he's being dumb. That you're allowed to have friends.

That being clingy isn't attractive, and trust is important.

He tells himself all of that.

And still, his hand finds yours where it's resting on the blanket.

You glance down - your smile softens a little - and without thinking, you turn your hand over and thread your fingers with his. And he instantly relaxes because the upperclassman gets called away, you're holding his hand, and he can happily offer you a sip from his soda.

Miles Morales

Miles wasn’t jealous. No, not exactly. He hated that word. He liked to think of it as "protective" or "overwhelmingly invested" or even "totally in love and kinda stupid about it."

But he absolutely is. He is the type to get jealous, though he can usually power through it because his Mama's voice is always in his head about how he has to respect his partner, their privacy, and give as much trust as they receive. But some days, he's still a teenager in his first relationship and gets worried.

He doesn't even notice he's staring down the girl you're talking to (very animatedly) until he suddenly regains sentience and realizes he's been so distracted he's just started writing down whatever he heard.

The work was in classic English literature, and yet he's writing about a fat pigeon that Samuel was talking about. Who's Samuel?

Doesn't matter, his hand was already focused on fishing his phone out of his uniform coat - going straight from his last class to the library, accidentally (for real this time) following your idea - and he sent you a text as he turned his chair to the other side to make it seem like he hadn't seen you yet; Hey r u still at school? Im in the lbrary.

He scrunched his nose, already internally cringing at his spelling and grammar just because he couldn't be normal.

He gets a pretty quick response.

Me too actually. I see you, one sec.

And god does he exhale, relaxing like someone just took all the bones out of his body. He tucks his phone back into his coat just as you excuse yourself from the conversation, weaving through the rows of shelves toward him. And when you smile at him, bright and real and easy, all the leftover knots in his stomach unravel at once.

"Hey," he greets, vowing to never do something like this again - he probably will, but he's going to bury his head into his pillow and groan about how cringe he is first. And get better with his jealousy, he hopes.

[damnbigguy]

In Distance

Hobie Brown, Pavitr Prabhakar, and Miles Morales [1610] (separate) in a long-distance relationship [whether for years or weeks]. Gender-Neutral references to reader, reader never named, 2nd pov.

Hobie Brown

It could be you're from another Earth (he wouldn't admit that he's from a different dimension), another country, hell, he could make it work if you were from a thousand years in the future. He's not letting anything stop him.

Distance doesn't matter much to him, the idea that people can't have a meaningful relationship because they can't see each other? Pushed by capitalism so they can make you feel guilt until you get an expensive enough gift for your partner - not that he doesn't send gifts, the post office is probably the one and only thing he likes that connects even somewhat to the government, but most of his gifts are his own clothes that he wants to see you in or a little trinket he found (though he tries to send the little things in batches, because paying for shipping five times in a week is "bloody criminal.")

He doesn't constantly stick to his phone, but he has a special noise for when it's you texting or calling, and he'll pause anything he's doing, or just punch harder to get whatever fight he's in over.

When you two do get on a call, he'll wander. He'll start at the docks and end up on the rooftop of some bank, barely remembers to hide his face when walking up the side of a building because he's more focused on remembering everything you said.

Sometimes you're just talking about your day, about something stupid your coworker or classmate said or how you can't believe someone microwaved fish again, and he'll hum in the right places, toss in a "they sound like a twat" here and there, but mostly, he just listens. Because he wants to. He likes the way your voice changes when you're excited, the way you breathe out when you're tired.  Sometimes you fall asleep mid-call. Doesn’t matter the time difference - he keeps his earbud in, volume low. Just listens to your breathing, the occasional shift of blankets, maybe a little sleep-talk he teases you about later.

Hobie doesn’t do schedules or routine, but for you? He'll try. If you say you're free at nine, he's stretching his arms and looking for a place with decent reception ten minutes before.

You once asked if it was weird or strange, if he really wants to be with someone who can't be by his side, and he said, "nothin's weird about anything, weird is something they made up so people fall into the right lines-" and you fell asleep to him ranting, not that he was boring, he just went on for that long.

He was just happy you fell asleep to his voice.

