#egg's writing

[esseegg]

Hobie Brown x Reader [a trying duet - Ch. 1]

Fic summary: Hobie has lost his voice, both literally and figuratively. He's a few weeks into the whole "mute Spider-Punk" gig, and he's still trying to figure out what that means — silence to someone so loud, that is. As he wrestles with his identity, you offer a new set of eyes on things he thought he knew so well. Together, the two of you relearn many things: voice, meaning, and the duet between two hearts.

Ch. 1 synopsis: You meet London's spider, his taste, and his improv sign language.

Notes: gender neutral Reader, slow burn vibes, if coffee shop AUs started in 1970s music shops instead, transcripts included for Hobie's writing, POV change

London’s spider had a habit of losing himself in the moment. Concerts, battles, Molotov cocktails — you name it, he’s done it. Silence was a stranger, though. He never liked flirting with it too long. When he did, well… he wandered.

Hobie was a few hours deep into his trek along the city’s urban web. Long gone was the center, in which blaring advertisements and one too many armrests on benches watched over the streets’ people. Now, he was walking the threads that were old brick and mortar paths along the perimeter. Old-fashioned lamps of shops now closed stared at him, dull and clouded, as he passed. Bridges loomed over the block, reeking of an Industrial Revolution rust that had him wrinkling his nose from the first breath in. Silence was punctuated by the slap of his boots. Every now and again, he had to shake off copies of yesterday’s rain-soaked newspaper. The ink of pigs’ names often stuck under his soles. Usually, that’d amuse him a tad, but right now, he was…

Why was he out here again?

His hands sat heavy in the pockets of his leather vest. In his right, he started to fidget with his favorite guitar pick. He was thinking, thinking — till his thumb caught a chip in the plastic. With a slight frown, he stopped.

That’s right.

He was looking for a new guitar. Huffing under his breath, he turned on his heel to retrace his steps (or lose track of them too). Right as his boot met brick, though, a series of twangs danced with his silence. He paused, ears chasing after the tune. (If off-tune tuning could be called a tune, that is.)

Plucks at an ascending G(?) string led him further down the block. Past the lamps and bridges, he spotted a shop window alight with humble gold. In the center of the off-color window frame, just behind a cash register that looked too big for the counter it sat on, there was a figure. Both their back and the guitar’s faced Hobie, a blend of simple black and acoustic brown. He might’ve thought the sight a photograph — till you turned a tuning peg the wrong way. His chest puffed with a breath of laughter. And with that, he went inside.

The shop’s muddy-looking hanging bell gave a funny tink! when the door swung. You peeked over your shoulder, cocking an eyebrow when the man’s wicks grazed the bell.

Damn. Talk about tall.

“Afternoon.” Setting the guitar against the counter, you faced your first and only visitor so far this week. (On Saturday, no less.) “You here to browse, or you got something in mind?”

The man cocked a brow at you in return. You couldn’t tell if it was to mock your expression or to judge your lack of the “customer service” tone.

Either way, his gaze shifted to the wall of secondhand guitars that were hung up with neither rhyme nor reason. Some had sticker residue staining the body or neck, while others ached a dullness from worn off polish. Opposite of that wall, there was a visual cacophony of other instruments: yellowed drums, scratched-up saxophones, a minus-10-or-so-keys piano, and God knew what else. To tie it all together, there were a few lonely racks at the shop’s center full of cassette tapes and vinyl records.

It was the racks that drew the man a little further into the shop. He picked up a record, noting the vibrant spray paint and smudged fingerprints that replaced the original cover. You saw his shoulders twitch with what was maybe a chuckle. With a twirl of his fingers, he turned the vandalized cover towards you and tapped at it with his finger.

“Oh, that?” You chuckled, loud enough for both of you. “Yeah, a couple of kids came in and sold it to us last week. Said their grandpa didn’t want it anymore since they redid the cover and all.”

His lips twitched with a smirk. Holding a hand out, he gestured to arbitrary heights, ranging from his knees to his chest.

“How old?” you inquired. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe ten, twelve. Why? You looking to support some local artists?”

