#habits verse

[12romy]

Guys guys guys!!! Guess what??? NEW FIC!!!! Happy new year everyone!! <3

As promised, here we go for the second part of the Habits verse, "Old Habits Die Hard"!

I am not used to write established relationship but I'm having a lot of fun with it! The number of chapter is just estimated for now, it might be more than thirty...

Hope you guys will enjoy the prologue, I will post the first chapter next week ;)

[xspiderxx]

Hey, can I request some headcanons for reader breaking up with Miguel? How does he reacts? Is he mad or sad?

note: I hope you like it 💖

𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐔𝐏 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐄𝐋

paring: Miguel O'hara x gn!reader

warnings: just angst, mentions of sex?

⸙ You would expect screams, things getting thrown across the room (yeah, just remember how he throws that empanada to Miles jaja), him yelling for an explanation, but never silence, and that's why it's more painful to you

⸙ Miguel just nodds when you tell him is over, looking at you with his tired and bored eyes, like it's nothing. That makes you feel like you mean nothing to him

“Bien” he says “do you need help to pack your things?”

“that's all you have to say?” you ask, tears on your eyes

“well, yeah. If you wanna break up I'm not gonna try to stop you”

⸙ he tries to focus on his work, trying to distract himself so he doesn't have to think about you, but it never works. His mind always finds its way to you, thinking about everything he did wrong

⸙ he forbis Lyla to talk about you again or even mention your name

⸙ and I don't think he would throw away the things you gave him or delete all those photos and videos he has with you. He would keep them on a file and watch them whenever he misses you

⸙ he totally regrets how things ended and feels really bad for it

⸙ probably he will call you when he's drunk, not asking for a second chance bc he thinks he doesn't deserve it, but to tell you how sorry he is for being such a jerk with you

“hola... uhm... Look, maybe you don't wanna talk to me anymore but... I just wanted to apologize. I was cruel and an idiot. You were always kind and loving. It wasn't fair. You know how much I love you... Thank you, for everything and I'm sorry...”

⸙ I think after your break up you're not totally friends, but it's because Miguel is trying to keep some distance from you. He knows he broke your heart and doesn't want to do it again

⸙ but i'm sure you eventually fuck around, catching feelings for each other again

⸙ yeah, I think he's the type of guy who has toxic off and on relationships and he will never move on

[spookylovesart]

Sketchbook draws o' Dis Guy The Sport + also Dr. Habit Spot fusion bcuz I'mm *explodes*

[broccwalker]

Sharing the major stuff that happened during six hour slender man stream

[livwritesstuff]

I love your parenting series! I know Steve and Eddie lied to the girls about smoking but I imagine they have a picture of them from when they were dating and they’re holding cigs in the pictures and the girls are like “you did smoke! See!” And Steve’s trying to come up with an excuse

HA this is so great

So here’s the thing – the girls had already seen photo evidence of their dads smoking. They just don’t remember because they’d been little at the time.

Steve had just told them that their dad used to have long hair when he was a teenager, and, of course, they’d demanded proof, so Steve produced for them a very old picture, probably taken not too long after Eddie had been released from the hospital in '86. Nancy had taken the picture, he's pretty sure, and in it, Robin is standing on her toes, her arms around Steve and Eddie's shoulders. Steve is grinning at the camera, a cigarette hanging loosely from his fingers while Robin and Eddie glare at each other for a reason Steve could no longer recall, and, indeed, his hair is still long and wild.

While Robbie is giggling at her dad’s long hair, Moe leans closer to the picture.

Moe, pointing to Steve’s cigarette: What’s that?

Steve and Ed hadn’t exactly discussed how they’d broach those subjects with their daughters just yet (and Moe is only 8, practically a baby, in Steve’s opinion, and he’s definitely not ready to think about her drinking and smoking and sneaking out and all that teenager shit), so he immediately swipes the photo away, replacing it with another one for the girls to laugh at and then he goes through all their old photos and pulls out the more questionable ones to buy himself and Eddie some time to figure things out. 

Years later, when Moe is 19 or 20, she’s hanging out with her dad and going through a box of old photos she’s never seen before when she comes across that picture Steve had shown her and Robbie when they were little.

