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maxispixels · 4 months ago

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We were here once - The skatepark

Hobie Brown x GN!Reader

3/6(?)

Part 1 > Part 2 > Part 3

2.2k words

Ah London. You ran away from that city a long time ago, but there are things you can't escape forever. Feelings, for one. So you come back, tracing the fading footsteps of your past, hoping to see the boy you left behind.

Warnings: general teenage angst, self indulging Im14andthisisdeep

“But it’s okay that you’re going.

You need to. And I want you to have everything.”

You wanted to believe you were mistaken. After all, you had been gone for a long time, the kind of time that blurs edges and rewrites maps in your head. But no matter how many turns you took, how hard you tried to remember, you couldn’t find it.

You were sure it was there. Between the Fish & Chips place and the launderette, yes, that had to be it.

There was only a warehouse now. Ugly and blocky, the kind of building made for forklifts and fluorescent lights, not for kids with scraped knees and too much time. At most, the stairs railings could still be skated on. It stood exactly where the skatepark should’ve been, like some architectural act of erasure.

Your heart swelled with grief, or disbelief, or some explosive cocktail of both. You didn’t want to believe it, but what else could you believe? They’d paved over the place like it was nothing, built a coffin of corrugated metal right on top of all those memories.

It felt blasphemous. To bury a place like that under concrete and storage racks, as if the skatepark hadn’t been a church, a holy ground for the kids around. A sanctuary built of asphalt and splintered plywood and the smell of melting rubber. They covered it like a grave, face down, no headstone.

Anger prickled at the edges of your sadness.

It only slightly eased at the sight of the graffitis splashed across the iron sheets. Layers on layers, some fresh, some sun-faded, some half-scrubbed away. Proof that not everyone had forgotten. You jumped over the pitiful attempt at a fence, easily trespassing to look at the art closer. It was colorful and lively on top of the rusting plates. Your fingers traced the outline of a large ‘S’ spelling spider or something, and you were close enough to almost smell the fumes of spray paint. Maybe it was just your memories catching up to you.

It reminded you of your own tags under the ramps, shaky lines sprayed in the shadows, hands trembling with cold or adrenaline, you were never sure which. You remembered crawling under there on rainy days, when the park was empty, the air thick with wet concrete. You had to step over the shaky metal armatures like webs, sitting in between them. You left your trace, your symbols, small claims staked in fluorescent blues and cracked black. You wanted to leave something behind. A reminder that you were here, too.

That summer, Hobie invited you to hang out at the park as well. The breeze was light with laughter and asphalt dust. It was different than when you went alone. It was the kind of evening that stretched and stretched, long past sunset, until time felt liquid and endless. The heat clung to everything; the rails, the ramps, the black-painted ground, like the whole world had been wrapped in sweat and sunshine.

You spent most of your time standing, the ground too hot to sit, pacing, watching him. Kind of ignoring his other friends, but it was okay. He wasn’t the same with you and with them anyway. You were briefly introduced to some of them, maybe Rob, and Riri, and a happy bunch you didn’t bother to get to know, not wanting to get attached to any more people.

You didn’t know how to skate, not really, and you were too proud to fall on your butt in front of Hobie.

Hobie, of course, couldn’t stand that.

Once or twice, he shoved his board toward you. It was decorated with stickers and drawings, the edges were rugged and chewed up, taped back, held together by the power of sheer will and spite, and his voice almost made you want to try. “C’mon mate. Give it a try. Worst thing that can happen is you break something you don’t need. Like a tooth. Or your dignity.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “Pass. I’d rather not bite the curb.”

“That’s quitter talk,” he grinned. “C’mon,” his syllable dragged, “I’ll even teach you how to bail properly. Y’know, roll out, land like a stuntman. Real graceful.”

“I’m not interested in dying gracefully,” you shot back. “I’d rather not die at all.”

“Coward.” He shook his head dramatically. “Next you’ll tell me you wear knee pads.”

“You’re literally wearing knee pads.”

“That’s different. I’m stylish.”

He gave the board another push toward you, the wheels rattling over the cracks, but you didn’t take the bait.

“I’ll pass,” you said. “I’d rather keep my teeth.”

He squinted at you like he was calculating something, then raised his finger dramatically, like the world’s dumbest philosopher about to unveil some universal truth.

“Okay, but what if… you got on board and I held your hands, like some cheesy romance montage?” He waggled his eyebrows. “We could fall in love or fall on our arses, fifty fifty odds.”

“You’re daft.” You chuckled.

“But you’re laughing, so you’re daft-adjacent.”

“Laughing at you.”

“That still counts!”

You tried to glare at him, but the laughter made it impossible. It was the kind of ridiculous, pointless jokes, the ones that weren’t even funny. It was just enjoying each other’s company.

“Alright, alright,” he said, still grinning. “But seriously, you sure you don’t wanna try? Just once?”

“Nah.” You kicked a loose pebble across the pavement. “I just wanna watch you.” The words slipped out too easily, like a truth you forgot to keep locked up.

He stilled for a second, like maybe he heard the weight behind it, but if he did, he let it go.

And shit, he looked so cool out of uniform. Ripped-sleeve punk band tee, arms all awkward and too-long like a lot of teenage boys, but somehow it worked on him. You tried not to look too hard at the way the sun caught the sharp lines of his biceps, or the flash of skin peeking above his belts when his shirt rode up.

The way he moved though, that you couldn’t look away from. The way he carved smooth lines into the world like it was the easiest thing. You wanted to memorize it. To trap his motion in your brain, hold onto it like it might mean something later (it did) (it meant everything).

Your eyes followed him, the flicker of muscle under his skin, the way his arms floated almost gracefully as he balanced, the effortless way his wheels kissed the edges of ramps. He moved like gravity was more of a suggestion than a rule. Like he trusted the air to catch him if the ground didn’t.