That got another slight jolt out of his shoulders. With a low rumble in his throat, he slid the record across the counter.

“Good choice.” With a face just short of a smile, you started to ring up the record for him.

While you were punching the grimy, dust-ridden buttons of the cash register (and putting up a damn good fight, mind you), the man eyed the guitar that you had left half-tuned. All of a sudden, you heard a thwip and the acoustic bang of wood on wood. Your eyes shot up, locking on the instrument that he now now cradled in his hands.

“Was that…” you paused, squinting at the guitar for damage (or any new damage, rather), “you?”

He replied with a crooked bow of his head. You might’ve thought it an apology, if not for the way his lips curved up at the corner. Smugness had a new subtlety, apparently.

“Alright… Well, you looking to buy that too? I was just working on the strings. Might need to replace them, though. They sound kind of shit, as far as I can tell.”

While you rambled, a lazy thumb plucked at each string, letting dissonance ring out in layers. At the top of the neck, callused fingers toyed with the pegs with a confidence that you only managed to fake for the sake of your job. Eventually, G sounded like G. It was warm, mellow, like the golden light that first drew him in. With a flick of his wrist, the shop resonated with a deep, soulful chord.

“Huh.” A tinge of heat rushed up to your cheeks. “Good job.”

With another nod of his head and a smirk to boot, he handed the instrument right back to you. While wood blocked your vision, you heard another thwip and the click of a pen. By the time you had set the guitar behind you, the man had finished his message. He flicked the pad of sticky notes, letting it spin and slide your way.

StrINgs ARe fIne, yOU jUst SUck aT yoUr joB

[ Strings are fine, you just suck at your job ]

Wow. Real nitpicker, wasn’t he?

Face blank, you sent the man a look. Hands in his pockets, he shrugged with that same old crook of his lips.

“Am I wrong?” he seemed to say.

To that, you just rolled your eyes. With a light smack of your fist, the cash register jumped with a chime.

“Two pounds for the record,” you retorted.

Reaching up, the man tapped at one of several pins on his vest. It was the British flag, handmade with layers of wrinkled duct tape and permanent marker that stood out against the vest's black leather. Once he secured your attention, he gestured to you with a raise of his brow.

“What?”

Another tap on the pin, followed by a gesture to his throat this time. Running down his Adam’s apple was a scar. It looked a few weeks old, a ravine stitched shut some time ago. Within a few seconds, your eyes flicked up to meet his.

“Are you… talking about my lack of an accent?” It was your turn to tilt your head around, lips puckered with a hint of reluctance. “Yeah, I guess I’m not from around here. I moved to London a little less than a month ago.”

You caught a faint hum of intrigue. Seemingly satisfied with that answer, the man finally gave you the two pounds and then some.

“What about you? You lived here your whole life, or..?”

You handed him his change. Casually, he dropped that change in the tip jar. (First tip since you started this job.) Once the record was back in his hands, he nodded.

“How is it? I haven’t really gotten much time to live the… ‘London experience,’ as some people advertised it to me.”

At your air quotes, which might’ve bordered on sarcasm, the man shook with a breath of laughter. With a low, thoughtful hum, he did a so-so gesture with his hand. Bouncing a fist off his palm, he jabbed a thumb off to the side.

“Is that… a way of saying ‘it’s better to skip town?’” you tried to translate.

His brow twitched with surprise. A second later, he gave a huff of affirmation, along with yet another one of those funny nods of his. (You swore the slight weight in them meant something.) Taking back the sticky notes, he scratched out a new message for you.

tHe PEopLE AIn’t BaD, jUsT ThE WaY tHInGS RuN

[ The people ain’t bad, just the way things run ]

“Hm. That’s a shame,” you sighed, averting your eyes. “Can’t say I haven’t heard that before.” Either that, or vice versa in some places. Between the memories, you heard the scritch-scratching of another note.

STicK To tHE OUtSkIRts. mIGht NOt lOOK liKE iT, bUt THeRe’S PLeNtY Of goOD ARoUnD hERe

[ Stick to the outskirts. Might not look like it, but there’s plenty of good around here ]

“Sounds like you speak from experience.”

