#aidemint

[aidemint]

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

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

Word Count: 5.5k

Pairing: Hobie Brown/GN!Reader

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

hope you enjoy!

Masterpost | AO3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Taste like anything?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That right?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Friday arrives and Hobie is a no-show.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[star-puff]

ALSO I LOVE YOUR GHIBLI THEME I THINK BLOGS WITH GHIBLI THEMES HAVE SUCH GOOD WRITING AND TASTES??? idk it's been a trend lately and i have zero complaints (maybe i should change my blog theme to ghibli too...)

HFKQKFK THANK YOU !!! honestly i forgot i had the ducks as the header BFJAKDJ i got this ask and i went "i have a GHIBLI THEME???" LMAOOOO. but also yes i am all for you changing your theme to ghibli :3 don't let your dreams be dreams ☝️☝️

[wkemeup]

all your bucky fics are SO GOOD ?!??!!?!! i'm legitimately crying you've captured his character so well and it just makes me so happy but also like really sad aksjdbskdjfksjdfh anyways THANK YOU for such great bucky content <3

ah wow thank you so much!!! you’re too kind 😭😭😭

[bennettzine]

🔥 Mod Spotlight 🔥

Next is our first Mod Intern, Mod Mei! (@aidemint) I think we can all agree that Bennett x Happiness is the best ship <3 It's what he deserves!!

[mooswords]

hello! how are you doing today :))

hey! :) i have an iced coffee, no more exams and a lovely message in my inbox so i am doing great thank u hehe 😊

[storytellerzine]

📚 Mod Spotlight 📚

Hello travelers! Today's introduction is for our charming Social Media Mod Mei (@aidemint)! She's right when she says Storyteller's team is truly special, and honestly, we wouldn't have it any other way!

[aidemint]

To Break A Habit

The masterpost for To Break A Habit.

Summary: During a mission on Earth-40081, Hobie learns that there’s always a reason why some people swear by consistency.

Pairing: Hobie Brown/GN! Reader

Read me on AO3!

Chapters:

1. Maybe You Should’ve Stuck With The Chopped Cheese

2. Routine Doesn’t Get You Kisses Like These

3. Bad Luck and Bad Decisions

4. [To Be Named (And Written!)]

[star-puff]

MEG THANK YOU FOR SUCH A SWEET ASK <3 gosh your writing is just gorgeous i can't express it in words but it's just so tender and human and beautiful!!! hopefully you're doing well and thank you for taking the time to send the message! <3 writers like you who really have this innate and supple control over their prose and imagery are people that really do inspire me! keep on keepin' on~

AHHH no thank You for such a sweet reblog and for such sweet words yet again T.T this is one of the biggest compliments anyone's ever given me so thank you so so much ... me when i'm in tears HDJAKDKDK

[ex0toxin]

this year’s af attacks !

1. vega, @ aidemint ~ 2. travis mantis, @ underdise 3. venus, @ halfheartfaced ~ 4. jael, @ xenajen

[aidemint]

BIRBS OH MY GODKSJERJNKSJGNHKSEURHJAWRKHJKAEGNKJNAKEJ

i’m screaming so hard right now you don’t even know oh my god

the worldbuilding, the interactions, the way you describe everything is just so???? wow????? the whispers, the way some text fades into the background so our attention is drawn to the main scene, sweet JESUS

you really make the undercity feel like home and it’s so immersive i can’t wrap my head around it rn i need a moment to process this because holy SHIT

not even getting into the warmth of the supposed “scum of piltover,” i need to address how zaun is presented in the fic because WOW

assumptions and stereotypes made even in zaun is really a slap to the face (perhaps it’s not all that distant from piltover in terms of being a society) when reading and ALSO??? SILCO SUPPORTING THE INDUSTRY??? SHIT OK

and the sex work business being an actual business that has actual people that depend on it for food and income and shelter, not just some place to fuck around and “have fun” is a really realistic notion that hits deep, honestly—i don’t see that idea around as much as i should, so i wanna thank you for including it :)