Moe looks at the photo, looks at her dads and her Auntie Robin when they were the same age she is now, looks at their young faces and ponders these versions of them that she never got to know.

And then she looks closer.

Moe: Oh, you were so full of shit!

Steve:

Steve: Excuse me?

Moe: You and Dad always said you never smoked a day in your life.

Moe: What the fuck is that, Pop?

She points to the cigarette in Steve's hand.

Cue Steve spluttering about how things were different in the 80s and how nobody knew how bad they were at the time and how he and Eddie had basically quit at that point, his excuses falling on mostly deaf ears.

[esther-dot]

Do you think Jon and Sansa will meet again at Castle Black, and from there, they will plan to take Winterfell? Or will Sansa take Winterfell on her own and reunite with Jon along the way? I’m of the idea of two lost souls who, when united, find the strength in each other to take the land of their family. But I don’t know, I haven’t finished the books yet so I need guidance on this.

I don’t consider myself an ASOIAF expert, anon so I don't offer guidance, but I will def share my thoughts with you!

In order to talk about this, I'm afraid there are some ADWD spoilers, though. If you mind that, maybe revisit this post after you've read it? Short version, I agree with you. Sansa should be involved in retaking Winterfell because we need a Stark there:

Battles had been fought at Winterfell before, but never one without a Stark on one side or the other. (ADWD, Jon VII)

but I think the reunion happens first because of the The Girl in Grey theory. I'll explain more below the cut due to the major Jon spoiler.

In ADWD, a character named Melisandre tells Jon about a vision she has:

She stood beneath the scorched stones of the Lord Commander's Tower, cloaked in darkness and in memory. The light of the moon was in her hair, her red hair kissed by fire. When he saw that, Jon's heart leapt into his mouth. "Ygritte," he said. "Lord Snow." The voice was Melisandre's. Surprise made him recoil from her. "Lady Melisandre." He took a step backwards. "I mistook you for someone else." At night all robes are grey. Yet suddenly hers were red. He did not understand how he could have taken her for Ygritte. She was taller, thinner, older, though the moonlight washed years from her face. Mist rose from her nostrils, and from pale hands naked to the night. "You will freeze your fingers off," Jon warned. "If that is the will of R'hllor. Night's powers cannot touch one whose heart is bathed in god's holy fire." "You heart does not concern me. Just your hands."

"The heart is all that matters. Do not despair, Lord Snow. Despair is a weapon of the enemy, whose name may not be spoken. Your sister is not lost to you." "I have no sister." The words were knives. What do you know of my heart, priestess? What do you know of my sister? Melisandre seemed amused. "What is her name, this little sister that you do not have?" "Arya." His voice was hoarse. "My half-sister, truly …" "… for you are bastard born. I had not forgotten. I have seen your sister in my fires, fleeing from this marriage they have made for her. Coming here, to you. A girl in grey on a dying horse, I have seen it plain as day. It has not happened yet, but it will." She gazed at Ghost. "May I touch your … wolf?" The thought made Jon uneasy. "Best not." "He will not harm me. You call him Ghost, yes?" "Yes, but …" "Ghost." Melisandre made the word a song. The direwolf padded toward her. Wary, he stalked about her in a circle, sniffing. When she held out her hand he smelled that too, then shoved his nose against her fingers. Jon let out a white breath. "He is not always so …" "… warm? Warmth calls to warmth, Jon Snow." Her eyes were two red stars, shining in the dark. At her throat, her ruby gleamed, a third eye glowing brighter than the others. Jon had seen Ghost's eyes blazing red the same way, when they caught the light just right. "Ghost," he called. "To me." The direwolf looked at him as if he were a stranger. Jon frowned in disbelief. "That's … queer." "You think so?" She knelt and scratched Ghost behind his ear. "Your Wall is a queer place, but there is power here, if you will use it. Power in you, and in this beast. You resist it, and that is your mistake. Embrace it. Use it." I am not a wolf, he thought. "And how would I do that?" "I can show you." Melisandre draped one slender arm over Ghost, and the direwolf licked her face. "The Lord of Light in his wisdom made us male and female, two parts of a greater whole. In our joining there is power. Power to make life. Power to make light. Power to cast shadows." "Shadows." The world seemed darker when he said it. "Every man who walks the earth casts a shadow on the world. Some are thin and weak, others long and dark. You should look behind you, Lord Snow. The moon has kissed you and etched your shadow upon the ice twenty feet tall." Jon glanced over his shoulder. The shadow was there, just as she had said, etched in moonlight against the Wall. A girl in grey on a dying horse, he thought. Coming here, to you. Arya. He turned back to the red priestess. Jon could feel her warmth. She has power. The thought came unbidden, seizing him with iron teeth, but this was not a woman he cared to be indebted to, not even for his little sister. "Dalla told me something once. Val's sister, Mance Rayder's wife. She said that sorcery was a sword without a hilt. There is no safe way to grasp it." "A wise woman." Melisandre rose, her red robes stirring in the wind. "A sword without a hilt is still a sword, though, and a sword is a fine thing to have when foes are all about. Hear me now, Jon Snow. Nine crows flew into the white wood to find your foes for you. Three of them are dead. They have not died yet, but their death is out there waiting for them, and they ride to meet it. You sent them forth to be your eyes in the darkness, but they will be eyeless when they return to you. I have seen their pale dead faces in my flames. Empty sockets, weeping blood." She pushed her red hair back, and her red eyes shone. "You do not believe me. You will. The cost of that belief will be three lives. A small price to pay for wisdom, some might say … but not one you had to pay. Remember that when you behold the blind and ravaged faces of your dead. And come that day, take my hand." The mist rose from her pale flesh, and for a moment it seemed as if pale, sorcerous flames were playing about her fingers. "Take my hand," she said again, "and let me save your sister." (ADWD, Jon VI)