And the worst part? It wasn’t even for show. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone. He was just in it, loving the rhythm of it, the challenge, the feeling of cutting through time and space like it belonged to him.

You swore in some other world, he found a way to fly.

And now, standing here, years later, you feel like the biggest idiot in the world. He never cared about looking stupid. Not once. You could’ve let him hold your hands, let him teach you how to wobble across the concrete. Could’ve made an excuse to fall straight into his arms and laugh about it after. He wouldn’t have judged you. He probably would’ve found it hilarious. You rested your forehead against the cold wall.

At some point, when the sun was too high for any kind of exercise, even in London, you both had crawled under the ramp for a break. He flopped down beside you, his head tilted back to look up at the underside of the ramp. Tags, shitty drawings, great drawings. Names, whispers, all the people there before you.

He pointed a finger at one tag in particular, a messy, half-legible scrawl in dripping blue. “That one’s sick,” he said, tracing over the edges of the letters like they might spell something if you squinted hard enough. “Feels real, y’know? And I really like the style. See that curve there? The energy?”

Your heart swelled in your throat. It was yours. You knew that. But you didn’t say anything. Pride and embarrassment collided in your throat, making your words thick and heavy like tar. You wanted to claim it, to hear what he’d say if he knew, but you were scared, too. Scared he’d laugh, or think it was stupid. Scared to want his approval that badly.

“You think so?” was all you managed.

“Yeah. It’s got… I dunno. It’s just neat.” He grinned, and the glint off his lip ring caught the sun, a tiny spark you’ll never forget.

“Yeah, yeah. I think it’s… Cool. I guess.” You shrugged like you hadn’t been quietly living off that comment for the following years. Hell, you wouldn’t have kept up with the hobby if it wasn't for that one moment.

You wished you told him, now. It could’ve been one more thing you had in common, one more thing to bond over, alongside modding consoles and swapping burned CDs.

There was this one time — maybe that same day, maybe another, memory made a mess of time — when the air caught wrong.

It wasn’t even a dramatic trick. It was merely a turn taken too sharp, a wheel clipping the edge of a crack, and suddenly Hobie was eating pavement, the sound of skin scraping concrete sharp enough to make you wince.

He grunted, hissed through his teeth, and before you could think, you were already kneeling beside him, half your bag spilled across the ground, your markers, your electronics, your tickets. Your hands shook as you unscrewed your water bottle, pouring too much too fast over his palms, water running pink where it hit raw skin.

Your heart was loud, louder than the train rumbling somewhere in the distance, all adrenaline and something else you didn’t have a name for yet.

“Shit—” he tried to hide his wince, “fuck, I’m gonna sue the wind. Proper betrayal.”

You snorted despite yourself, but you saw the way his eyebrows pulled together, his breath catching around the edges. A lot of things you’ve forgotten, but not the look of pain in his eyes.

“Shut up. Stop moving.” You scolded him, voice trembling slightly, which made it a lot less intimidating than you hoped.

“Oi oi, don’t start panickin’.” He wiggled his fingers at you, water dripping from them onto his jeans. “I’ve had much worse — see that one?” He jerked his chin toward a scar along his forearm, grinning like it was a badge of honor. “Got that from a fight with a bin, believe it or not.”

You frowned, not at the story, but at the mental image of him bleeding any more than he already was.

“Hobie.” His name came out softer than you meant, and you weren’t even sure what you were asking for. Just needed him to stop, to sit still, to let you take care of him.

He didn’t say anything, but you swore for a moment, he couldn’t look you in the eyes, his gaze fleeting and nebulous, hovering somewhere near your hands, your knees, anywhere but your face.

You remembered the sun burning down the side of your face. The scuff of your shoes against the hot pavement. The distant sound of a train, calling for you, passing behind the fence. The way his smile shrank, softened, not gone, just quieter, like maybe this meant something to him too. How even then, you couldn’t fully enjoy the moment, knowing you had already decided to leave.

You tried to play it cool, but your hand stayed where it was, wrapped around his wrist. His hand stayed too, resting easy on your knee. Neither of you moved first.

You don’t remember how it ended. That part’s gone, eaten by the wispy statics filling the gaps in your memory. Maybe one of his friends shouted his name from across the park. Maybe you cracked a joke and stood up too fast. Maybe you both just got scared. You chose to imagine that you never let go, your silhouettes still holding each other, like nuclear shadows now tucked somewhere between a shelf and a cardboard box.

But tonight, the ramp was gone. The tags were gone. The whole skatepark was gone, and you were left standing in front of a warehouse, heart too full of ghosts, wondering how a place that once held so much could vanish without a trace.

You pulled a marker from your pocket and pressed the tip to the wall, shaking it till ink flowed. First, just a moniker. A familiar claim, something simple. Muscle memory. You had gotten better over the years, left your nickname in cities that barely knew you, carved proof of your existence into brick and metal, under bridges and on top of buildings. But as you kept going, the words came faster, sentences spilling out like threats, like prayers, like something owed. A message to the pulsing center of Camden, to the past, to your inner child.

It was time to take London back in broad daylight.

You hated this city, but worse than hating it was the thought that it might forget you.

That he might’ve forgotten you.

Tags: @hoe-bie (assuming you still want to be tagged?)

#hobie brown #hobie brown fanfiction #hobie brown x gn!reader #hobie brown x reader #hobie x reader #x reader #wwho

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maxispixels · 4 months ago

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Across the Spider-Verse, 1:06:57, Frame 96330

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maxispixels · 4 months ago

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Trust the process, they said, as it got progressively worse.