AND THE. THIS SLOWBURN OH MY GOD.

the push and pull of the relationship and all the pressure that comes with it... it’s not just some cheeky love story between powerful people, it’s realistic, it’s alive, and it’s oh-so human. they have flaws, they have insecurities, they have their own opinions and thoughts about things but at the end of the day it’s about communication and understanding, and TAKING ACTION to learn about each other more.

madame and silco are both so precise with their methods of communication and it really translates into their stories like how they’ve been hanging around the underworld crowd their entire lives, and now are shifting into positions of power —places where they have to be careful

and just watching everything unveil in madame’s office oh lord

like??? silco doesn’t give a shit if madame is late in her payments?!?!?!?! HE LIKES HER GODDAMMIT HE LIKES HER AS A PERSON oh my god

and the fact that he’s not even willing to admit his affection straight up like “i think i like you” IS JUST? SO IN CHARACTER and it’s everything i’ve ever wanted and more (and the same thing goes for madame oh my god this inarticulation of feelings has me absolutely gassed)

god, i could go on about this for days but i’ll cap it at here

but seriously, nobody writes like you do and i legitimately cannot get enough of your works. thank you so much for writing, and please be well!!!!!

girl PLEASE do another part of ‘hobbyist & finer things’!! it is in the top 3 of the best silco fics i swear.

part two ; HOBBYISTS & FINER THINGS ; silco / reader

summary: you're late on payment. silco pays you a visit. your courtesans are curious. it's rather romantic. read part one here.

word count: 3.8k

pairing: silco / reader

a/n: you all really enjoyed the first part of this little work of mine! thank you all for leaving such kind little notes and reblogs. i'll probably by using a mastertag to track this series - so if you want to check my blog for any updates, check the hobbyists & finer things tag! yet again, this pretty gif is by @aestheticsicrushon from this set here!

You're three days late on payment.

Sevika makes a point of letting him know.

Set in the center of the bazaar, The Lilac Lounge is a ten minute ride down the Lane. It's tucked neatly between shops nearly adjacent to Babette's own establishment. It creates a stream of pink and lilac light creeping into the streets, carried by the open doors and open arms of eager workers. The Lilac Lounge is a teetering two stories — the first is a sprawling maze of velvet-walled rooms for services and the like; up a winding staircase in the back sits the second floor where workers were boarded.

Once upon a time, the brothel would have been considered fashionable, but as time crept on, Yeleni was hesitant to change her ways.

Seems as though you've ushered in the new era, however — the previous sign has been removed in favor for one that glows bright in the inky black evening air. The lilac florescent bleeds into the fog. Below the sign, curling clouds of shimmer waft towards the street’s lamplight.

There's a rag-tag gaggle outside, men and women gathered to leer and look through the windows, to consider the services — a few girls hang off their arms, goading them to come inside, to warm up, to get comfortable...

He ambles down from the carriage and shrugs his overcoat closer. It's nearly winter now. The days, as dim as they are, have grown shorter. He can see his breath now, mingling with smoke from his cigarette. He flicks the dying ember to the ground.

Silco's gold-tipped shoes meet the cobblestone. In one move, he leans and smothers the light with his heel. His leather gloves, as soft as silk, pass along the carriage door as he snaps it shut.

His men flank him as the carriage peels away.

The sea of bodies — watching owlishly at the appearence of the Undercity’s reigning Kingpin — parts with ease.

His good eye slips across a few of the faces — he meets them with level disinterest.

Silco, tall and lean, ducks through the open door of the brothel.

He's visited one brothel in this life of his. Babette's. He was young, then. Not a boy, but still half the man he is now. Vander, then, was tied to his hip. Now, older and wiser, he's settled that this sort of work perplexes him. More than anything, he respects it. Deeply so. It's the price of the truest vulnerability. Physically exhausting. Mentally draining. The list is long.

