#notion HQ

[hopipp]

JUST SAW THE HAIKYUU MOVIE 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

[dawiebe]

Update: December 10, 2022

Update: December 10, 2022

What’s happening? I know you’ve been waiting on bated breath for another update, and guess what? Today’s is just as exciting as yesterday’s (I lie…). The good news is, between yesterday and today, I’ve completed quite a bit of Music Entrepreneur HQ related work, and that’s what I’ll be focusing on in today’s update. Audiograms I’ve created four new audiograms to be uploaded to YouTube, Facebook,…

[drabblesandimagines]

Crash

Leon Kennedy x female reader, established relationship

The sidewalk feels cold beneath your thighs as you stare blankly into your lap, your breaths heavy, struggling through a tight chest. You’re sat cross-legged, like a child - the nice, elderly lady had encouraged you to sit down, said you were looking pale. She’d definitely meant for you to take a seat on the bench a few steps away, but you’d just dropped, seemingly forgetting how to get from standing to sitting in any sort of graceful manner.

She’d smiled sympathetically then, offered you some candy from the bottom of her purse – kept a stash in there for her grandchildren - said you needed sugar for the shock. But you’d shook your head, feeling sick at the notion of eating anything. She asked if there was anyone she could call whilst waiting for the first responders.

You’d put your hand in your jacket pocket for your phone at her question – relieved it’s in one piece, not smashed up like the hunk of metal just out of eyeshot. You don’t remember calling Leon’s number, but you must have because now your phone’s up against your ear.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He answers after only four rings, though his voice is hushed - maybe ducked out of the room to answer. “Can I call you back in 20? Just wrapping up something here.”

“I-crashed-the-car.” You blurt out, the words running into one another. It’s not technically true, you were crashed into but this seems easier for now.

“What?” His volume amps way up and your stomach twists with the change, unsure of the implications – is he mad? Upset?

You were borrowing his car. Yours was in the garage, the brake discs needed replaced and would take a couple of days to get the parts in. You’d planned to take city transport but Leon insisted you take his car - arguing it was winter, that it gets dark so early and the idea of you walking to and from the bus stop on your own isn’t one he wants to entertain. You don’t live in a terrible neighbourhood, but you don’t have to be for monsters to be roaming the streets, after all. Plus, it made sense for him to ride his bike to HQ whilst you borrowed his SUV and he wouldn’t have to worry, have one less thing on his plate… ..or so had been the idea. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I’m so sorry,” you don’t even take in his questions, really. “They came out of nowhere and…“ Your breath hitches in your throat, a sob building up and threatening to overflow.

“Baby,” his tone is firm, “are you hurt?”

You can hear his shoes slapping against the floor as he begins to run, though it sounds too hard a sole for his boots... No, that’s right, he went out in a suit this morning – leather jacket on top, motorcycle helmet tucked under his arm, still made the whole ensemble look good albeit it being mismatched.

“No…” That’s not true - there’s blood, and it has to be yours, but you feel numb of any sort of pain. “I don’t know.“ Your voice cracks again. “That’s okay,” he soothes, barging through a door with his shoulder. “We’ll work it out.” Nearly takes a woman out the other side with how hard the door slams against the wall, mutters half an apology as he darts around her. “Are you still in the car?” You turn to look at Leon’s black SUV laying on its side, the under carriage on full display – not the way a car should be. The driver’s side is against the concrete. You’d climbed out the passenger side, somehow, having to fight gravity itself to get the door to open, clambered up and over the leather seats. Should you have done that, or should you have stayed put? You’d just wanted out from the metal box – the windscreen was a spiderweb of cracks, creaking like it would explode in shards at any moment. “N-no, I’m on the sidewalk.”

“Okay, good. Ambulance on its way?” He’s reached the elevator, mashes the down button like it will make it accelerate to his floor any faster than usual. He feels awful that he’s interrogating you, but his training has kicked in - gather as much intel as possible – and he needs the facts.

“Yeah. Police too.” A few cars had stopped after. Someone said they were calling 911, another saying they got some of the license plate, the old lady and her purse full of candy. The other car drove off, tyres burnt with how fast they fled the scene.

“Good. That’s good, sweetheart. You’re going to be okay. Can you tell me where you are? What street you’re on?”

“Erm…” You look round, but in the shock nothing looks familiar, though it must be a route you’d driven down hundreds of times before. “I was on the way home from work, so, I’m, erm…”

“That’s all right.” He can hear the tightness in your voice, knows you’re not thinking clearly and so he changes tact. “Is anyone nearby that you could ask?” He hits the elevator button again, swears it’s been on floor 12 for far longer than necessary. Come on.