Pavitr Prabhakar

You probably knew him and even started dating before it became long distance, but if you hadn't started dating, then he'll wonder why he's thinking about you so much. He'll be finishing his homework only for his mind to go; 'I wonder if they're any good at math' and he'll pause, shrug and finish it (Not before thinking 'I'd look so cool if I helped them, I bet').

That's how it would go for a while, sending you messages whenever he happens to have time and remember he has a 'super close friend' in another part of the world, until one day everything's been too tough. Being Spider-Man is too much, being a nephew is too much, being Pavitr is too much, and all he can do is call you and babble on about his awful week. At the end of it, he straight up asks to be your boyfriend.

And now he's constantly making time for you, a call, text, but his favourite is anything he can see your face on - and his because he is very expressive, and it's easier to see he's listening than him going 'hm' every few seconds. He props his phone up on his bed, lying on his chest with his legs kicked up, pretty much unable to stop being painfully obvious he's far too invested in whatever you're saying.

On rough days, when he's bruised and tired and maybe a little frustrated that you're not close enough to just lean on, he doesn't say much. He'll just lie there, camera on, eyes half-lidded, listening to you talk. It's like your voice stitches him back together. He doesn't tell you that part. Not yet.

He absolutely wants to see you in person, but Pavitr is nothing if not stubbornly, gloriously optimistic. He sees it like a temporary obstacle in a very long movie - this is just the montage part, where you two are apart, but growing stronger. There's music over it, in his mind. Probably a violin solo at some point. And when does he picture seeing you again? He grins so wide he has to shove his pillow over his face to hide it.

He'll send you selfies and pictures whenever, and it's almost as if he's trying to get them as ridiculous and blurry as possible. He is. He's doing mirror selfies where he's trying to one-up his last pose every time, sending photos of his meals (ones he's not sharing with anyone, he tell you after but he likes being in the moment still) where it's obvious he was shaking his phone when taking it, and sometimes it's just his outfit.

He likes sending his outfit after you have, likes wearing the same colour if he can too.

There's a little photo of you, maybe from a call, maybe one you sent him, tucked behind his mirror. He looks at it every morning while fixing his hair. It's not weird, he swears, it's just… comforting.

Miles Morales

He yearns, that's the type of person he is. He sends you whatever, whenever, usually getting the 'isn't it 5 A.M. for you??' in response.

Draws you constantly, most of the time he means to, but there are rare times when he gets distracted in a test and doodles your eyes to the best of his memory, or he's riding the last wave of exhaustion before he passes out, waking up to find your name, your face, your hands, whatever popped into his mind. The latter usually ends up with Ganke looking at him with concern.

He misses you in little ways, like when he hears a new song and his first thought is, They’d love this. Or when he sees someone wearing your favourite colour on the train and it pulls his chest a little tighter. The distance is weird, it stretches him - makes him feel like he’s walking around with a piece of him somewhere else. Somewhere safe, yeah, but not here. Not where he can introduce you to his friends as his partner, his love, his babe. His. Not where he can show you all of his art in person, hold your hand as he leads you through the maze of transit to get to his favourite places, until he gains the confidence to hold you while swinging. Not here.

He loves calling you after a long day. You're the cool water to his overheated mind. He lies on his back, one arm behind his head, the phone screen tilted just right, watching you talk about your day. You don't have to say anything profound. Just hearing you complain about the bus being late or how the vending machine ate your money makes his whole week. It makes things feel normal. Real. Especially after being thrown into a situation he wanted no part in, one he can't even tell his parents about.

He's got a map above his desk with a little pushpin in your part of the world. Ganke says it's corny, but Miles doesn't care. He says it helps him know which direction to look when he says goodnight.

He tries not to be clingy. But the truth is, he's been checking flight prices. Every couple of weeks. Just in case. He doesn't say anything about it. He doesn't want to make you feel bad. But the tab is always open, always refreshed. He doesn't have solid plans to go; he still has school, and Spider-Man is an unpaid position, but hey, if the tickets did get cheap, he'd probably panic and get them (with the little money he gets from odd-jobs, a gift from family and family friends on his birthday because he begged them, just once, do not get art supplies and they had little idea what else to get, and whatever he's saved up). He'd tell you, of course, probably in full caps because he's scared and nervous, but he's more scared of the idea of telling his parents.