Immediately, heat greets him. The snap and crackle of a well-maintained fire burns in the corner. There's a girl behind the main desk — but she's far off in a book. The walls are a pale purple, rimmed with intricate, merlot top and bottom trim.

Silco inhales and moves to peel his gloves off.

You've touched up the wallpaper. Added a few new pieces of furniture.

He drops them on the counter. Still, no stir. He continues to take in the establishment, to look at the faces of workers and patrons alike. Then, for good measure, he reaches to ring the bell by the stack of pamphlets detailing services.

Suddenly, he realizes lobby of The Lilac Lounge has gone silent. Packed to the brim with pretty faces. The phonograph in the corner drones on some low tune.

The girl behind the desk — she's young, maybe a few years older than his Jinx — is looking at him with eyes wider than a mile when he finally finishes his lackadaisical inspection of the lobby.

His head lolls to her, attention torn from the piece in the corner. It’s new, he thinks. He can’t remember. Yeleni never had an appreciation for art. You are different.

"H-How may I help you, sir?" comes a timid question.

Silco speaks as warm as ever; he leans with one arm on the counter. His face softens. The girl is young.

"I'm here to see the Madame, sweet dear."

Her posture is straight as an arrow. Silco watches as she swallows. Her eyes seems to seek comfort in the sea of workers around her. They seem just as unsure as her.

"Th-The Madame is very busy," she explains in a rehearsed manner; Silco is left to wonder then how many visitors have come asking for you by name, "She is only to be seen by appointment."

Hm. Curious, he tuts.

Suddenly, Silco can hear your voice.

While this room has gone still, the winding river of workers and patrons has not slowed in the hallway beyond the lobby. The calls of chatter are equally comfortable as they are poised. Flirtations and jeers, music and sex. All of it blends together in the electric atmosphere of the brothel on this busy weeknight.

"Take them straight home to your mother," you call as the figure of man rounds the corner. Silco sees that you're pushing him by the shoulders out the door; there's a box in his arms, and he's laughing, and you've got a warm smile on your face, "Get these damn creams out of my brothel—"

The corners of his eyes crinkle, painted with lilac shadow and shimmer. He stills, however, at the sight of Silco.

You do, as well.

Oh.

Immediately, you’re assessing the situation in the room with a matrenly concern. In a flash, you’re looking at Gwenievere — the young girl behind the main desk. She looks apologetic; guilt washes over you in a flash. Clearly, she’d  heeded your instructions to beat back visitors by insisting on appointments. And... Well. You pride her in her dedication for insisting the Kingpin of Zaun needed a damn appointment.

"Silco."

Your voice is warm. A rush of relief, almost. Silco wonders if perhaps that’s wishful thinking.

"Hello, Madame."

The smile he offers is lopsided, but warm.

His voice is warm. Cordial. Very bit the gentleman.

But, why is he here? To pay a visit? Or —

“To what do I—?”

Suddenly, you snap rigid.

Silco, at first, isn't sure how to read the expression — in truth, he's a bit preoccupied by the rather Edwardian state of your attire. Your blouse is tucked into trimmed trousers, and the sleeves billow around your elbows in a mismatched roll. It's a very different appearance than the one you'd manicured when you'd visited him for business. This one, loose and easy, seems to speak more to your nature.

Rather charming, really. Horrifically so.

You've clearly been busy. There's a quill behind your ear. A smear of ink is dashed across your chin.

You round the counter in a few long strides as your hand reaches up to your lips, hoping to smother a look of sudden remembrance. As easy as breathing, you touch the sleeve of his overcoat.

Silco settles his weight on one long leg as he leans against the desk and tries to reign in his look of appreciation.

The whole room hangs on the interaction.

The whispers are starting. Faces peering in windows, courteseans hanging from the doorframes. Eyes watching.

The Madame touched Silco.