(the middle one is okay but I wanted my lighter value be pure red, and then it went south) (i just wanted to play around with gouache, but i'll try with acrylics some day, I find it easier)

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maxispixels · 4 months ago

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We were here once - The school's rooftop

Hobie Brown x GN!Reader

2/6(?)

Part 1 > Part 2 > Part 3

2k words

Warnings: general teenage angst, self indulging Im14andthisisdeep

“And I don’t want to hold you back,

even if I wished you could’ve stayed.”

The sight of your old school wasn’t one you were particularly attached to, and you weren't sure why you walked here first. Maybe it was the road you knew best, from following it everyday. They repainted the walls, changed the name, but it was still the same walls that held your anxiety all those years. You weren’t sure how you felt about it now, bittersweetness curling in your chest. It smelled like youth, innocence, something you lost. It smelled like alienation too, the solitude of your teen years lingering in the corridors.

You watched the kids smoke and laugh in front of the fences, and you wondered if a single person in there still remembered you. Maybe the janitor, the one who pretended not to notice when you snuck up to the roof, if he was still working there. If you got to see him again, you’d thank him.

It didn’t feel the same, standing there now. Back then, your heart used to pound before stepping through those gates. Today? Underwhelming. The teenagers seemed baby-faced, small, not so scary after all.

You walked around the school, following the wire fence that once made you feel trapped. You crooked your neck to gaze up at the roof, a grey cloud peeking from behind it. It smelled like rain was about to come. You wondered if any of it remembered you. The wall where you sat. Did it remember the shape of your back? Or did memory only work one way?

School never got easy. Being different in a system that demanded uniformity, right down to the way you tied your damn tie, was a social death sentence, and you had been condemned long before you even understood the charges.

Maybe you had been too quiet, too weird, too difficult to categorize. You hoped it was something simple like that. Something fixable. You hoped it was just that children were cruel and teenagers crueler. That it wasn’t something wrong with you, something broken, beyond repair.

When you switched school at the start of that year, you hoped it would’ve changed. New people. New buildings. A fresh start. This time, you told yourself, you’d get it right; talk to people, make friends, live the high school memories they promised in American movies. But if life were a stage, you were the kid in the back pulling the ropes to close the curtains.

The first trimester was the hardest. You practiced introductions in bathroom mirrors, rehearsed your way into conversations, only to sit alone anyway. At best, you reintroduced yourself to the same people who forgot you from the week before. Some weren’t even mean. They just forgot. In some ways, that hurt worse. You couldn’t blame anyone but yourself.

The second was easier. You had stopped trying. You put your energy into passing class, ripping movies and burning CDs, and finding quiet corners to rest your mind.

By the third, you found the rooftop.

The only place in the whole school where the world didn’t feel like it was pressing in on you. No echoes of laughter that didn’t include you, no side-eyes in the hallway, just you, your thoughts, and your music playing on your old discman.

There were moments, fleeting, fragile, where you didn’t feel like a complete failure. Where you didn’t feel the weight of profound inadequacy crawling under your skin. Where the problem wasn’t you, just the fact that you existed in the wrong place. Maybe, somewhere else, you’d fit. But not here. You had accepted that like the way the sun set whether you wanted it or not.

So you made do. You carved out spaces in the cracks—empty classrooms, abandoned stairwells—the spaces between where people gathered. Until you found people to call your own, you spoke to the trees, the clouds, the broken bricks. It wasn’t pathetic, at least, not to you. And if the only voices that answered came from half-faded graffiti in the school bathroom, so be it. Someone, once, had scrawled I see you between a crude drawing and a smudged phone number. Maybe it was meant to be profound. Maybe it was just the bathroom walls talking back. You weren’t sure which one felt more like a joke.

The rooftop wasn’t freedom, not really, but it was height. And sometimes, being above it all was the next best thing.

That day, (the day you met him), you set out to fix your PS1 controller. Summer was coming, and you needed it working before the holidays hit.

You found a wall to lean against, shielding you from the midday sun. Your jacket made a great seat, and you took a deep breath as you rummaged through your bag for the precious controller. The air smelled of honeysuckle, hot pavement, and hose water. Distant laughter drifted up and birds sang somewhere overhead. You almost stopped to bask in the quiet. You didn’t. Now, you wish you had. The sun never hit you quite the same after that summer.

The controller fit your hands perfectly. Grey plastic molded for this. You laid out your makeshift toolbox on the asphalt, fingers curling around a screwdriver. Its orange handle caught the light.

Soon, the guts of the thing lay before you, and you realized you had no idea what was wrong. The circuit board seemed fine, its metallic veins gleaming as you rolled it between your fingers. The sun made it hard to see, blinding you with each angle reflecting it.

When the bell rang, you didn’t care. Most tests were over, and who gave a shit about attendance in June? You could afford to skip. Fixing your controller was far more important than another mind-numbing hour of maths.

You tried to check if the cable was damaged, but it seemed alright. You eventually realized graphite from the rubber had worn off the circuit board, and that it didn’t quite connect anymore. It made sense, considering you mainly had issues with your controls not controlling much of anything. That hit a bit too close to home.

At least now you knew what was wrong. That was something. The next step? Well, that was a problem for future you. And future you loved a good challenge.

The quiet footsteps took you by surprise, and you didn’t have time to hide all of your stuff. Fuck—if this was someone from the school staff, you were done for. Skipping class and breaking onto the roof?

You weren’t sure if you felt relieved or terrified when you saw him.

Hobart ‘Hobie’ Brown.

You wished there was a subtle way to introduce him, but the truth was, everyone knew his name. He didn’t fit in, but not like you. You faded into the background. He made noise. A sore thumb against authority, against the posh kids and the mean kids. Either admired or feared, but never ignored.