Still, he's excited to see you.

[damnbigguy]

In Truth

Boyfriend wants more, I am, by law, required to do this. Hobie Brown, Pavitr Prabhakar, and Miles Morales [1610] (separate) revealing they're a Spider-Person. Gender-Neutral references to reader, reader never named, 2nd pov.

Hobie Brown

Fascists are dumber than rocks in Hobie's mind. You want to sit pretty while the machine rolls you over? You want to let the big man stick it in you rather than stick it to him? Assholes, losers, idiots, and victims, that's what makes up the form of government he so loudly opposes.

But in their hatred, they have little sparks of thought.

He supposes it only makes sense; he's destroyed a thousand buildings, defeated a thousand 'baddies', and a million plans have not gone through because he hit someone with his guitar; he's enemy number one (apart from free thought).

He should have told you, warned you, given you the chance to walk away from a relationship with Spider-Punk instead of Hobart Larry Brown. But he was scared, scared that you would walk away.

Now he's scared as he sees you crumpled over the chair the assholes had you in - the same assholes now groaning on the floor that he had clawed and beaten through when the announcement blarred through the streets that they may not have gotten the webslinger, but they got someone close to him.

"Hey, hey," he puts a hand on your shoulders, sliding it towards your neck and feeling for a pulse, lifting your head up. "come on, it's... it's all good now, all fixed," he crouches, untying the ropes around your legs as quickly as he can, grinding his teeth together to keep some sort of calm.

You're barely conscious. Blood drips sluggishly from a cut above your brow, and your face is twisted in that half-wince, half-numb expression of someone who's too hurt to even panic anymore.

Hobie's hands shake as he works at the ropes, fingers rough but careful, every knot an insult, every bruise on your skin a personal attack. His thoughts are loud in his head—too loud, and he can’t shut them up. 'This is your fault. Should’ve told them. Should’ve never let them get near this.'

He's not sure what's taking more effort; is it not proclaiming his love for every little inch of your body, or keeping himself from killing the bastards on the floor?

When your legs are free, his hands are shaking too much to untie the ones on your arms, so he just uses whatever anger's in his body to rip them far away enough that he can slip them over your head. He catches your weight as you slump forward, arms hooking under your shoulders to keep you from hitting the ground.

"C'mon, love," he mutters, voice hoarse with fury and fear. "Stay with me, yeah? Don't go all dramatic on me now. Can you hear me?" He murmurs, voice low and tight, fingers brushing hair from your face. There's blood, sweat, and dirt. He can't tell what's yours and what's not. All he knows is that you're breathing, barely, and that's not barely enough for the amount of relief that courses through him in a similar fashion that the venom did from the spider.

He lifts you like it's instinct, like your weight was made to fit in his arms - legs tucked under one arm, back cradled against the other. His guitar, still strapped to his back, creaks as he stands, and he sways for a second, more from rage than from your weight.

He should move. He needs to move.

But you open your eyes. Barely. Just a crack, just enough that he sees the colour of your iris through the swelling. Your mouth tries to move. He leans down, just in case it’s your last words - God, he hopes it’s not.

"H-Hobie...?"

He freezes, wondering if you're just reaching for something familiar in what is surely a scary moment or can actually tell who he is beneath the mask. Then he sighs, lifting the edge of his mask up. "Yeah," he murmurs, leaning down to only be understood by you. "it's me. I got ya, I do, promise," he speaks fast, stumbling over his own words as he presses his back against a window, holding you closer.

The window’s glass groans behind him, rattling in its frame, but Hobie doesn’t care if it shatters, doesn’t care if it cuts into his jacket or ruins the stolen radio clipped to his belt. All he cares about is the slow, sluggish blink of your eyes as you try to focus on him.

"Was gonna tell you," he whispers. "Planned it, even. Whole speech. Was gonna be smooth, y'know? Maybe take you real high, a rooftop, the one with the rusted-out billboard and no cameras." He breathes out a sharp, shaky laugh, pressing his forehead to yours for just a second. "Guess I missed the mark."