"I knew I'd forgotten something," there's a squeeze then, and an apologetic exhale that tells him enough about your current state of affairs. Your eyes are heavy with a genuine sort of look that makes Silco feel as if he's been completely disarmed, "How many days?"

"Three," he replies easily, almost bored. His gaze is rooted on you.

More whispers as more heads duck back into their rooms. Since when does Silco go easy on debts owed? Will there be trouble? He doesn't seem angry—

"—Shit," you curse in a whisper as you press your fingers to your brow.

Suddenly, you're painfully aware of your less than impressive appearance.

If you had known he was coming, perhaps you'd have worn something a little nicer. At the very least, maybe fixed the mess of your hair.

God, you have ink all over you.

And here he is — oozing power, as magnanimous as it is. He's prim. Not a hair out of place. His aftershave is sharp. Masculine. Handsome. The whole of him is entirely so.

You've not gone a day without think of him, not with that beautiful painting hanging in your office.

"I understand you've been quite busy, Madame," Silco explains slowly as he inhales and pulls himself up from this lean, "And I had yet to see The Lilac Lounge under it's new management. I chose not pass up the opportunity."

Ah.

You note the tone. Cooler now. Like you're back in his office, dancing politely around business dealings. The danger lay in the implications.

So, this is one of those moments — the ones Babette mentioned.

He will show he holds the leash. Be ready for it.

But, this seems different.

"I'd offer a tour," you say lightly, testing the waters, "Though I have a feeling some of my courtesans would be eager to volunteer first."

A compliment. The corner of his lip quirks. You notice.

"Kindly, I'll have to decline. Perhaps, though, a tour of your office? Or, would I need an appointment, miss?”

His smile is inclined Gwen’s way. It’s kind. Fatherly. The girl bites her cheek shyly.

“I think we can pencil you in. What do you think, Gwen?”

“Yes, Madame.”

With that, Silco nods to his men behind him. They ease up, reminding you that despite Silco’s calmness there are others who are keen to act. You give him a thankful look. He gathers his folded gloves in his hands and gestures for you to lead the way.

More chatter passing between lips and ears now. And did you hear about the painting? He's going to her office alone, now—

Silco doesn't mind the narrow hall you lead him down. He does feel a bit like a piece of meat, in all honesty, when eyes follow the both of you to the office at the far end of the long hall. His shoes pad along quietly, long strides following your lighter, more graceful ones.

Masked and painted faces stare back at him with every colorful, bright room passed. Giggles and whispers crescendo at your passing, silenced by the older courtesans clearly encouraging the younger ones to mind their business — all while their own eyes narrow in critically on their Madame and the Kingpin.

Finally, your office.

It's rather...

Cute.

Silco looms behind you, his hands tucked neatly into his overcoats pockets, as you lead him through the open door.

Your voice is quiet. "I apologize of the mess. Admittedly, it’s been quite the week.”

“Appointments...?” Silco asks quietly as you move to nudge the door to your office closed. He watches you over his shoulder as you flick your eyes down the hall one last time; you’re aware of the curiousity this little visit has drawn. They’ll talk. You decide to let them.

Your exhale is tired as you move across the room, clearing off a plush little armchair for him adjacent to Yeleni’s — no, your desk.

"I’m sure you know how it is. Transitions in power always garner attention,” you explain as you struggle with a stack of paper. You plop it down on the long table in the middle of the room, set between two loveseats. It’s cluttered with various boxes and stacks of paper you’ve procured from God knows where. You rub your cheek as you turn back to him, “Some of the Chem Barons were hoping I’d forgo Yeleni’s previous contracts and seek new, exciting, profitable opportunities.”

You waggle your fingers. Your tone indicates your lack of interest.

Silco scoffs.

You laugh a little at his reaction, then move to the fireplace against the far wall. It’s dying — and you prod it lightly with one of the glimmering pokers Yeleni had kept over the years. The crackle is satisfying.