The vision keeps coming up and dictates some of Jon's decisions. Jeyne Poole (Sansa's friend) was forced to marry Ramsay in the guise of being Arya, she escapes, and people expect her to reunite with Jon and be the girl in grey (escaping a marriage, she was pretending to be his sister). Others point to Alys Karstark who runs to Jon to escape a marriage. The problem is, Mel doesn't know who it is, she only knows sister. People pick Jeyne because of the Arya connection, but neither she nor Alys are Jon's sister. And Jon has another sister, Sansa.

I would argue the reason that the girl in grey is Sansa (ie Sansa will flee North to escape LF's plots and reunite with Jon before Winterfell is taken/she is in a position of power), is if you read Jon's passage about the girl in grey, Jon being dead is written all over it. His white breath, the reference to him as a stranger, Jon telling himself he isn't a wolf...you see, here is the major spoiler...

Jon is assassinated at the end of TWOW.

Now, he may not actually be dead-dead, some of us have said he might be in a coma like Bran, but a) we believe he warged into Ghost (I am not a wolf--he will need to come back to himself, not lose himself in Ghost), b) the stranger = Jon is dead, c) the white breath = his body being cold cuz he's dead etc. The other side of this is, the way Jon sees Mel and remembers a different redhead can be viewed as foreshadowing for recently undead Jon seeing a redhead and mistaking her for Ygritte. The description of Mel's words like a song made people think of Sansa (it's been speculated Sansa's singing will help Jon remember things post rez/help him return to himself), and Ghost's strangely positive reaction to Mel may foreshadow how he reacts to Sansa as a familiar person. So, when I read that passage, it sounded to me like Sansa and Jon will be reuniting shortly after his rez, or even perhaps before his rez, so yes, I imagine that happens at the Wall.

Way back in 2013, a famous Jonsa essay predicted that Jon and Sansa would be reunited first of all the Starks, and then in 2016 that happened on the show which spurred a lot more discussion in the Jonsa fandom about Sansa being the girl in grey in the books as well.

I'll link some additional posts with various thoughts on how it might go.