You exhale something between a breath and a hum - maybe you’re trying to laugh, maybe it's just pain. Either way, your hand twitches against his chest, fingers catching on the edge of his jacket.

"I'm Spider-Punk,” he says quietly, the name foreign on his own lips when he says it like that, not shouted with rage or scrawled in a zine his friends hand to him after they've finished reading it. "Been him for a while. Since before I met you. But I’ve never - never wanted someone to know me outside the mask until you." He swallows, jaw clenching so tight it trembles. "And now this."

Outside, the city crackles with static. Sirens in the distance. He can already hear the clatter of boots - cops, maybe, or more of those jackbooted bastards who think uniforms excuse cruelty.

He's got seconds. Maybe a minute.

"Alright, love," he mutters, adjusting his grip on you again. "We're gettin' outta here. No more speeches. No more holding back."

The glass behind him gives under a single hard kick, spider-strength sending it crashing outward. He doesn't wait for the shards to settle before he jumps, holding you tight to his chest, his web-shooter hissing as he fires a line to the next building over. The wind whips through the air, his boots skimming the side of a graffiti-stained brick wall as he swings.

You whimper quietly against his shoulder at the motion. He hears it like a gunshot.

"Just hold on," he says, more to himself than to you, rage curling cold around his heart. "I got you. No one's touchin' you again."

Pavitr Prabhakar

When he realized he fancied you a bit more than a passing crush, he immediately started planning how to confess his identity and love.

Not just a passing comment like, "Hey, bestie, I'm not only head over heels but also throwing myself into danger constantly." Well, he did think about it, but that felt too casual for him.

So, he steels every nerve in his body and sneaks a letter onto your desk just before the class you two share ends (because texting is just not enough for his feelings and he's an overachiever in just about every little thing in his life), ignores the little pool of fear at the bottom of his stomach, gets home and starts rummaging through his room for the bracelet he knows he made last night before passing out and sleeping like he was fighting for his life. He closes his door and throws up his mattress with his new strength - which is so extremely cool, he can lift up just about anything now! - and catches it with one hand before leaning over and grabbing the bracelet.

It’s not the best bracelet, if he's being honest, some of the beads are uneven, and the thread's a little frayed in one corner, but it's handmade. It's his. And that's important to him.

He holds it up to the light like it's a contract, a symbol, a promise in colour and thread. Your favourite colours, a little spider charm nestled in the middle like a secret only the two of you would understand.

Pavitr doesn't do things halfway.

When he sees you the next day, he's got the bracelet stuffed in his pocket and that ridiculous nervous energy that makes him bounce on the balls of his feet like a kid with a sugar high.

He meets you under the neem tree, you both always sit by your shared little spot, away from the main school courtyard, quiet enough to talk without interruption, warm enough to feel like home. There’s sweat on his forehead and determination in his eyes.

You're already there, re-reading the note in your hand; I want to tell you something important. Meet me by the tree before class tomorrow? with a lazy smile.

"Hey," he says, his voice cracking like he hasn’t rehearsed this for weeks.

"Hey."

He can't help but grin. "Hey."

You raise a brow.

He clears his throat. "Sorry," he chuckles, holding his hand out. "ah, may I? I have a gift, and a... few things to say."

You nod, curiosity lighting your features. And even though Pavitr is all jittery nerves under his skin, the way you look at him, like he's already safe, already trusted, it gives him the strength to go on.

He places the bracelet in your hand, carefully, like it might break. "I made it. It's for you. And, uh, before you say anything, it's not perfect, but I wanted it to be yours." Ours, he manages to choke down.

Your fingers close around it slowly, brushing against his. He swears his heart does a somersault.

"Yeah, so… okay." He shifts on his feet, wiping his palms on his pants, his smile trembling at the edges. "Have you ever noticed I disappear a lot? Like, a lot-lot? And sometimes, maybe you hear about a certain superhero who swings around Mumbattan, beating up bad guys and being generally awesome?"

You narrow your eyes at him. He tries not to crack under the pressure.