Then, his attention turns to the painting you’ve ceremoniously hung behind your desk.

Hm.

It fit nicely. Just as he’d hoped.

You take a few steps closer, padding gently on the carpet, and extend a hand. “Let me take your coat?”

Silco’s attention is torn back to you. He obliges. For a moment, the tension between you is thicker than smog. You blame the proximity.

So, you take the heavy, wool overcoat from his shoulders and hang it neatly on the back of the tall chair across from your desk. You smooth it down. It’s warm. Smells like his cologne. Smoke clings to the collar.

When you turn back to him, he’s adjusting his golden cufflinks. His eyes are still on the painting.

“Missing it?” you ask playfully.

Silco’s good eye squints a bit in jest. “I believe it’s better suited with you.” Then, a pause. His voice falters. It’s quiet. “Do you like it?”

“Like it?” You sidle up beside him. “I love it. Thank you. Truly, Silco.”

He hangs onto that. It settles neatly in his heart. If he had a locket, perhaps he’d write the words down. Tuck them away.

“I’m... I’m glad.”

“Yes, well, I really went and showed my appreciation, didn’t I?” you sigh and move across the room to your desk, “Three days... I’m sorry, Silco—”

“I figured you were busy,” he chirps, bending at the waist to pluck up a stack of... budgeting expenses? From... god, from seventeen years ago? “With... this?”

The keys in your hand jingle. You close the top drawer of your desk. The eyeroll is as exasperated as the expression on his face.

“Welcome to my new life.”

“She kept...” he wets his thumb and flips a stack of pages; his eyes flick across the parchment, “All of this?”

You roughly unlock the bottom drawer to your desk. In it sits a neat silken satchel of coin currency. The gold tinkers as you set the heavy little purse down on the desk. You wag the key at him. “With no organizational system. I’ve been finding laundry notes mixed in with things like that.”

Silco sneers. “Why not just burn it all?”

You lean back in the large chair, head dropped back against the lilac leather.

You sag a bit.

“Because,” comes the tender reply, “Suddenly, I’m... Suddenly, I’m mother to forty people who... w-who rely on me to make sure they eat, that they have somewhere to sleep. And I have no idea how Yeleni did it.”

The Kingpin’s expression softens.

“You’re overwhelmed.”

Less of a question. More an assessment.

Your gaze connects with his. You’re quiet for a while. “Babette told me not to let you in on to that little secret.”

Silco’s laugh is more like a little puff of air. His eye closes briefly. He places the stack of papers down, and tucks his hands in his pockets. His voice is gravelly and low. “Yes, well, Babette and Yeleni both adored me—”

It’s your turn to snicker. You stand and move towards the small cart in the corner by the sonograph. “Babette seems rather proud to claim you visited her brothel—”

Silco stiffens. He almost snarls. “Please. She’s still spinning that tale? It was decades ago."

With a smooth pop, you uncork a bottle of wine. It’s by no means the sort you’d ever dream of offering Silco, but he seems to beat your preemptive warning as he nears the cart. You pour some for yourself in a shallow little glass, and the Kingpin moves to take the bottle from your hand.

He’s had plenty of bad wine in his life.

It’s humbling.

“Is that not what happened, then?” you raise a brow and lean back against the table as Silco pours himself a glass, “She warned me — that Silco, she said, quite the charmer...”

Ah.

So this is what we’re doing.

He pauses, stream stopped, and flicks his eyes up to you. “Do I seem the type to indulge in...”

He waves a hand around him, gesturing to the office. To the brothel as a whole. Then, he finishes pouring his glass.

“...All this?”

“No, you’re far too busy,” you say quickly as you swallow a mouthful of wine, “But, you did gift the Madame of The Lilac Lounge an authentic Friedlingmer — to which she is incredibly thankful, had I said that yet?”

“You did,” he clinks his glass to yours. There’s a glimmer of something in his eye. Mischief, maybe?