The elderly lady comes back to mind – she must’ve stepped back to give you privacy when you’d pulled your phone out. “There’s someone.”

“Great. Can you ask them where you are?”

“Yeah…” You pull the phone down from your ear, looking around to find she’s not gone far at all, hovering a few metres away. “Excuse me, where are we? Sorry.” The apology slips out, feeling more of a nuisance to her than you’d already been.

“16th Street, dearie.” She smiles, keeps her tone gentle. “Just near Jack’s Groceries.”

The elevator finally arrives – empty - and Leon positions himself between the doors, aware that his reception might drop when he starts to head down to the garage and he can’t leave you on a dial tone.

“Thank you.” You force a smile in return, hold the phone back up to your ear. “16th Street, near the grocery store, Jack’s - it’s the one with those chips you like?”

He smiles at that – it’s not your usual place to shop, but you go there sometimes to pick them up for him ‘just cos’. “I’m on my way, sweetheart. Can you call or text me if you go anywhere else?”

“Y-yeah.” You take another shuddering breath, dig your nails into the palm of your hand. “Thank you. I’m so sorry.”

He steps into the elevator fully, double taps the button for the garage before assaulting another to close the doors. He hopes no-one tries to grab it on the way down, cos he won’t be able to hide his irritation.

“Nothing to apologize for. Everything’s going to be okay. I love you, baby.”

“Love you too.”

“See you soon.”

He hears the beep, signaling the call is cut off and takes a grounding breath, though his foot taps impatiently as the elevator continues to descend. He scrolls down his contacts, thumb poised to dial as soon as the doors open again.

“Leon,” Hunnigan sounds surprised to receive his call, probably cos he’s in the same building as her and usually swung by the office if he was after something. “To wha-“

“I need a car.” He cuts across her, heading over to where the company vehicles are kept. “Any car - I’m in the garage already.”

“Right. Why?” He feels a smidge of relief when he hears her begin to type.

“Please - just give me anything. I don’t care what, I just need to go.”

There’s the clunk of a lock down the line of vehicles, a black estate vehicle’s lights flashing. “Bay C3. Keys in the sun visor as usual. Tell me later.”

“I will. Thank you.”

 --

Leon drives a little faster than he should, but it still feels like hours until he reaches his destination. There’s a couple of cop cars blocking one of the lanes, red and blues flashing, an officer stood diverting traffic around the closure and another manning the perimeter. He pulls up behind the cars and hops out, scanning for you.

There’s an ambulance parked up in the lane and his heart skips a beat when he sees you sat on the steps, a cop on one side, a paramedic waiting behind in the wings. There’s one of those silver foil emergency blankets draped around your shoulders and you look so goddamn small.

He starts to jog over, intent on getting to your side as soon as possible, when the cop manning the perimeter sidesteps in front of him, holding his hands up to get him to stop.

“Sir, I need you to stay ba-“

Leon flashes his ID in his face – it’s not something he likes to do and so he rarely does it, but he doesn’t have time to put on the charm. “Agent Leon Kennedy. That’s my girlfriend over there – I need to get through.”

The cop steps back and Leon feels weirdly grateful for once for the DSO.

As he gets closer, his eyes narrow at the fact that they’re making you blow into a breathalyzer. He clenches his fist then - you’re bleeding and they’re accusing you of drink-driving?! He wants to give them what for, but then he sees the way you’re shaking and knows him storming into the scene ready to blow is not going to help, especially with how apologetic you’d been on the phone.

He forces himself to stop a moment and breathes deeply again. You’re shook up, but you’re in one piece, conscious and that’s the most important thing.

“Thank you, ma’am.” The officer nods, noting down the reading as Leon walks over, catching the tail-end of the conversation. “Nothing to worry about there. I’ll just go update the control room – it won’t be long.”

“Leon,” you stand abruptly at the sight of him as the cop steps off to the side and the foil blanket slips off your shoulders, gauze taped on multiple parts of your arms. You’re trembling. “I’m so sorry.”

“Come here,” Leon wraps his arms around you, coaxing you into his chest. He wants to squeeze tight, to confirm what he’s seen with his eyes, that you’re real and whole, but he doesn’t want to aggravate any injuries so he’s careful, pressing a kiss to your crown. “Don’t apologise, sweetheart. I’m just so glad you’re okay.”

“Y-yeah, I’m fine.” You’re not, but maybe if you say it to Leon it’ll make it real. There’s a horrible burning sensation in your chest. You want to cry, but not here, not in front of everyone.

“Sorry, ma’am, can I get you to take a seat again?” The paramedic interrupts, emergency blanket back in hand. “I won’t be long, sir. I just need to check a couple more things.”