"That's… me," he blurts, almost too fast. "That's one thing I wanted to say," he looks around, he wants this to be between you two only, meeting your eyes again. "I'm Spider-Man. It's super cool, really, I'm super strong, have amazing reflexes, totally natural muscles," he rants off.

"...and? What's the other thing?"

He blinks. "Woah, okay, surprisingly calm." He mumbles before swallowing. "and I really, really like you." He holds your hand, putting his over yours. "A lot."

You stare at him for a long second - too long, in his opinion - and for the briefest moment, he wonders if he just absolutely ruined everything. Like, scorched-earth, nuclear-level ruined. But then you smile. It’s a small thing at first, tugging at the corners of your mouth, slow and certain, like you were just waiting for him to catch up.

"I kinda figured," you say, thumb brushing over the beads of the bracelet, gently. "Not the Spider-Man thing, that part's wild, but the other thing. The way you look at me sometimes? It's not exactly subtle, Pav."

He groans into his hands. "Nooo, don't say that. I was trying to be mysterious!"

"You were about as mysterious as a neon sign."

"Ugh, brutal."

You laugh, and he peeks at you from between his fingers, a sheepish grin sneaking back onto his face. "But I like you too," you add, soft and sincere. "A lot."

His brain short-circuits.

"You - wait, really?" His voice jumps an octave, and he tries to play it cool, but his feet do this excited little hop before he can stop them. "Like… you're not just saying that to make me feel better, right? Because I already feel pretty good just from you considering it, so if you-"

You cut him off by slipping the bracelet onto your wrist. "Really. You talk a lot when you're nervous, you know that?"

He gapes at you, flushed and glowing and utterly in awe. "I know, I can't stop. It’s like my mouth goes rogue when my heart's freaking out. But!" He shoots up, standing straight. "Yes! Yes," he pumps his fist. "this is so awesome!"

Miles Morales

It starts with the plushie.

You didn’t think it'd be a thing. It's a Spider-Man plushie, it's cute, it's soft, it looks just enough like the red-and-black-suited Spider-Man swinging around Brooklyn to make you grin whenever you see it on your bed.

Miles sees it when he drops by your place after school, tossing his bag onto your desk and flopping onto your bed like he lives there (though mostly because your father's out and can't catch him in your room).

He sees it. He stares at it. He goes quiet.

And then he squints. "Wait... why do you have him on your bed?"

You glance over from where you’re rummaging through your closet. "Spider-Man?"

"That Spider-Man."

Your brow furrows. "The Brooklyn one? Kinda my favourite. He's cool."

Miles opens his mouth. Closes it. "...Cool?"

"Yeah?"

He stares at the plushie like it just insulted his mother. "I mean, he's okay, I guess," he mutters, picking it up with two fingers like it might bite. "bit overrated. Who even knows what he looks like under the mask?"

You give him a look over your shoulder, amused. "I'm guessing he's hot under there. Superheroes usually are."

Miles chokes. Actually, physically chokes. "Hot?"

You nod, smirking a little as you turn back to your closet. "Probably. All those flips and poses? He's gotta be built."

"Okay, wow, wow, first of all, that's crazy, and second of all," he throws the plush back onto the bed like it offended him personally, "I think you’re being weirdly into a guy you don’t even know."

You laugh, raising a brow. "Are you jealous of Spider-Man?"

He freezes. Eyes wide, mouth half-open like he forgot how words work. Then, with a sudden burst of bravado, he points at himself.

"...I am Spider-Man."

You blink.

He nods, like he's trying to convince both of you at the same time. "Like. Actually. Me. I'm Spider-Man." He points his thumb at his chest.

You stare at him for a long second, trying to figure out if this is a joke, or some elaborate bit he's pulling to distract from the fact that he just got jealous of a plushie.

Then he reaches into his backpack, pulls out a red-and-black mask, and tosses it toward you.

The mask lands in your hands, soft fabric and real weight. Real. You look back up. His expression’s more serious now, less defensive, and more… hopeful.

"You're Spider-Man?" you say, a little flatly. He nods again, a bit sheepish now. You squint. "Prove it."

He sighs and lifts himself off the bed - without using the floor. His hand sticks to your ceiling, and he dangles there upside-down, looking way too casual.

"...Okay, fair." You nod.