The first time you saw him from afar at school, you thought he was just another cocky bastard. That was a lie actually, you thought he was beautiful, but it was easier to remember it the first way.

The sun shone from behind him, backlighting his silhouette. You couldn’t see his face, but the glint off his piercings caught your eye. Fuck. Even the school uniform bent to his will; tie undone, blazer slung on like an afterthought, sleeves pushed up just enough to look rebellious but not careless. The pins on his lapel should’ve broken some rule. Maybe they did. Did the dress code even apply to him?

You don’t remember what he said when he first saw you, not exactly. You remember the shape of his grin, the sound of his boots on the gravel, the way your chest clenched like you were bracing for a punch. But the words? Lost. Or maybe you just played the scene in your head so many times since you didn’t know which iteration was true.

“Oi, that’s my spot—hold on. What the fuck are you doing to that poor controller?!”

You glared. No way you were giving up your hiding place. “Roof’s big enough. Leave me alone.”

“Don’t get all huffy, I was just messing with ya. How’d you even get here anyway? It’s supposed to be locked.”

“...Picked the lock. You?”

“Nicked a master key. Can go anywhere.”

You stared at him. He said it like it was the most natural thing ever. How can someone even get a master key—what was the school security doing?

“That still doesn’t explain why you’re committing a war crime against that innocent controller.” He started again.

You shifted uncomfortably. “It’s… Well, the controls don’t work anymore. I was trying to fix it…”

He hummed, crouching in front of you. His eyes flicked between the circuit board and your face, like he was trying to decide which was more interesting.

“Mate, you got graphite all over the board.” He snorted, reaching for it before hesitating. “Can I?”

You blinked at him. People didn’t usually ask you things. Let alone excitedly hover over your dismantled controller.

“Uh. Sure. I figured the graphite had something to do with it.” You just said, although you frowned. You’d spent ages trying to figure that out, and he got it in a single glance? That was annoying. And impressive. But mostly annoying.

He plucked it from your hands without hesitation, tilting toward the sun. “Yeah, look at that. Smudged to hell.”

“Do you know how to fix it?”

He grinned, like you’d just given him a challenge, carefully placing the board down. “Course I do.”

You waited for him to just tell you, but with each second of silence felt heavier on your shoulders. You knew a price was coming. Your fingers tensed around the fabric of your pants.

Hobie grinned like he knew exactly what you were thinking. “Ah, but nothing in life’s free, mate.”

Your stomach twisted. Here it was. The catch. A cruel joke, a mockery, something to make you regret asking in the first place. You were used to that game. Already bracing for impact, already waiting for the smirk to sharpen into something mean.

“What do you want?” You asked, defensive. You were ready to put your stuff back in your backpack and leave him and his fucked-up plans there. At the time, you thought you were being strong but really you were just terrified.

He stretched, rolling his shoulders like he was warming up for something grand.

“Tunes.”

You stared. “...What?”

“Music, mate. I need some burned CDs.” He flopped onto the ground beside you, arms behind his head, looking at the sky like this was the most normal trade agreement in the world. “I could do it myself, but it’s a pain, innit?” He vaguely gestured to the discman poking from your backpack. “You prolly got some dodgy sites yeah? I can’t seem to manage without inviting every virus ever made and all the lonely ladies in a 5km radius onto my computer.” He ranted.

You couldn’t help but laugh at that, your chortle almost startling you. “I mean… Yeah. I can do that.” You rubbed the back of your neck.

His grin widened. “Deal, then.”

You weren’t sure what you’d just signed up for. But looking back, that was the moment everything shifted. Hobie had already sprawled out beside you, hands behind his head, muttering about bands like you’d been having this conversation for years. Like you were already friends. Like this was normal.

He was like chaos personified, bubbling with energy, completely unbothered by the walls you’d built, that were crumbling so fast you wondered if he realized they were ever even there at all.

You pulled out a random notebook, your math one, you think, and scrawled band names in the margins like a grocery list, right alongside unfinished equations.

You wished you could say you remembered every word you said that day. You didn’t. You remembered the sun burning the back of your neck, the sound of his voice, low and half-laughing, and the way your hand shook when you passed him the circuit board.

You thought it was fear, but maybe it was hope. Hope that someone like him would talk to someone like you. Hope was a dangerous thing to give a kid like you.

That rooftop should’ve been just another hiding spot, but he turned it into something else. And once you knew what it felt like to belong somewhere, running stopped being the easy option.

Now looking at the building, reminiscing everything, it felt strange. Like no time had passed at all, like you could walk into it and greet him behind some lockers.

Part 3

#hobie brown #hobie brown fanfiction #hobie brown x gn!reader #hobie brown x reader #hobie x reader #x reader #wwho

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maxispixels · 4 months ago

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Just thought about Hobie Brown

Day 10× better <3

Rotating him in my mind

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maxispixels · 4 months ago

Note

hehehe nice catch cheer!

NOT MY NAME QUARTERBACK

sorry just wanted to say hellooo

HAHAHA I was so confused you had me looking this up 😭😭 hello!!

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maxispixels · 4 months ago

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We were here once - The train station

Hobie Brown x GN!Reader

1/6(?)

Part 1 > Part 2

1.5k words

Warnings: general teenage angst, self indulging Im14andthisisdeep

“I didn’t want to make it hard,

I think we both hate goodbyes.”

You stepped off the train at its last stop, London. You had only put foot in this railway station once before, and it was the day you left. The wind whipped your face, cold and unforgiving, dragging you out of the wagon’s borrowed warmth. London had never been kind to you, and today was no exception. It welcomed you like a slap. The smell of wet asphalt made your nose curl, and you swore it smelled worse here than anywhere else in Great Britain, than anywhere else in the world. It smelled of metal and pollution and blood. Of something foul that assaulted your nostrils and made shivers run down your spine.