The man hummed — neither affirmed nor denied. Setting the pen down, he made his way towards the door.

“Is that a no on the guitar, then?” you called after him. Acoustic didn’t look quite right on him, but he sure as hell had a good handle on it.

The hanging bell sang its dinky, little tune. Wicks brushing against it for an encore, the man surveyed the wall of loved and abandoned guitars. The electrics were far and few in between, but… Nonetheless, the man raised a hand. Pinching the air, he mimed the action of turning a tuning peg. Then, he pointed at his ear. You squinted and cocked your head, almost like you were looking for another clue somewhere in the air.

“Are you… talking about my tuning?”

All you got was a grin in return. “Fix your tuning. Then, we’ll talk,” your mind translated.

With a playful salute, the man strolled out of the shop. As he left your sight, a petty pout settled over your face.

Nit-picky bastard…

He was many of your firsts in that moment. First customer of the week. First tip in this city. First word from someone honest. First critic of your “music expert” facade.

Picking up the pounds he had left, you went to stash them in the cash register. Right as you smacked the drawer open, you paused at the sight of your fingers. Pink, splotchy and bright, had stained them at some point. The pounds were pink too, sticky from the smear of spray paint. A hum stirred in your throat, soft and curious.

Wonder where that came from…

With a shrug, you tossed the coins in the drawer and bumped it shut. Either way, the nitpicker was probably stained pink too.

Thank you for reading! Likes, Comments & Reblogs are much appreciated <3

(P.S. If interested in a taglist, please let me know :) Not exactly a regular updates kind of person, but I'm hopeful for multiple chapters)

[rs-hawk]

You get a pet tentacle as a "gag gift" for your birthday. You have no idea why your friends thought the little mass with a tentacle would make you laugh, but it didn't. Of course though, you don't want to be mean to it, so you take it home, trying to make it comfortable. You don't understand that by taking it home, now it thinks you've chosen it as your mate.

Once you're asleep, it expands, filling your bedroom with all of its tentacles. The first one to reach you has a plant like appendage, which spritzes you with an aphrodisiac that will also help you properly incubate its eggs. You groan, wiping the droplets from your face. There's already a hot pulsing between your legs. Without thinking much about it, still being half asleep, you kick off your blanket, eager fingers rolling your clit and stuffing into your hole.

Your tentacle pet stops to watch you, excitement building within it. Its mate is putting on a show for it! You must really want it! After a few moments, it can't stand it anymore. Two more tentacles reach for you, attaching to your nipples. That's when you start to realize what's going on, but you're so desperate now for release and to be stuffed you're almost crying.

Its suckers suck and pull on your nipples, making you moan and whimper. More tentacles wrap around your arms, pulling your hands away from your dripping hole. You let out a tiny whine of protest. The tentacles spread your cunt wide, looking at you clench around nothing, your wetness soaking your bed. Its breeding tentacles pulsing already.

You start to whine and beg for it to fuck you, wiggling your hips as more tentacles restrain you, making sure you're secure. Finally, one starts sucking on your clit, making you cum almost instantly. Despite your finish, your cunt is still eager to be stuffed and filled.

"Please, please," you beg it, lifting your hips up slightly.

Your pet is more than happy to comply, stuffing a thick tentacle into your eager hole. A moan escapes from your lips, your eyes half lidded from pleasure. It thrusts in and out of you, slowly depositing eggs directly into your womb. It doesn't even matter to you as you feel the weight in your body. You just need the tentacles to keep pleasuring and fucking you.

[cozylittleartblog]

Columbo and the Knight (1984)

put me in the universe where Columbo ran through the 1980s and had a crossover episode with Knight Rider. I think they deserved it, and I am not just saying that because they're my two favorite Old Shows. @telebeast wrote a little fanfic blurb about it and I HAD to visualize it into a comic (which is also the longest comic I have finished thus far at five pages...), so writing credit goes to them.

Autism W!