He drops back down with a quiet thud, rubbing the back of his neck, like he didn't just casually flip gravity the bird. "I was gonna tell you, y'know. Eventually. Just, like… when it was the right time. But then I saw that plushie and thought, man, I'm literally risking my life out here and I'm losing to my own merch."

You bite back a laugh. "You're lucky you're cute."

"Now I'm cute?" He puts a hand to his chest, mock-offended. "Not when I'm saving people, or flipping off buildings, or - what was it? Hot and built?"

"Don't push it, Morales."

He steps closer, suddenly quiet. "I meant it, though. I was gonna tell you. I just… didn't want it to change things. With you."

You look down at the mask again, fingers brushing over the eye-lenses. "It doesn't. Not really."

He exhales, relief bleeding into a crooked smile. "Good. 'Cause the truth is, I don't think I could've kept lying to you much longer. You're the only person I-" He stops. Breathes. "You matter to me. A lot."

"You matter to me. A lot too."

He huffs, rolling his eyes as he reaches for his mask, shoving it back into his backpack.

"Wait," you sit up a little, smiling. "is that why you text like that sometimes?"

"What do you mean, like that?" He laughs, head tilting back.

[damnbigguy]

In Sickness

my (currently long distance) boyfriend's sick and this is his favourite series/movie so; Hobie Brown, Pavitr Prabhakar, Miles Morales [1610] (separate) dealing with their sick partner. Gender-Neutral references to reader, reader never named, sick reader, 2nd pov. References to throwing up.

Hobie Brown

He hates mornings, sleeps until after noon on good days [his current record is staying asleep from eleven to three in the afternoon], but when he blindly shifts as the sun first slides through the blinds and bothers his closed eyes and goes to throw his arm around you and you end up not being there, his mind goes to the worst case scenario; someone figured out what he hasn't even told you yet, that you're the partner of Spider-Punk.

He shoots up, a hand on his forehead and a groan leaving his lips, eyes dancing over the 'controlled' clutter and mess of clothes - he even spots a guitar pic he was searching for days for - but what calms him that you haven't been taken is the retch from the bathroom.

Then he grimaces, remembering what that means.

With great effort, he throws his legs out of bed and stands, glaring at the reflection of sun coming from his phone as he picks it up. 6:23. He pauses before it registers that it's A.M. and not P.M. but he shoves it into the pocket of his plaid pajama pants that he barely remembered to put on in the haze of whatever he had done last night.

"Love?" He calls as he stumbles out of the bedroom, trying to ignore everything he wants to complain about; the cold wood floor, the hour, the fact you didn't wake him (though he briefly admits to himself that, if he was sick, he would try to throw up, clean up, and go right back to bed, but he doesn't remember the last time he was sick, not since the bite, at least), but he stops at the half-cracked open bathroom door. He knocks two knuckles on the door. "Oi, you alright?" He blinks. "Never mind, stupid question," he grunts, pushing the door open.

His stomach twists when he sees you, sitting back with your head against the shower door, tiredly blinking. "'M fine," you grunt, trying to wave him away like he can't see the cold sweat on your body.

He knows it's the enhanced spider senses but it only worries him that he can hear every uncomfortable noise of your turning stomach. "Eat something wrong?" He asks, ignoring your statement. "Or did you catch something?" He steps forward, pressing the back of his hand against your forehead.

"Mhm," you shrug, leaning into his cool touch. "went to bed fine."

He rubs a hand up your back, tired mind running through everything that could have happened, if it's something suspect in the fridge, if it's something from another Earth (why would he give you snacks he finds in other Earths? God, why did he not think that through?), or if it's something like a bug or little flu.

"Think you're finished, love? Let's get ya' back to bed." He plucks you from the ground, an arm under your legs and the other supporting your back, ignoring the slight look of shock on your face when your lanky partner easily hauls you from the ground. He carries you gently, careful not to jostle you too much.

You press your forehead into his shoulder, and he catches the way your body relaxes just a little with the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart under the thin, somewhat ripped, shirt he threw on sometime during the night.