“Yes, well. You're a smart man. Surely you’re aware of how that looks?”

“Painfully so,” comes the rough swallow; Silco’s mouth is red from the wine. It’s by no means the worst he’d had. He takes another sip and straightens his posture. He places the glass down on the cart and easily recorks the bottle with the heel of his palm; he considers his next words carefully, “And pray tell, perhaps that is what I intended? What then, Madame?”

Oh.

You’re suddenly aware of how close the two of your are standing. The room is warm. Your skin is hot. Your cross your arm across your chest, holding your wine delicately as you tilt your head and hold his gaze.

“I’d be flattered.”

“But...?”

It’s quiet. He asks as if he’s anticipating it.

For whatever reason, that stings. Your brows twitch. Silco can see it. He breaks from your gaze to eye his wine. He swirls it absently and exhales.

“There’s no disqualifier. I — I am flattered,” you step away, moving towards your desk, “Though I have to be completely clear that I’m the Madame of this house. If you’re expecting trade for gifts, I regret to inform you I no longer offer those services.”

Suddenly, you hear him choke over your shoulder. Silco slams his fist into his chest, coughing roughly. Lights alive.

“You misunderstand—”

Your brow rises sharply. Silco pushes a hand through his hair, moving a flash of greying strands back.

"Do I?” you ask, confused.

“Yes,” he urges, then snaps his good eye shut, “No, not entirely — that sounded horrible. I apologize. I hadn’t meant to insinuate that... this...”

His hand falls. His words die. He pinches his brow.

“You thought I was propositioning sex?” he asks then as he looks up at you with a pained expression, plain as day and dry as the wine.

You roll your eyes and your posture sags; you kick the edge of your desk and lean against it. “No, no. I — not at first. I thought the gift was lovely — but, then I had plenty of chattering little courtesans making me think I was giving it more weight than it truly held.”

“I intended for it to... be heavy. To have some meaning.”

Your gaze catches his. He looks utterly distraught. Almost embarassed. There’s something charming about the erosion of his usual icy composure. You find you like it quite a bit — his concern about your respect.

You tug the inside of your cheek between your teeth.

Fuck it.

Then, Silco watches you move quickly towards the second drawer to the top on your desk. You’re focused, gently procuring a small wooden box. When you stand, Silco catches a glimpse of a gilded little seal running along the front.

You set it down.

He watches you.

“These are for you.”

His attention bounces between you and the box. As he nears, you sets his wine down gently on the desk. You can see the flash of suprise in his face.

Cigars.

Expensive, Piltover-finest cigars. Cigars wrapped in gilded labels, sealed tightly in a cedar box. There’s a gauge on the side, reading out the humidity of the inside. Clean, dark paint. Clearly well-minded. Imported.

His face softens.

He clears his throat.

“Do... Do these have weight, then, Madame?”

Your heart catches a bit. You exhale, ignoring the dreamy flicker of his lashes when he scans your face. There’s hope on his face, you realize. Silco tries to smother it before you see it, but it’s too late.

“They do, Silco,” you answer honestly.

His fingertips run along the seam. The action is... Well. You file that away.

“These were expensive.”

“Perhaps you can forgive me for being three days late on payment, then?” you jest, trying to lighten the tension. It’s wrapped itself around your heart.

Silco’s lip quirks. He pulls back from the box, swigging his wine. He sets the empty glass down and wets his lips. When he looks back up at you, you have to try not to squirm.

His voice is low. Honest. Warm. Tender.

“You were forgiven the moment I saw you again, my dear Madame.”

You swear then that your heart is his hearth. His words are wood, and your affections are the flames lapping eagerly up at them.

He's rather proud of himself.

He feels a rush of boyish pride at your parted lips, at your soft look — in the chaos of your office, he's made you slow down. He is the center of your attention. You, the beautiful Madame of The Lilac Lounge.

Suddenly, the grey in his hair and the ache in his knees and the lines on his face aren't so apparent.