Jon as the Stranger, Sansa as a silent sister. Pertinent quotes:

Then one morning she spied three women in the cowled grey robes of the silent sisters loading a corpse into their wagon. (ACOK, Arya VII) The women in grey bowed their heads. The silent sisters do not speak to the living, Catelyn remembered dully, but some say they can talk to the dead. (ACOK, Catelyn V) Grey was the color of the silent sisters, the handmaidens of the Stranger. (AFFC, Brienne VIII) When we find the Imp, we will find the Lady Sansa too. She is not dead . . . but before I am done with her, I promise you, she will be singing to the Stranger, begging for his kiss." (AFFC, Cersei IV)

@loveroflemons wrote a post in 2017 talking about Mel's prophecy and the map of the North to explain why Sansa is the Girl in Grey here. @une-nuit-pour-se-souvenir has a post explaining that Sansa is Ned's narrative heir and her path North will follow his here, and some general ideas for her TWOW story here.

@istumpysk talks about The Girl in Grey foreshadowing here. @aegor-bamfsteel tried to give us a time table here, @redteabaron has talked about the possibility that Sansa will be hunted by Ramsay for some Red Riding Hood parallels here, That and Sansa meeting Ghost while Jon is still out of it is discussed here as well. And this post talks about Jon saving Sansa from Ramsay while warged into Ghost using some king’s prize/thief quotes. I also found a Tolkien poem (Martin is a massive fan) that has Girl in Grey vibes here (not proof, just fun).

Anyway, it's a very popular Jonsa theory, for many of us, a given at this point. For a different ask i scrolled some BNF blogs and they mocked it a lot, called us delusional because they can point to the other girls as fulfilling the prophecy, but to me, that prophecy takes up too much space for it to disappear without a real payoff. It makes sense to me that Martin would use that vision to prep us for Sansa arriving in the North.

Let me know what you think after you read ADWD!

[raileurta]

I need to read a fic about Miguel scaring the absolute shit out of the spider-kids; like tearing out people's hearts and eyes then eating them level of scary. I want him to lose his complete shit because he's spiderlings got hurt. Now they're just so terrified of him and Miguel doesn't know what to do. 😔

Please I need this fic so badly. 😭🙏

[they-bite]

miles doesn't go to the movies often so when he does he is 1000% the type of kid who can horf down an entire medium sized tub of popcorn by himself and then be like "i wonder why i feel sick" the second he walks out of the theater. aaron watched him do this on so many separate occasions and did jack shit to stop it

[aidemint]

Bad Luck and Bad Decisions | To Break A Habit

Summary: Hobie gets called back to HQ. Miguel does what Miguel does best. You... have a good day. For the most part.

Word Count: 3.8k

Pairing: Hobie Brown/GN!Reader

Notes: canon-level violence, mentions of blood! read at your own discretion

Masterpost | AO3 | Part 1 | Part 2

Gwen meets Hobie at the mouth of Sector Seven at Spider-HQ—Miguel’s office.

If it had been a normal day she’d show up with iced coffees and a smile, start light conversation during the walk through the control room, laugh as Hobie snags bits and bobs from the walls and keyboards. But this time she’s empty-handed, keeps her head down, doesn’t meet his eyes, doesn’t say anything even when he pulls a circuit out and pockets it.

She seems less of a friend, more of a guard—Hobie doesn’t miss the way she keeps her hands straight and still by her sides as she paces. She looks a lot like the person she was when she first came here.

Hobie’s brow twitches at the thought, fingers curling to press crescent-shaped craters into his palm. Unfortunately there isn’t much time to stew on the notion, as he treks the path through an old portal frame and past dim orange screens, soon approaching a familiar, open-ceiling room.

Blue light bears down on tilted towers and slanted bars, layered atop each other to carry the walls of the place on their backs. In the center of it all, a muscled figure elevated on a floating platform, a galaxy of tangerine screens surrounding his hunched figure.

A glare sharpens Hobie’s eye, narrowing the edges as Miguel O’Hara turns around to face him.

“Nice of you to finally join us,” the latter quips with the tilt of his head. “Earth-40081 seems plenty interesting.”

“It is,” Hobie remarks right back. “Bloody shame you can’t experience it yourself.” The clench of Miguel’s jaw tweaks the left end of his mouth upward.

“You can fill me in on it, then. Like you were supposed to.” Miguel pauses as his stare flickers from him to Gwen, though it remains every bit as piercing. “You can go.”