It hadn’t changed. London was still London. Bigger and smaller all at once. The same tall red bricks, the same industrial bones, columns and metal arms clutching the glass ceiling like Atlas holding the world, while the grey clouds pressed down, heavy enough to fall. People rustled everywhere, carrying their heavy luggage, running against time while you walked right back into it.

Destinations written in orange letters, buzzing, dizzying you with choices, so many places better than here, maybe because they weren’t tainted by your presence. It was like a list of possibilities, many you had checked off during your journey.

If it had been hard to leave, it was harder to come back. It felt like crawling back into the mouth that chewed you up and spat you out. Like climbing up to the sharp teeth with the dial tower that still stood as the metronome in your sleep.

You gazed at every face, hoping to find his. Hoping that he might still be here, like he’d never left this station, like he’d been waiting all along.

The deafening bells rang for the doors of the departing trains, rang for another chance to run the way you did before. You didn’t feel like you were coming back home to your hometown. It never felt like home. That was why you left. Better to be a stranger anywhere else than here, where you were supposed to belong.

Every whiff of leather made your head turn, eyes lingering over strangers who didn’t even look like him — just in case. Just in case time had changed him far beyond recognition, the way it changed you. Still, you focused on wicks and lanky silhouettes, similar to the one that stayed on the platform that fateful day.

You couldn’t picture his expression when you left for good, probably because you never gave him one. But you remembered the bench you both sat on, the tile he stood on.

You didn’t say you were going, though you meant to at first. You had been too scared. You couldn’t handle the disappointment, or worse, the apathy.

If he had asked you to stay, you would have, and it would have killed you. If he didn’t care at all, you could’ve left, but it would’ve killed you just the same.

You resented him for making you consider staying in the first place. If you had never met him, then maybe it would’ve been easier, then maybe every new joy wouldn’t have been tinted by his absence.

Or maybe you resented him for only meeting you in June. For allowing you a single summer before you were gone. Three poor months, nothing in the human lifespan, engraved in your soul like a cigarette burn that refused to heal. Maybe if you had met earlier, you would’ve never felt the need to leave in the first place. Or maybe he would’ve followed you.

You’d planned to go early in the morning, before the first thin rays of daylight. Your departure was to be like your presence had been: quiet, discreet, unremarkable, as if you'd never even been there at all. But somehow, he found you anyway.

“So you’re really leaving?”

He plopped down on the bench next to you, awkwardly fidgeting with his bracelet. It caught the low blue lights, a frayed thing wrapped around his wrist, like something holding him together. Yours matched, still on your wrist, then and now.

You nodded, staring straight ahead. You couldn’t look at his face, at his eyes and see what feelings collided in a sea of golds and honeys and browns, sweet enough to pull you in, too thick to swim in, and deep enough to drown.

You braced yourself for something sharp, for him to mock you for even trying in the first place, to jab at your cowardice for running away. He didn’t, not this time. Did he, ever? Did you just hope he would, so you could find a reason to miss him less?

“You know where you’re going?” he asked. “Got somewhere to stay?”

Another nod. He sighed. You couldn’t tell if it was relief that you weren’t completely reckless, or disappointment that he’d lost an excuse to tell you to stay.

Your train wasn't due for fifteen minutes. He waited with you. Until the last second and maybe the hours that followed, in case you took the train back. You wouldn’t know. You didn’t come back.

“You okay?”

You nodded again, though it wasn’t exactly true. You felt strangely light, weightless, numb maybe. All your fears, all your hopes, culminating into that one moment. Your whole life packed into one backpack and a vague destination, maybe by the sea, maybe overseas. Maybe just anywhere that wasn’t here.

But it gnawed at you. Leaving Hobie behind. The only thing about this place you didn’t hate. The one tie that made running away feel like a betrayal instead of an escape.

“Can you talk to me, please?” His voice cracked a little, not quite a plea but close. “I need to hear your voice.”

“Sorry,” you murmured. “Wasn’t sure what to say.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Just… yeah.”

“Yeah.”

Silence wrapped around you both, thick and suffocating. Your heart was a mess with excitement, fear, grief all tangled up in the same beat.

“I hope you find it,” he said eventually, so soft you almost missed it.

“Find what?”

“Whatever you’re looking for.”

You nodded, your best and only language that morning. It soothed something in you, hearing that. The kindness in it. He was letting you go without making you feel guilty for leaving him behind. No bitterness. Just understanding. More than you deserved, maybe.

“Be safe, yeah?”

“Promise.”

The only promise you made out loud was the one you broke first. You had been reckless, and you collected scars and marks like souvenirs. But it shaped you into who you are. Like a coward high on adrenaline, finding a fix only through running away, you were doomed to danger once the fear was left behind. The scars were parts of what you were looking for. You were wearing them like badges of honor, like Hobie wore his.

When there was one minute left before your train, Hobie hugged you tight, and for a second, you thought he wouldn’t let you go (and for a second, you were okay with that).

The train was delayed by a few minutes, so that hug lasted longer than either of you planned. You don’t know how you both held it together, didn’t crack into sobs right there on the platform. Maybe because you both knew that one single tear, one wobble in your voice, would’ve made you stay, and you needed to leave more than words could say.

The train doors opened with a sigh, like the city itself was telling you to go. You didn’t hesitate. You couldn’t afford to. One second of doubt and the whole thing would crumble.

You weren’t sure if you regretted it or not, even now.

You kept your back to him. You didn’t dare to look at him directly, preferring to meet his gaze in the distorted reflection of the curved metal inside the wagon.

Neither of you said goodbye. It would’ve sounded too final, too much like forever. And with how long it took you to come back, it might as well has been.