The sheets are still warm from where he’d been moments ago, and he lowers you gently into the bed, tucking them up around your shoulders before crouching beside you. “You want water?” he asks, brushing a bit of hair from your forehead with the back of his knuckles. "Crackers, maybe? Dunno what people eat when they're sick - tea? I think there's, like, mint in the cupboard or somethin'."

You blink up at him, the corners of your lips twitching in the barest hint of a smirk. "You fussing over me?"

"Oi," he snorts, "'course I am. You’re pukin' your guts out and I'm meant to be... here, y'know." He hums, nodding his head towards your form. "Scared me, you not being in bed."

"Scared you?" You chuckle, regretting it with a harsh cough, though the amused smile stays. "Where would I have gone this early? The corner shop isn't even open,"

He shrugs, leaning forward and using the edge of the blanket to wipe the sweat from your forehead. "Don't matter." He murmurs, kissing your warm cheek, the coolness of his lip ring a welcome feeling before he climbs onto the other side of the bed, throwing his arm around you like he wanted to. "We're staying home today, 'm pretty sure we have soup in a cupboard somewhere,"

"You'll get sick." You try to push him back a little.

"Hm," he huffs, hiding his face from the sun in the nook of your neck. "who cares? We're cuddling, that's that."

Pavitr Prabhakar

He bounces his weight from one foot to the other, humming some tune he heard when passing some kids playing jump-rope, looking down at himself to quadruple check he's not wearing his Spider-Man suit before knocking on the door.

You told him your parents wouldn't be home, but he didn't want to waltz in and have to explain to anyone why he's so excited to see 'a friend from class'.

He flinched when the door opens but he puts on his charming smile, only for it to falter when he sees the light of his life, the sun to his dark days, the other half of his heart - but only because you're wrapped in a blanket cocoon, head lowered in a hunch, and your usual grin when seeing him replaced with a tired gaze.

"Eek," he sticks his tongue out for a moment before ushering you inside, closing the door behind him as he guides you to the living room. "are you okay?"

You shrug, collapsing onto the couch and curling your legs up under the blanket. "I got caught in the rain yesterday, must have caught a cold or something,"

He frowns, kneeling on the floor next to the couch, hands cupping your face to make you look at him as if you're dying and not just sniffle-y. "Have you eaten today? Had water? When did you wake up?" He asks one question right after the other, eyes dancing over your skin. "Are you cold? Hot?"

"Shush," you grunt with a sigh, headache worsening as you try to keep up with his worry. "I'm fine, I had some water and just took a painkiller, just been watching TV," you nod towards the little screen where the latest trash TV or medical drama is playing, muted. "should have texted you. Sorry."

His eyes widen like he just watch you get shot and he hurries to speak, "No, no, no, nothing's wrong with that, I barely remember my own name when I'm sick." He sighs, leaning back on his calves as he looks at his lap, toying with the hem of his shirt. "Are you hungry?" He glances up at you.

"Not really," you shake your head, regretting it because it seems to ignite a second wave of your headache. "can you just... stay here?"

He nods, jumping to his feet before throwing himself onto the cushion next to you. "Course," he adjusts, guiding you to lean against his chest - he's silently praying that he doesn't get sick, he'll be absolutely pathetic, but you're much more important to him than avoiding any of his more flashy moves when fighting bad guys with a migraine.

His legs keeps moving, bouncing as he watches you fumble your hand around the side table before the sound from the TV starts again. You cough and he almost immediately shoots up. "Let me make tea-"

"Stay," you grumble, tugging him back down and folding yourself over him so he can't move without disturbing you.

He freezes, then slowly puts his hand on your arm, tracing soft shapes against your skin. "Yeah," he murmurs in something like acknowledgment. "okay."

Miles Morales

He would normally be sprinting back to his current room, the one he shares with Ganke, or being annoyed when he has to fight the villain of the week when he hasn't started his assignment yet, but he's leaning against the wall with his thumbs quickly typing, deleting, and typing again as he tries to think of a reason why he hasn't gotten a response since yesterday afternoon.