Perhaps some part of Hobie hopes that she’d stay—stand by his side as some semblance of the support he’d once given her fresh-faced, past counterpart. He remembers the time he offered an arm to wrap around her, a shoulder to cry on, a room to live in without fear. But it only takes one look at the glance she casts him, sideways and long and walled-off, for him to know better. Much better.

Gwen Stacy spares him guilt—every bit of it in the shredded, desperate mess it is—then walks away.

A fire begins to burn in the column of Hobie’s throat the moment the heels of her shoes—his shoes—disappear beyond the walls of the chamber.

“What’d you pull me in here for?” It’s less of a question, more of a demand, spoken low, searing across empty air. “Comin’ on me with a two and eight.”

Miguel provides no reaction to the provocation, expression unmoving as he steps down from his platform to stand on even ground. “I think you need to know something about Earth-40081,” he says, stilling with his hands on his hips.

“Thought you wanted me to tell you about it,” Hobie halfway scoffs as he crosses his arms in tandem.

A small sigh hunches Miguel’s shoulders. “I’m not even going to try to argue with you, I just need you to listen.” Silence from the latter, though reluctant and accompanied by judgment, is enough indication of compliance for the former to continue. “Earth-40081’s period of bad luck isn’t just because of the anomaly.”

The statement catches something in the air, pulls a cord, twists a latch. Hobie’s brow furrows in sudden attention as the motion threads through him, as he receives the news. Something stirs in his chest, a pinball striking dials all the way up to his head. Explain, his gaze seems to say, with no attempt to disguise how pointed it becomes.

Miguel obliges—“The thing about Earth-40081,” he starts grimly, “is that it’s more delicate than the other dimensions. It runs on a linear line, a consistent path that everyone follows without deviation. It works like a routine, bound to a set of rules.”

A breath, a break elapses for a moment. Silence stews thick in the atmosphere in the time it takes, dragging comfort in conversation thin as it swirls. The back of Hobie’s head tingles with a suspicion he doesn’t want to pay attention to, especially with how Miguel’s expression seems to confirm it.

Unfortunately, O’Hara can’t read his thoughts. “One of these rules is the prohibition of the existence of the supernatural—which includes superpowered people,” the former continues, making room for the slightest downward tilt of his chin. “That’s the reason why 40081’s Peter Parker never developed powers after getting bit. And the rules are strict. If the dimension senses properties that go against it, it starts affecting the normal—the canon. Whether it be you or an anomaly, the longer interference continues, things are just going to get worse.”

“Why are you telling me this?” The query comes from Hobie just as the image of you flashes across his mind. It’s useless asking, really—he knows why, remembering how you confided in him, spilt all the details of your out-of-the-ordinary encounters with your environment. But when he asks himself the reason such a thing tumbled from his lips, he thinks back to how warm you were in his arms; he thinks about how vacant it feels just standing here. He wonders what it would be like to have never had you at all.

Miguel seems to somewhat share the sentiment. “I know what you’ve been doing.” A flicker of something bright red passes by his iris, but it doesn’t glow like anger. He stifles a grunt as he rolls his shoulder, fatigue in what looks like recollection catching up with him. “With your friend.”

Your laugh rings in Hobie’s ears, sweet and soundly. “What about the mission?”

“You finish the mission you were assigned, then you need to get out and stay out. Then things will go back to normal. It’s the best outcome.” Miguel’s jaw tightens, the tips of his talons unsheathing with the effort. His voice dips low, as worn as it’s ever been, gaze downcast to follow it. “You know that I’ve tried, Hobie.”

Maybe once Hobie would have something to say in the face of it before, a retort for respite, but it’s different this time. Grief claws at Miguel’s visage, teeth sunk far into the depths of him. It’s imperceptible to any untrained eye, but Hobie can make out the print of the smallest, tenderest hand that still lays steady upon his heart, staying with him during the day and haunting him throughout the night.

Despite it, Hobie tells himself in soundless reckoning that he’ll find a way, just as he always has.

But his silence feels like betrayal—once more is it taken as compliance.

“Hope can only sustain us for so long.” Miguel shifts to move back towards his platform, back now facing Hobie. “Then we move back to reality.”