[aingeal98]

The way Orv will dangle the basic premise in front of you like a set of keys and have you going "Ha! So Joonghyuk is the novel's protagonist but Dokja is OUR main character." and you're so busy enjoying that layer of meta text that you don't notice their other hand winding up the Han Sooyoung hammer to whack you with.

[royalarchivist]

Ramon: So opinions on [Bagi]?

Fit: She's legit, we can trust her. We can trust her.

Ramon: Would you rather a dad or a mom [for me?]

Fit: Uh- I- no one! No one. Let's- let's get over to Felps' Square, Ramon. [They head to the warp at Spawn, then Fit hesitates] Um, wait- Ramon. [He pauses, briefly looks at the camera, then says in a rush] If I had to choose between the two, it'd be a dad. Alright, let's go. Let's go, let's go.

[plagalkey]

my lovely talented friend wrote an F1 AU fic focused on oikage's time at red bull racing!!!

[egg-writes-whump]

A whumpee who (presumably after escaping whumper or just being missing for an extended period of time) gets home, greets everyone like they weren't ever gone, ignores their questions and just immediately goes to bed

[sergeifyodorov]

when hockey players have hobbies outside hockey it's always like, pop songs on the acoustic guitar or the same video games they've been playing since juniors or cooking something slightly fancier than eggs. learn to knit for god's sake

[feluka]

when you were herbivore

couldn't look you in the eye

you're just like an angel

your shell makes me cry

you float like a leaf

in a beautiful pond

i wish i was aquatic

you're so fucking aquatic

but i'm a creep

i'm terrestrial

what the hell am i doing at sea

i don't belong here

[esseegg]

"I've been stranded in nature for 3 days, and Hobie's still in my head" drabble *gestures vaguely*

gender neutral reader :)

"You ever feel like the world moves faster than we want it to?"

The trees whispered a language that was foreign to you. The moonlight filtered through the foliage, making a mural of the activist's face.

"Nah. It don't move fast 'nough if you ask me."

You shifted on the park bench, knee to knee with Hobie. The neck of his guitar rested on your thighs, while he picked at a peeling sticker on the body. Every now and again, his finger jerked too hard, catching a string.

"Yeah." Your heart was slow, quiet in your chest. "It's just... a lot sometimes, you know?"

The sticker tore in half. You caught the shadow of his lopsided smirk as he stuck the salvaged half on your cheek.

"That's 'cause you always thinkin' instead of speakin' your mind. Got too much in that pretty, little head of yours."

You shot him a look. Under your breath, you laughed. "Uh huh."

Lulling to the side, you let yourself rest against him. As you nestled your head against his shoulder, rubbing sticker residue on his sleeve, he picked up his guitar low and proper.

The instrument sung a muted tune, blurred and stirring to the soul. He kept it slow despite his taste — a tempo to the fog in your mind. You hummed along, putting notes to breaths and rests to thoughts.

In time, you matched his pace.

If only the world followed suit.

[infernal-lamb]

Draw Neves at the bar , trauma dumping to heket (she's the bartender)

HFSLKJGKDGJLJKLDS pls this is so funny to me. Neves is a mess when she's drunk. she is now Heket's burden....here she is telling a very silly story

[thief-of-eggs]

Headcanon that Kon finally works up the nerve to confess his love to Tim- except he messes up and confesses on April Fools day, so after a long pause where Tim’s heart nearly leaves his chest, he just laughs and says “good one”

And while Kon is momentarily confused (and a little crushed), he quickly is reminded of the date by a less than favorable prank pulled by Bart- and instead of explaining things to Tim, he decides to roll with it

It becomes an inside joke between them both. Kon starts saying “love ya” before every mission- and he means it. But Tim just takes it as a joke, and he pretends it doesn’t make his cheeks flush, pretends it doesn’t make his heart race.

The longer it goes on without Tim confessing back, the bolder Kon grows. He is pretty sure Tim likes him back, given he can hear how Tim’s heart races each time he flirts- but he’s still waiting for the proper confession. And what better way to draw it out than by getting flirtier and flirtier?