“No, of course.” He presses another kiss to your forehead and guides you back to the steps, encouraging you to sit and takes the blanket from the paramedic’s hand to drape back over you. “I’ll be right over there, okay? I’m just gonna go have a word with the officer.”

“Okay, yeah.”

He steps aside so the paramedic can move in and waits for the officer to come off the radio, approaching and offering his hand. “Leon Kennedy. I’m her boyfriend.”

“I gathered.” He shakes it. “Officer Jacobs. It was your car she was driving?”

“Mm-hm.” He keeps half an eye on you as he sees the paramedic shine a flashlight in your eyes, getting you to follow his finger. “What happened?”

The cop consults his notepad, flipping through his notes. “A witness stated another SUV-type vehicle went through the red light at some speed. Said it had been driving erratically for a while, so I’m figuring drunk-driver. T-boned, sent your SUV spinning and flipped onto its side after it collided with the lamp-post. The other vehicle stopped for five seconds or so, then gunned it. I’ve got dispatch sending a description out for the highway patrols. Partial registration but it’s gonna have damage, I’m sure, so should be easy to spot if it’s still in transit.”

Leon swallows, taking all the information in.

“How lucky do you think she was?”

“Truthfully,” the cop scratches his day-old stubble, looking between the SUV and you, “I think if she’d been in a different car than that, we’d be having a very different and difficult conversation right now.”

Leon’s fists clench. He’s encountered unspeakable horrors too often in his time, but the idea that some drunken jerk could just get behind the wheel and end your life is more terrifying than anything he’s ever faced. His thoughts swirl down a dangerous drain - wonders if Hunnigan can grab the partial registration from the cops, run it through her software and find the culprit, or trawl the CCTV cameras for a screengrab. He’d show up at their door, or maybe wait for them in the parking lot, revving his own engine, scare them the way they’ve traumatized you and-

“Sir?”

The thought extinguishes as he realizes the cop is offering him a slip of paper.

“Case number. We’ve got her details and we’ll be in touch if we hear anything, but just in case either of you want to follow anything up.”

“Got it.” He nods, taking it and popping it into his wallet. “Thanks.”

--

Leon wants to take you straight home – he’s got a substantial first aid kit there that’ll do the trick on the cuts that need stitching – but, honestly, you need a proper check-up and only the emergency room will do.

You’d required a few stitches from where you’d been caught by the glass from the driver’s window and bruises had started to develop, specially from where the seatbelt had jerked at the impact, but the overall prognosis was positive – you’d be sore for a few weeks, that was for sure, but armed with some painkillers and some rest, you’d be fine.

Leon doesn’t think he’s ever driven quite so carefully the way he drove to and from the emergency room. Not that will help against other assholes on the road, but he’ll be damned if he does anything that means he has to slam on the brakes and give you a fright. You’ve been silent most of the time – silent on the drive, silent in the waiting room, answering the doctor’s questions in a quiet, unsure voice, and then silent again on the drive home. He’d placed a cautious hand on your knee, squeezing it in reassurance, meaning to draw it away but you’d placed your hand on top of it, looping your fingers through his.

He pulls into the parking lot, gives your hand one last squeeze and hops out, dashing around so he can help you out the vehicle. Leon can read you like a book, he knows you’re holding it together until you get inside – you know you are too.

The elevator is mercifully sat on the ground floor when the two of you enter the lobby and Leon keeps you close as you ride up to the 12th floor and the safety of the apartment.

“Can we sit?”

“Of course, sweetheart. Whatever you want.” He sits down on the sofa first and you drop yourself down onto his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck. It’s only a second before you burrow your head under his chin and, with a heaving breath, finally let out a proper sob - releasing everything you’ve held in for the last few hours. You feel stupid, annoyed, frightened, sore, relieved – too many emotions to keep track of.

He wraps his arms around you in turn, pressing a long kiss to your temple, tears burning at his own eyes.

In that moment, it hits Leon in the gut that he doesn’t know what he’d do without you, what he would have done if you hadn’t come home that night. If he’d have to come back to the apartment and not find your shoes kicked off at the door at the end of the long day, the glass with the lipstick smear on the rim near the sink from the water you’d gulp down greedily whilst making dinner.  It’s not like he takes you for granted by any means. He feels lucky every morning when he gets to wake up next to you in bed, and every night when he climbs back in, wrapping his arms around you. He’ll never let the two of you go to sleep or part ways if you’ve had harsh words or a full blown argument as all couples do, not with the risk his line of work brings, the threat that he could be called away in the middle of the night and have to bid goodbye to a turned back.

He rubs his hand gently up and down your back then, tears silently rolling down his face as he takes you all in, relishes your warmth as he cradles you in his lap.