You like to tell yourself there’s a positive to every negative.

The past week was highly irregular, spilled drinks, soiled clothes, angry customers and all, but you got a cute date and a kiss out of the effort, so it wasn’t a total loss. You keep reminding yourself of the sweetness of Hobie’s taste, the feel of his lips, the delicacy of his hold throughout all the moments of anger or disappointment that now seem to make themselves a new part of your routine; you remind yourself that things will get better because that’s the way things are, that for every bump in the road there’s a reward to reap at the end.

Perhaps you thought holding your ideology steadfast wasn’t for nothing today. It was normal—what you were used to, at the very least. You caught your train on time, managed to be punctual and pay attention in class, even got a drink on the house from your favorite spot.

Work was better than all the other shifts you’d taken in the past week. The shop’s daily regulars were tipped better today, wearing kind, pitying smiles. You assumed the purpose of the gesture tied into them witnessing how the customer the other day had made a hissy fit. You’d gotten over the outburst early on, but the extra cash sure helped seal the scars better.

Hours of calmly juicing fruits and veggies and making quinoa bowls turned the sky dark and soon enough you find yourself making one final sweep of the shop and clocking out your closing shift.

“See you!” your coworker bids with a wave, turning in the direction of their block.

A snick of a lock and a returned goodbye has you treading away from them and towards the path to your apartment, a sigh of relief pushing past your lips. The ache in your legs is the only thing keeping you from resolute peace, but the prospect of sinking down into your couch back home numbs the pain, if only by a little. Gratitude pricks at you when you recount the day, legs on autopilot as you walk—for the worries of adopting a bad routine that awoke you this morning, you’re glad that they were somewhat put to rest.

All that’s left is to get back safe, wash up, and melt into your mattress with the hope that tomorrow will herald the same kind of luck.

The notion keeps you complacent for the road you walk down an emptier avenue, lampposts sprinkled down the side to provide ample lighting for any person active at this hour. Perhaps you’d normally see other late workers coming home from their shifts, dragging their feet, some even having the spare energy to muster a greeting, to which you’d return, just as exhausted. But today, it’s only you that treads the concrete, dimly lit underneath dirty yellow in the city that never sleeps. Today, there is no company to address, no comparison to be made.

Today, you are strangely alone—or so your weary vacuity brings you to believe.

One step forward into the space just beyond a flickering streetlight brings about two things: a wince at the crick in your right ankle, and the click of hard metal right behind your head.

You—mind, body, blood, and soul—still.

“It’s loaded. Hand over your bag.” The demand is dark and deep, muffled by fabric but nonetheless whetted as it cuts you.

Fear is a rather merciful word to describe what runs through you in the absence of your tangible pulse. There’s no room to think or move or do much else, what space the sensation takes up. Gooseflesh raises across the back of your neck when you feel the rounded front of a pistol barrel press against your skull. It’s colder than the clamminess that envelops your hands, chills your spine straight.

“I’m not going to ask again. And if you scream, I’m shooting. Give me your bag.”

Curses don’t come easy—no words do, really. All you can focus on is the thought of how hot steel can get in the time it takes to fire a bullet, how warm the wound would be in the same place where such bitter metal bites. There’s this—terror—and then the conceptions of the smallest shred of hope that hasn’t drained from you yet—flashes of red, black, and blue carved in the shape of a spider.

The gun does not shake like you do, however. A ragged gasp tears through your chest when the weapon is shoved into you.

“Give me. Your fucking bag.”

Your vision blurs with tears as you feel a hand try to pry your arm away from what it clutches so desperately against your side. In a blink, your resistance has you wrestling with the figure behind you, against your better judgment, against the looming kiss of death to the bend of your head. Digits clamp over your mouth, smear oil against your lips to prevent them from parting, a knee delivers a swift impact to your ribs, an elbow gives your back a sickening crack—but pain means there’s a chance, pain lets you know your breath still tremors through your lungs. Nails dig into your cheeks as they moisten and burn but you grip whatever you can and pull.

Hobie, you plead silently.