“Have a good meeting, baby, I hope they don’t keep you from me for too long”

“Hey there hot stuff, is that a batarang in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

“Have I ever told you how beautiful your eyes look Tim? Because they really are. Brighter than the whole night sky alight with stars.”

Tim goes insane. He can’t show how much the phrases are affecting him, can’t let Kon know it isn’t a joke to him- so he flirts back. Because why on earth would he be normal and just talk about it?

He starts small, and works his way up to bolder statements. Speaking his heart, veiling the words as bits of their joke.

“Hey pretty boy, you gonna join us on this mission or is your head still in the clouds?”

“Calm down Kon, this is a sparring ring, not our bedroom”

“Can I get a kiss for luck babe? You know I always perform better when I’m around you.”

It’s like a game. Of wits, of wills. Everyone watches from a far with their eyebrows raised, watching the gayest friendship they’ve ever seen as the boys both flirt and flirt, a sort of game of chicken that neither seems to know the rules to.

It takes months for things to escalate so much till they’re essentially just dating. Tim doesn’t realize it until they’re sitting curled up on the couch together after a mission, his head on Kon’s shoulder, their legs intertwined under the blanket.

“We’re dating… aren’t we?”

Kon kisses the top of his head. “Took you a while, Mr detective.”

Tim’s face flushes as he rethinks every phrase Kon ever said to him, before winding back to that first fateful confession.

His heart skips a beat as the meaning dawns on him.

“You love me,” he says, less a question more a statement.

“I do,” Kon replies, fighting off a smile.

Tim’s heart races a mile a minute. He pushes away from Kon to look him in his eyes, his ribs feeling too small to contain his growing heart.

“I love you too,” he says, breathless with the confession.

“I know,” Kon answers, his eyes twinkling. Tim wants to punch him- but then Kon is kissing him, and Tim forgets every hostile feeling.

He pushes their combined idiocracy aside and grabs Kon by his shirt, and pulls the super into him.

[johnconstantinesdick]

I get the criticism of the Hunters of Artemis from a narrative perspective—it sucks that it essentially boots interesting female characters out of the story—but it always baffles me when people viciously hate Artemis for *checks notes* doing damage control.

Like. Thalia explicitly goes with Artemis to avoid the prophecy, and I definitely think that’s the reason Artemis tried so hard to get her to join—hell, you can view the hunters trying to recruit Annabeth as a way to get Thalia to join. And Bianca? You can’t convince me that Artemis didn’t guess there was something up there and react accordingly.

If Percy or Nico were even a little bit girl-adjacent you bet your ass she would be all over them to join. No one actually wants to risk the Great Prophecy happening, and Artemis is doing a hell of a lot more to stop it than anyone else.

[rs-hawk]

So Ohio has an Urban Legend called the Loveland frog and it's a giant frog that hangs around the swamps...say a reader got too curious and wanted to learn about it...for science

Ohh yes. I am very familiar with the Loveland Frog. I've never written about anything amphibian like this before so I hope you enjoy this! I did have to do some research though so that’s why this has taken awhile 🙏

You have always been an avid amateur cryptozoologist. It's not like you ever have thought that you would actually find anything, but you have fun, and for the most part it's a harmless hobby. You decide to head to Loveland, Ohio, in search of the supposedly pleasant Loveland Frogman, more affectionately called the “Loveland Frog”.

It’s dark when you creep to the little river he’s said to reside in. To you’re surprise, there’s no one else around. You read conflicting things on the frog, but it seems like the most common is that it’s a man sized frog with human intelligence, or a frog with a man’s body. Either way, it’s weirdly creepy, and almost a bit funny to you. You wander near the river, admiring the sounds of the night and the way the stars reflect off the water.

There’s the sound of splashing behind you, and at first, you pay it no mind. Jumping frogs, little fish, maybe even turtles. It isn’t until you feel something wet and… slimy? grab your arm that you turn around. Towering over you is the Loveland Frog. A hulking creature that you never expected to be real, much less be such an impressive specimen. All kinds of thoughts raced through your mind as you looked over it, it’s hand still curled around your forearm. Most prominent is “How does this thing mate?”