It was only when you sat in the train and reached for some water in your bag that you found his note. It was something simple, genuine, like him. You still had it in the pocket of your jacket, crumbled, the ink almost completely vanished.

You held onto it all that time, like a lucky charm, the last piece of him you allowed yourself because reaching out would've too painful. Tucked inside your bracelet, ruined by sweat, tears and rain. It was barely legible, but you knew the words by heart, that’s how many times you reread it.

He stayed on the platform that morning, and so did a part of your heart, but neither of you knew that yet.

And now, you needed it back. Standing here again, you knew exactly why you returned.

What you left in this forsaken city — the city that forsake you first — was mostly gone, scattered in the wind like ashes. Still, as you made your way out of the station and into the restless pulse of London, it all came rushing back.

The memories you wished to forget, and the ones you ached to remember better.

The streets that saw you grow up, the concrete that caught your tears, the soil that molded your spine, the hands that still held pieces of your soul preciously.

You needed to scrap whatever had subsisted back, teeth and nails if you had to.

Part 2

👉👈👉👈👉👈🫠 hiiii sooo

#hobie brown #hobie brown fanfiction #hobie brown x gn!reader #hobie brown x reader #hobie x reader #x reader #wwho #i will make some kind of nav or masterlist or idk man #also tumblr formatting is KILLING me. and im a computer science major!!! someone end me

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maxispixels · 4 months ago

Text

HANDPICKED

PART FOURTEEN.

Hobie Brown x GN!Reader

3k words

You work at a flower shop in late 70s London and Hobie's being a menace. Slowburn? Probably will be around (more) 10 parts. Strangers to reluctant acquaintances to friends to something more. Maybe a lil' messy ? (very)

Part one. Part two. Part three. Part four. Part five. Part six. Part seven. Part eight. Part nine. Part ten. Part eleven. Part twelve. Part thirteen. Part fourteen.

The bell rang over your head, welcoming. It felt like spring inside of four walls, the smell of flowers and a herbal blend of tea greeted you almost as warmly as Rose, a nice break from the cutting wind drying your skin. A lot of boxes and other deliveries were still unopened. When she saw the scratches on your hands and the bruising around your brow bone though, her soft smile got replaced by tight lips.

“What happened to you?” she asked eagerly, stepping around the counter surprisingly fast for a limping lady, her wrinkled hands cradling your face. “Did that punk do that?” Her voice rose, gingerly squishing your cheeks.

“What?” You blinked at her. “No. No, not at all!” You were so offended by her accusations, you lost all ability to remember and tell the lie you had prepared for this. “I got in a fight and punched some guy at a bar—” You blurted out so honestly that she could only believe you, no matter how surreal you getting in a fight in a bar seemed.

“You? Punched some guy at a bar?” She repeated in a mix of awe and disbelief, before shaking her head. “You know what? I’m not going to ask. We got all of our deliveries for Christmas, unpack it, I don’t pay you to stand here.”

“I just got here!” you protested, but she scolded you like you’d been lounging all day.

“With 30 minutes lateness.”

That got you. You groaned, defeated, feeling your face flushed at the memory of your reason for being late, the mere thought reminding you of the lingering warmth of Hobie’s arms around your stomach.

Without any more playful bickering, you kneeled to the cardboard boxes, precision knife in hand as you carefully unravelled beautifully red poinsettia trees, small pine trees and other branches and wires.

You had a few commands for Christmas wreaths and decorated small Christmas trees. So you sat in the back and mostly worked on that, as Rose was more fit to handle customers than crafts, her trembling hands making it hard to carefully use secateurs.

You weaved together flowers, red ribbons, stars and angels on pine branches, your hands roughened and smelling like cedar. You had gotten a few small cuts, but you often did when you had to work like that. It didn’t really hurt, you had gotten used to your hand stinging.

Rose checked on your progress a few times, dropping pieces of advice, that were really just orders said nicely, for your arrangements.

You helped her out a few times with hanging decorations around the shop, until she left earlier in the afternoon, leaving you to tie the ribbons behind the counter.

By the end of the week, you were ready for December, christmas wreaths nicely arranged on the shop’s shelf, flowery christmas trees at every corners of the room, red and white ribbons, mistletoes, and the sweet smell of the sugar cookies Rose left for you.

When the bell above the door jingled again, a sound familiar and so harmless, you thought it was Rose finally coming back for her purse.

“I put it in the back, next to the kettle.” You mumbled without much more thought, working on an intricate knot.

And when you were met with nothing breaking the silence but a rumbling breath, you had to look up. Your breath caught in your throat, choking you silent.

Bob, Rob, Robert, whatever his name was, stood in the doorway, his silhouette blocking out the gray light from the street behind him. He looked rough, bruising still faint along his jaw, a split lip healing ugly.

You weren’t ready for this, not now. Not alone. The last time you saw him, there had been fists, anger, the taste of blood in your mouth. Hobie wasn’t there. No security, no one to pull you out if things turned ugly . You gripped the counter, legs unsteady.

“Unsure what you got in the back, but I assume you didn’t expect me.” He mumbled, in a feeble attempt at humor.

You weren’t sure how to react, your eyes wide as cold sweat ran down your back. You were expecting him to pounce at any time, your fingers even discreetly reaching for scissors or something in case of emergency.

But he didn’t move. And then in all his rough, awkward glory, Robert sighed, scratched at the stubble on his chin, and muttered, “D’ya have flowers for a tosser needin’ to apologize?”

It broke the tension like a stone through glass. You blinked, and if you weren’t shaking in your boots, you would’ve scoffed.

“What?”

He shifted, looking uncomfortable under your stare. Like a child getting scolded. “I dunno. Somethin’ that says I was a proper arse, but, y’know, with petals.”