“Fucking bitch!” Steel batters the back of your skull and fuzz appears where the clear road once was. A variation of the phrase spits from behind you when your teeth catch fingers that aren’t yours and bite down hard, also earning you the taste of blood on your upper lip as a palm slams back toward you.

Help! you think you scream in the flurry of pain and ache and cloudiness. Help me!

Hope fuels the invocation, whatever supply you’ve dug from the depths of yourself now untucked and bared in exchange for your life. For a moment, it seems like someone hears—a change in the wind, a rustle in the bushes—and your weakness loosens you. But when your bag comes away, the friction in the motion tearing skin from your arm, nothing gives back to the void you bore as you collapse, bloody, bruised, and blind.

Then there is silence. Silence without reason to rise, so you just lay there, waiting for the world to swallow you whole.

It takes a few minutes to realize that, after a while, a different presence has arrived, and you are not alone in the street.

Bergamot, plum, and sandalwood envelop the air around you as a gentle hold wraps you in an embrace. Your eyes only crack open to let out fresh tears, watercolor fractals painting the background in rhinestones. A sob—a sound—sears, serrated, through the length of your torso, from your quivering heart to your trembling gut.

The touch that graces you brushes all your points of hurt, familiar loving pressing the memories of affliction in such kindness it shakes you. It makes you forget you’re on the ground, bleeding from nose to chin, sitting in suffering with a pounding head and an empty bank of promise.

Somewhere along the line your lips find the feel of worn leather and smooth plastic, buried in buttons and a comforting bend of the body. Your fingers meet the edge of a shoulder, the curve of a chest, and latch on with reckless abandon, indifferent to the way spiked adornments dig into your skin.

When your cries subside into choked, stuttering breaths, you grip tighter. “Don’t leave,” rasps the heavy whisper that spouts from you. “Don’t leave me.”

There’s no new tension in Hobie’s hold when he receives the request. If anything, it only becomes softer—impossibly so, feather-light in binding the breaking bits of you together.

“I’m here,” he murmurs into your hair. “It’s alright.”

It’s enough to convince you for now, sniffling into the warmth of his collar.

After the affirmation, the trip to your apartment is wordless. Hobie doesn’t swing—he walks, arms supporting your figure as he carries you back the entire way. It’s a trail you’ve tread a hundred times but somehow when you think of trekking it alone again, consolation seems so distant.

At your apartment complex, you tell Hobie the code to your door, let him inside so he can set you on your couch. He pulls up a cushion for you to rest your head on and manages to find a first aid kit tucked away in the lower cabinet of your bathroom.

The first question comes after all the cracked and dried bits of blood and snot are rubbed off your face. “Do you want to talk?” he asks, voice hushed and tender.

A beat passes as you blink. “Got mugged,” you reply after, meeting his eye when his thumb caresses the crescent-shaped marks on your cheek. “Didn’t see their face but they had a gun and threatened to shoot. I fought a bit, but…” You bite the inside of your cheek, deciding to omit the part where you thought of Hobie. “But they took my bag. And everything in it.”

The man who’d plagued your thoughts then, now maskless and kneeling in front of you, sifts through some bandages in the white box he holds. He looks troubled, though you know he tries to hide it, judging by his half-cinched brows and subtle frown.

“It’s okay though,” you reason in an attempt to alleviate the tension. “I still have my phone in my pocket with my ID and license and my laptop’s in my room. Just lost some cards, cash, and a water bottle. I can always get new ones. Not the end of the world.”

Hobie’s fist clenches around a roll of gauze. “You had a gun to your head.” His tone is hardened, though the low volume of the phrase remains consistent to the query posed earlier—he’s holding back. “Don’t… You could’ve been killed.” He doesn’t miss the slight wince that passes by your face at the mention of what happened, and the wrinkles that etch his features only deepen.

“I know,” you murmur as he works to patch the scrapes on your joints. “But I wasn’t. And you’re here with me. And I’m okay.”

Hobie just sighs, moving on to place a cooling patch on the bridge of your nose and left eye to ease the swelling. He’s uncharacteristically quiet. The look of self-blame in contemplation is all too recognizable on him.

You try a smile in return, tilting your head to the side. “It’s okay,” you repeat, weakly reaching to massage his temple. “I got out alright. It’s not gonna happen again.”