Usually, there's at least a lazy back and forth, like a junior badminton game, even when he's hanging upside down or trying to keep a billboard from collapsing. He'll check his phone every few seconds like those times his brain can't remember the time he just saw, trying to decipher the string of emojis he got in response to his question of 'what plans do you have this weekend?', but there's nothing to decipher, nothing to read, not even a 'will be busy today, can't talk much' or the bee emoji because he accidentally called you that and his autocorrect didn't catch it.

He looks up, checking around him to make sure there's nothing his Spider Sense isn't warning him about, before burying his head back into his screen.

He winces before finally typing out; hey, checking in, you okay? and sending it before he can regret it or call himself clingy too much in his own mind.

sick.

That's the text he gets back immediately and while it's nice to hear from you, it only makes him more worried that you're dying and he's not there - obviously you're not actually dying (hopefully), but his mind is already working a million miles an hour and he's still getting over the whole 'getting everyone back to their own Earth safe'.

He doesn't read his next message (don't come over, I just downed a shot glass of NyQuil and will NOT be good conversation lol), his phone already in his pocket and his backpack put on both shoulders instead of letting it hang off his one like usual, and he starts sprinting towards your place.

Your parents' place, but he knows he can be polite enough that they'll let him in, especially if he says he has your charger or something from the last time you came over. And he's still wearing the 'fancy' school uniform so he probably looks super respectable, as long as he doesn't get there sweaty and disheveled.

When he gets there, knocking on the the door twice because one you can never be sure if it was just something falling or a knock and not three times because he's not trying to look desperate.

Your father opens the door, still in his work clothes, immediately eyeing him up and down. Miles tries to stay calm, keep his grin charming and innocent and definitely not panicked (and he is a little sweaty so he just keeps his arms as squared by his side as possible). "What do you want?"

"Just wanted to drop off their charger, sir. Do you mind if I hand it to them?"

He sighs, stepping to the side. "Go ahead. Try not to be too long, they're trying to sleep."

"Thank you, sir," he steps in, glancing down at the shoe rack next to the door as he wipes his shoes on the rug outside.

"You can keep them on. Second room on the right upstairs,"

Miles nods, avoiding telling him that he's been here a good handful of times by climbing up the wall (which he says he can do just because he's done parkour in the past, which he hasn't and he doesn't like lying to you but he's planning on telling you... so, it's not that bad, right?) and waits for him to enter the other room before bounding up the stairs like an over-excited dog.

He slows down just before your door, nearly tripping over his own feet trying to remember how to act like a normal person - and getting used to be taller ever since the bite. His hands awkwardly hover, trying to choose to knock or not, before he opens it a little, peering in.

There's a death rattle of a cough that sounds out and he sympathetically cringes, ignoring you murmur of; "I told you not to come," because he hadn't read that bit.

He steps in. "Sorry, just... got worried," he looks around, studying the tissues over-flowing from the small garbage can like he has to sketch it out for a still-life before his eyes bounce to your form and he has to choke down a smile because you're wearing his hoodie. "nice outfit."

"Shut it," you grumble, head nodding forward. "you left it here, now it's mine."

"That's not how it works," he laughs softly, stepping forward and taking his bag off, leaning it against your bed as he helps you lay down more, adjusting the pillows underneath your head and fixing the blankets so they tuck just below your chin. He whispers. "and if your dad asks, I dropped off your phone charger."

You chuckle, though mostly because you're so tired that anything is funny.

Miles smiles softly, leaning back slightly to give you a little space, trying to adjust to the awkwardness of the moment. He’s used to balancing heroics with everyday life, but moments like this—just sitting in someone’s room, making sure they’re okay—feel different. Maybe it’s because you mean more to him than anyone else.

"You're a mess," he says, teasing as he gently pulls the hood of his sweatshirt a little further over your head, hiding the messy hair you probably hadn't cared about fixing. He sits beside the bed, his eyes flicking to the window to avoid looking too intensely at you, even though he's definitely looking at you.

"Yeah, well," you cough again, wincing. "...we should have another date soon."

"Hm," he can't help but smile, nodding. "yeah, we will, just get some rest, babe." He pauses for a moment before realizing you already have fallen asleep. He bites his lip to keep from laughing, grabbing your phone and putting it onto the charger before grabbing his bag. "Get better soon," he whispers into the air.