You didn’t move. Your body still buzzed with the echoes of fear, of old instincts telling you to get ready to run or fight. But he just stood there, hands shoved deep in his pockets, eyes flicking around like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Are you trying to apologize to me? Is that a joke? Or have you been visited by the three ghosts of Christmas or something?” You muttered tentatively, a hint of something mocking in your tone, despite the shakiness of your voice.

He rolled his eyes, before exhaling sharply. “Ain’t here to fight. Swear.”

It was supposed to reassure you, but it didn’t, not yet. You stayed still, watching him step closer, waiting for the punchline of whatever cruel joke this might be.

He reached for a small ceramic trinket, a tiny, painted poodle, and turned it over in his fingers, gently rolling his thumb over it. A habit, a nervous tick, something he needed to fidget with for a moment.

Just like Hobie.

Your stomach twisted and you swallowed hard.

They had the same sharpness, the same exhaustion, the same anger buried under layers of bitterness. But where Hobie had fire, Robert had something hollowed out inside him. Something that made him mean, something that made him lash out inside of pulling people close.

“I was a real prick to you,” he muttered, looking down at the old poodle. “Said shit I shouldn’t have.”

You stiffened. “You don’t say.”

That almost got a laugh out of him. Almost.

Silence settled again, but it wasn’t the same as before. You studied him, still wary, still unsure. You should hate him. Maybe you did. But it was hard to look at him now, bruised and tired, and not think of Hobie. Of how easy it would’ve been for things to go differently, for Hobie to be the one standing here with more anger than love left in his chest.

Finally, Robert sighed and set the tiny ceramic pup back down. “Hobart pulled my arse out of a real mess the other day. Coulda let me get nicked. Shoulda, probably.”

Your brow furrowed. “What?”

He rolled his shoulders, like the memory was physically uncomfortable. “Were to the same protest. T’got bad. Couldn’t get out quick enough. Hobie could. But he didn’t.”

You could picture it too easily. Hobie, exasperated but unwilling to leave someone behind. Even Robert.

You crossed your arms, heart still pounding, but something about the situation was shifting.

Robert sighed again, like he hated what he was about to say. “I guess I owe him a little now. But that doesn’t matter, whatever went sour between us—shouldn't have taken it out on you.”

That caught you off guard. Your grip on your arms loosened just slightly.

For the first time since he walked in, Robert met your eyes. There was something that wasn’t just cruelty or smugness or a need to twist the knife.

Regret.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “You really buying flowers for an apology?”

He shrugged. “Actually, I hoped the intention would’ve been enough. Don’t got a single coin in me pocket.”

The bell above the door jingled again, with Rose’s cheerful voice breaking the tension. Seemed like she finally remembered her purse.

“Hello hello,” she greeted.

Suddenly, you had an idea. Something petty, and wicked. You pointed an accusatory finger up to Robert’s confused face, and, with all the annoyingness of a child denouncing another… “He was trying to steal flowers!”

No matter what happened next, the expression on the idiot’s face was worth it. “What? No, I wasn’t—I didn’t-”

Rose’s face fell in exaggerated disappointment, and you had to bite back a laugh. In a follow-up of events you couldn’t keep up with as all your focus was on not cackling, Robert found himself forced to leave his precious cowboy hat on the counter, and to hang all the tinsels, fairy-lights and garlands where you got too tired to do it yourself. You didn’t exactly mean for Robert to linger any longer, but you had to admit it was delicious to see him obey an old lady with his tail between his legs. Rose could be scary.

For so long, you’d imagined him at this towering threat, something sharp and cruel, something you couldn’t face. But now, watching him sulk under Rose’s orders, scowling at tangled Christmas lights, he wasn’t some nightmare anymore. Just another lost man. A mean one, yes, but maybe not as bad as the only parts you got to see.

When she was done retrieving her bag and gone for good, Robert shook his head. “That was low. And petty.” He grabbed his hat from the counter in a swift movement, tipping it back on his head.

The irony wasn’t lost on you considering the things he did. He deserved it, you thought. And there was something profoundly healing about seeing the man that scared you so much, to the point you’d almost wake up in cold sweat if he visited your dreams, pouting like a child.

From Hobie’s point of view though, as he approached the shop, the scene wasn’t one of reconciliation. All he saw from behind the windows was your glossy eyes and trembling lips—which he couldn’t imagine were from your laughter—and Robert’s fussing.

He stepped inside quickly, almost slamming the door. “You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me.”

You saw it all unfold in a split second, the way Hobie strolled dangerously, jaw clenched, fingers curling tightly around the paper bag in his hand like he was resisting the urge to throw it at Robert’s head.

“You’re tellin’ me I saved your sorry arse just for you to come bother us again?”

Before Robert could open his mouth, you stepped between them.

“It’s okay—Everything is fine.” You said, and the humor lingering in your tone confused Hobie more. His eyes switched from you to Robert, holding his hands up as to show how innocent he was in all this.

You put a hand on his chest, grounding. “He came to apologize.”

Robert scoffed. “Didn’t say I was good at it though.”

Hobie shot him a look so sharp it could’ve cut through steel. “Lucky for you, I don’t give a shit.”

Robert exhaled, shaking his head. “Right. ‘Course. This was dumb.” He turned back toward the door, hands back in his pockets. “Forget it.”

You hesitated. You shouldn’t feel bad for him. But you did.

“Robert.”

He paused, glancing back at you.

You swallowed. “For what it’s worth, I forgive you.” You mumbled tentatively, eyeing Hobie in fear of his disapproval. You couldn’t forgive in his name, it wasn’t your place, and he clearly didn’t seem ready to. But unless something else you were unaware of got out, you didn’t hold a grudge against the man.

His mouth twitched, almost a smile, almost something genuine, but he didn’t say anything. Just nodded once before stepping out into the street, the bell jingling behind him.