His fingers linger on your face even when he finishes bandaging you, his eyes trailing across the same places his digits ghost.

Your hands slowly guide his lips to yours for a soft peck, open arms allowing him to slip around you and hug you close. Hobie’s chest touches yours as he leans forward, the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat beginning to align with the drum of your own the further you connect.

“What kinda chav am I to have you comforting me like I’m the one that needs it?” he mutters, a slight scoff lilting the sentence.

“A cute one,” you hum playfully, twisting a lock of his hair between your fingers. “But bad things happen. I think as a superhero, vigilante, activist, whatever you do call yourself, it’s to be expected. I’m just happy I’m okay, and that you’re here with me.”

You press a kiss to the space between his brows, then two more on both his eyelids. Your smile grows when you feel his shoulders relax, a breath easing out of him.

“Just stay with me for now,” you murmur, nuzzling further into him as he joins you on the couch. You feel his lips on your forehead before being drawn into a cradle of legs and limbs.

The rest of the night is spent in Hobie’s arms, safe and warm, until you feel the tug of slumber pull you under.

When you wake up, you’re in your bed, tucked into layers of cushy blankets with a fresh, frosty ice pack resting on your bedside table.

[rohansdisciple]

the fact the miguel expects someone to maintain eye contact with him while he’s talking to that person is so… 🥴 ( like yes force me to look you in your eyes ngh-)

it’s just a habit i observed in him while i was watching him talk to miles…like he would literally always move his head to make sure miles was looking him in the eyes like omg…

( i literally can’t maintain eye contact if my life depended on it + i look away if someone is looking me in the eyes for even a half a second 🗣️🔥‼️ )

[creek-ink]

HABIT

habit drawing that is hEavily inspired by

@seasoned-siffrin 's habit concept w some liberties n stuffs

he'd tear me limb from limb, but I'd happily oblige

[12romy]

Romy imagine if in your Chewis universe Charles & Lewis attended the Monte Carlo Masters that took place yesterday, I genuinely wonder how they would have been carrying on with one another.

Ooooooh, what a lovely idea... I bet Lewis would've tried to make Charles wear nice clothes, but he'd show up in hoodie and oversized jeans anyway, while Lewis would probably looked like he's coming out of a freaking runway.

Pretty sure neither of them knows the rules of tennis all that well, especially Charles, so they'd spend the entire game chatting and bicker about what they think is the right rule...

Also, I saw a picture of Nico attending, I'm pretty sure Lewis would go to ridiculous extent to avoid him, including like, hiding in an empty locker and drag Charles with him. They'd end up making out there and miss the rest of the game lmao

[vampirefreakzx]

Ayoooo another Habit WIP

I finally finished the whole of Everyman hybrid and I'm probably gonna have brain rot for a while.

Experimenting with a different style

[scarlct-vvitch]

do we think the reason miles kept drawing gwen over and over in his sketchbook was because he had no pictures of her and he was afraid he'd forget what she looked like and had to draw her while it was still fresh in his mind

[itshoneywhatever]

In Need of Some Life-Affirming Touches

At Bradley’s - Post Mission (ch 2/2)

It’s been a few days since they’ve come back to dryland post mission, everyone who flew the mission or saw combat had been discharged by the army of doctors that had checked them out.

Jake had been sleeping soundly, tired after packing his things and cleaning the apartment, but even the bone-deep exhaustion wasn’t able to prevent the nightmare from waking him up.

He’s about to step away, go back to his car and try to fall asleep once again, when the door opens revealing Bradley there in just some gym shorts and a threadbare shirt, curls wild and looking worn down, like he had been sleeping.

“Jake?”

“God, you were sleeping, weren’t you? I’m so sorry, I, um, I’m gonna go.” He turns to go but a hand holds his own wrist. It’s not a strong hold, not when Bradley’s thumb is caressing his hand, but is enough to keep him in place.

“Jake,” he calls him out, voice soft. “Talk to me.”

ao3

[3amclothesmonster]

There's this burger place called "HABIT Burger" close (Well, 3 hours) to where I live and it inspired me to create this