The creature slowly lets go of your arm, looking you over with matched curiosity. It brushes your hair out of your face, softly touching your skin and making croaking sounds at you that you’re unfamiliar with. They’re deep and powerful, vibrating in your chest with how close it is. Then, quite suddenly, it forces one of its slimy fingers inside of your mouth.

You wrinkle your nose at the taste and spit it out, but you’re already feeling the affects. While you can clearly see this thing is a frog, not a toad, the toxins that it must exude from its skin when it so pleases are flooding your brain. There’s a warmth and wetness between your legs that makes you let out an involuntary whimper when you adjust and your pants grind against your core. The creature seems pleased at the sound of your pleasure, causing it to reach out for you again.

You’re so unbalanced on your feet, with your body feeling both too light and too heavy at the same time, that you don’t even care as it leads you to an even more secluded part of the river. You’re back to wondering how something like this could mate. Is there only one? You’re swallowed by darkness as it takes you to a thicket.

The feeling of your clothes being stripped off of you and the cool wind that blows across the river hitting your bare skin makes you hum. The creature lays you down, spreading your legs to gaze at your dripping cunt. That makes you squirm, still present enough of mind to realize that this thing is trying to mate with you, however it does that. Instead of being disgusted though, you can’t help but being curious.

It’s long tongue slides across your clit, making you cry out in pleasure, your button pulsing and throbbing already. It pushes its tongue inside of you, your back arching and whimpering moans escaping your lips as it tongue fucks you to the brink. You’re so close to cumming that when it stops, you start cursing and whining.

That’s when the creature turns you on your back, shoving your face into the dirt. You do little, your body still feeling not like your own. It-he- pushes something thick and long inside of you. You grunt as you’re stretched out, trying to adjust to his size. Then, it starts slowly humping into you, and with each thrust, small objects are deposited into your womb. That’s when you start to squirm and cry out, begging for it to stop. Instead, he curls his hand over your face, forcing his fingers inside of your mouth again.

You’re so high that you slump completely against the ground, now enjoying the feeling of your womb being filled with heavy but squishy eggs. As the creature keeps fucking you into the dirt, you can’t help but clench and cum around his cock multiple times. So many times that you lose count. Finally, he pulls out. You think that it’s over so you let yourself relax, the high making your brain foggy.

However, after a moment, something even larger is stuffed into your used cunt. You moan loudly, grabbing at the grass underneath you. The first frogman walks in front of you, shoving his cock down your throat to feed you the toxin directly as the second creature fucks his cum deeply into you, coating your womb and fertilizing the heavy eggs inside of you.

Your eyes roll back into your head as the toxin makes you even more sensitive, causing you to cum each time the creature inside of you does. You can feel his slick dripping out of you, coating your thighs and the ground under you. Or maybe it’s your own. At this point, you’re not sure.

By sunrise, they both slink off back to the water, leaving you still high and foggy, covered in cum, with a stomach that already looks nine months pregnant.

[tubborucho]

In honor of QSMP Language Day, this is a list of how would you spell each Egg’s name in russian (at least how I would do it):

Chayanne – Чаян

Tallulah – Таллула

Ramon – Рамон

Dapper – Даппер

Leo – Лио/Лео (in general the name Leonarda and Leo would be Лео, but I went first with how the name sounds, and it’s closer to Лио)

Richarlyson, Richas – Ричарлисон, Ричас

Pomme – Пом

Empanada – Эмпанада

SunnySideUp, Sunny – СанниСайдАп, Санни

Pepito – Пепито

Chunsik – Чуншик

Trump, Trumpet – Трамп, Трампет

Tilin – Тилин

Juanaflippa – Хуанафлиппа

Bobby – Бобби

Hope – Хоуп (fun fact: we actually also use russian word for hope as a name – Надежда/Nadezhda)

Несколько рандомных скриншотов для счастья :D

[lunarw0rks]

y'all wanna date price but you just know he'd wanna meet up at 5 am sharp 😭😭