The second he was gone, Hobie exhaled hard through his nose, muttering something under his breath before turning to you, scanning your face, your stance, looking for any sign that Robert had rattled you.

“He didn’t do anything.” You reassured him.

Hobie grumbled, still clearly pissed. “Shouldn’t have to deal with his shit at all.”

You sighed. “Maybe. But… I think he needed to say it. And… It felt good. To hear it.” You paused, looking in the distance for a short moment. “Plus, wait till I tell you all that happened—” You smiled, already chuckling at the mere thought of recounting Robert sheepishly following Rose’s orders.

Hobie studied you for a long moment before his shoulders finally eased, the tension draining just slightly. He sighed, handing you the paper bag. “Got you something sweet. Figured you earned it.”

You smiled, taking it, letting the sweet smell of baked goods warm your soul. “Thank you.”

“I’m stealin’ half of it though, I earned it too for dealing with this.”

You chuckled. “Fine. I’ll get some tea.” And just like that, you disappeared in the back.

Part of you was a little disappointed everything couldn’t just be alright with Robert. Maybe you had hoped for a moment that they would be fast friends again, but considering their history—or rather what little you knew of it–it was a bit unrealistic.

You watched the bubbles in the kettle, the bruises healing on your hands. For a minute, you let yourself sit with it. The simple fact that you had stood your ground. Twice. The fear hadn’t vanished, not completely, but you hadn’t let it win. And that was something new.

What you found funny a minute ago left a strange taste in your mouth. Not bitter, not sweet. Just like the tea currently infusing, you’ll need to sit for a little while longer with the feeling before finding the true flavor.

For now, it was a strange mix of new-found confidence and uneasiness at something you weren’t used to yet.

Hobie eventually followed you there. You felt his warmth against your back as his hands found your arms, and his nose the back of your head. “I closed the store.” He murmured mischievously.

“But it’s still early?” You turned to look at him, confused.

“I wanna enjoy my tea time in peace.” He argued, pulling a chair for you, just wanting to chat and relax.

You smiled and sat down with him, your hand searching for his, kissing the palm.

“So, should I tell you everything now or?...”

“Depends. Did you punch ‘im again?”

“Better.” You bit your lips and he raised an eyebrow.

“Now, I have to know. Spill.”

And so you recalled the events to him. From uncomfortable apologies, to false accusations of flower theft to him doing your work as reparation.

“Flower theft? Seriously?” He scoffed. “Don’t go givin’ him credit for my work—” he joked in disbelief of you randomly snitching on the man. For something he didn’t even do. “I’m glad it was you I had to deal with instead of Rose.” He laughed at the old woman’s way of dealing with thiefs.

In turn, Hobie told you about the protest a little more, how he almost left Robert to deal with the cops on his own but couldn’t really bring himself to.

You were supposed to open the shop again after your tea break, but neither of you moved.

The warmth of the back room wrapped around you both, the scent of cedar and old leather curling in the air, mingling with the soft hum of the kettle. Hobie stretched his legs out, his hand still loosely tangled with yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles in absentminded circles. The world outside kept turning, but none of it mattered right now.

No fear, no running, no fighting… Just this. Just him.

———

That night, his body felt warmer, his hold tighter, his voice softer.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been laying there, tangled up in each other, listening to the faint hum of the city outside. The occasional siren in the distance. The quiet creak of the radiator. The steady, rhythmic sound of his breath.

Hobie was never still, not really. Even now, his fingers traced absentminded patterns against your back, like there were some invisible guitar strings along your spine. It made you shiver.

You weren’t even sure who spoke first. But at some point, in the warmth of the covers, in the soft glow of streetlights spilling through the window, it just happened, inevitable, like a thought waiting too long to be said.

“You know what you are?” His voice was hushed, low, like a secret meant just for you.

You hummed against his collarbone, pressing your face into the curve of his neck. “Do tell.”

“A flower bloomin’ in the cracks.” His fingers ghosted over your shoulder, resting there. “Right in the middle of all this concrete and shit, still standin’. Still thrivin’.”

Something warm bloomed in your chest. You pulled back just enough to look at him, your fingers brushing the line of his jaw. “You wanna know what you are?”

He smirked, teasing. “A proper pain in the arse?”

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head. “A dandelion.”

His brows lifted, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Now that’s just rude.”

You bit your lip, hesitating, then admitted, “I used to be scared of you. Scared you’d just… scatter in the wind. Be gone before I could catch you.” Your voice was quieter now, barely there. “But you’re still here.”

His smirk faded, replaced by something softer. “‘Course I am.” He cupped the side of your face, his thumb gently running along your cheekbone, right under your eyes.

You swallowed, your fingers curling into his shirt;

“I love you.” Your voice barely made it past your lips. It felt strange, like stating something obvious, something that should’ve been said earlier.

Hobie stilled. Just for a second. No teasing remarks, no witty deflection. Just that look. Like he had been waiting to hear it, but hadn’t dared to hope for it.

His forehead pressed against yours, his grip tightened, and his voice was steady when he finally spoke.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I love you too.”

It was simple, certain. He kissed you then, slow and lingering. Like he hadn’t a hundred times before. Like he had all the time in the world. And you were sure he wouldn’t be going anywhere.

Tags: @hoe-bie @kittenjujusblog

hey haha so um yeah this is over I guess and I'm completely normal about it *sobs uncontrollably* no sorry it's fine it's just i never did that before (finishing something)

I'll do some tidy up eventually, a navigation system will probably make it easier,,, also just some tumblr formatting to make things neat

#THE END #hobie brown #hobie brown fanfiction #hobie brown x gn!reader #hobie brown x reader #hobie x reader #x reader #spiderpunk #handpicked

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