Silco straightens his tie.

"Is this the payment in full?" he asks, gesturing to the velvet purse.

You nod, still holding your wine. You watch him.

With ease, he sweeps his overcoat on. The collar, high and crimson, kisses his cheek as he snaps the front down. He gathers his gloves, sliding them on, and begins the arduous task of snapping each button. He makes the task look near poetic. Pretty.

He pushes a hand through his hair and bends to gather the gold.

Then, Silco extends a hand.

You graciously give your own.

This time, there's no glove to keep his lips from your skin. The kiss he presses to your knuckles is chaste. The look he slides up at you amidst it is dangerous. You know yourself well enough to steal your breath, to bide your beating heart. Your fingers twitch. Silco straightens himself and lets them slip from his grasp.

It's all... very romantic.

He gathers the cigar box and gingerly tucks it beneath his arm.

"I thank you for your time, Madame."

When he pulls the door open, you hear the scatter of footsteps. His head drops, and his laugh is quiet. You both know well enough that privacy is a rare enough gift in a place like this. You worry your lip and take one more sip of your wine.

Your face is hot.

"Silco?" you call as he steps into the hall.

He turns, inky black eye casting you a forlorn look over his shoulder.

"Yes?"

"Do tell me how the cigars are."

...He will.

He smiles at you — toothy and sharp — and begins down the hall.

You watch and watch and watch until... he's gone. And the brothel sighs with ease and the halls flood with expectant faces and eager looks and gossiping little smiles.

But, lights alive, what do you have to say for yourself?

After all, you were three days late on payment.

And that's all the courtesans get out of you for now.

[damianyazine]

Aidemint (@aideminty ) can't contain all of her excitement! Waku waku! ✨

[simpfiles]

a work in progress chapter 4 intro drop. finally getting to introduce viktor and signed eve

ngl rl has kept me in a bad state of mind and place for a while now. due to time restraints and higher priorities  i was planning on scrapping this fic but @x-avantgarde-x, @kneel-bitches, and @aidemint’s comments were so nice and encouraging. the second i read aidemint’s i went right to work on this chapter. with the holiday season coming to a close my free time will become nonexistent but i really appreciate your kind words and will d my best to finish this series! happy new years to you all o7o/)

[halfbloodszines]

[CONTRIBUTOR SPOTLIGHT] 💀

Next up is one of our writers, Aidemint! You can find them on Twitter ❕✨

[aidemint]

part 1 of my sketching some of my favorite writers’ profile pictures! maybe you’ll recognize a few of ‘em 👀👀👀👀

@whirlybirbs !!! god, what talent, honestly. from bucky to loki to silco, you got it all, i swear!

@dicax-asina ‘s fics... do i even need to say anything??? a lovely, lovely person with spectacular works! lookin’ forward to commenting on your fics more~

@crsjunkyard 's writing always brings me to absolute tears! honestly, the level of thought put into your works is astonishing and it really, really shines through.

@juminly ... YOUR IMAGERY!! the wording, the feel, the liveliness and loveliness of it all is just so TENDER and i’m bawling

@inkinflux the viktor/reader MASTERMIND ! god, so much viktor and i’m not at all complaining! we all love a good emaciated scientist every once in a while~

@meliapis​ oh my GOD! your lumen au... chef’s freakin’ kiss! it’s only gotten me more obsessed with arcane

well, that’s it for now! i hope you all liked em :) sorry i couldn’t do colored drawings, my head is killing me but i think they turned out pretty well!

been meanin’ to do this for a while but now that i’ve gotten the chance, i’m glad i did :)

hugs and kisses to you all, and please be well!

[luv-hqs]

who are some of your fav writers on here? - 💖

i really love these authors! @lovekawas @baldsaitama @remuswriting @atinylandtostay @sunakissed @fungifaggot @aidemint @multifandom-addiction i hope you guys have a nice day 🥺