“I’m so sorry.” You hiccup, your sobs eventually ceasing into sniffles, but still you kept your face pressed into his chest, seeking the comfort of his smell – the faint cologne and natural musk that was so uniquely Leon.

“You did nothing wrong, you hear me?” He mumbles into your crown. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“Is the car a complete write-off?”

“Don’t know, don’t care.” He gently lifts your left hand, presses a kiss across your knuckles. “I love you, baby. So much.”

“Love you too.”  

The day after the next – he negotiated a personal day to spend doting on you, breakfast in bed, cuddles on the sofa, takeaway for dinner – Leon goes out and buys a ring.

--

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[lucysarah-c]

Scratches down his back

Summary: Repeat after me, nothing good happens in the common showers unless it’s Levi sandwiching you with the wet wall. Sadly, this is not the case. So, nothing good will happen.  Author's Note: I'm revisiting this piece, my second-ever Levi fanfiction, after Tumblr inexplicably removed it. I've made a few alterations, so if you recall the original, you might notice some differences. I've attempted to recreate it to the best of my memory. Despite initially intending it to be full NSFW, I've reconsidered; it doesn't quite match the tone I'm aiming for. This leans more towards being a Crack fic than an NSFW one. Warning: This story contains suggestive themes but nothing explicit. Word Count: 2.8k

She lotioned up, fingers deftly twisting and knotting the towel around her body to keep it from slipping. Annoying groans echoed in the humid tiled space as she struggled to finish her routine while maintaining modesty and not taking up too much space. 

"Holy Sheena," a voice called from her right, making her turn around hastily. 

"What?" she responded. 

Hange walked closer, seeming less concerned about covering up after coming out of the shower. "Those bruises... tell Shorty he's supposed to fuck you, not try to kill you," they joked. 

She sighed intently and found the well-marked fingertips around her hips, washing away marks around her wrists and the obvious hickeys and bite marks on her inner thighs and lower collarbone to conceal them from daily life. Y/N couldn't help but chuckle. 

"Forgot I had those," she commented, momentarily happy before furrowing her brow again. "I can't find anything here!" 

The former HQ of the scouts lacked a pumping water system, everything (despite her boyfriend's attempts) smelled of mold and humidity. The place was freezing due to the tall ceilings and lack of proper insulation, especially in the middle of the forest where temperatures dropped the lowest. Having to shower there, under shaky candlelight, with buckets of water and a cup to pour it on her body was a nightmare. 

"How could you forget?" Hange seemed less stressed about the shower situation, either because they had fewer steps in their routine or because they were less ashamed. 

"I got used to it, and I usually don't share bathrooms, so no one can see me naked," she explained, searching among her personal hygiene items for the next step in her routine. "I forgot how impractical communal showers were." 

"Ah, yes, because you and your hubby have all the space for yourselves," the brunette joked, making kissing sounds to annoy her further. 

"You're just jealous that my love life is very active," she retorted. 

"Don't point those fingers at me, save those assumptions for Erwin," Hange teased. 

Their banter made her laugh and nod slightly in agreement. "Speaking of which, did he send you here to help with something?" 

"Supervise a bit of the situation for him and fill out reports for the MPs and the military board," Y/N explained casually as she started to put on comfy clothes. 

"So, basically... a conjugal visit so Levi doesn't get blue balls," They quipped. 

Coughing loudly as the foam from the toothpaste made her choke in shock, she spat into the sink before looking up, blushing deeply. "HANGE!" 

The squad leader chuckled, unfazed by the outburst. "Your marks tell me I'm right. You arrived last night, and he jumped on you like a beast in heat." 

She scoffed, not saying a word as her mouth was still full of toothpaste. Frowning slightly at the squad leader and shooting them an askance look, but Hange didn't seem offended, taking the conversation lightheartedly. 

As they finished their dental routines, Y/N was surprised by Hange's efficiency. They clearly had different notions of after-shower routines. 

"Don't be so hard on him," Y/N defended her boyfriend tenderly as she rinsed the toothpaste residue. "He's stressed about the whole Titan boy situation. He needed to unwind." 

Both walked out of the room lethargically, as if neither had anywhere urgent to be. "That's the excuse Shorty gave you? But if Eren is so meek around Levi..." Hange argued back between chuckles. 

The empty corridors of the former HQ made her shiver, quickly losing the warmth of the shower as they strolled. When the name of the new cadet in Levi's squad was dropped, Y/N couldn't help but grimace and bite her bottom lip to hold back a chuckle. 

"What's so funny?" Hange asked. 

"Nothing," she replied. 

"Come on, just tell me!" 

"Fine..." she relented, "but this stays between us." 

"You know I can't promise that," Hange joked, indicating that juicy information wouldn't stay secret for long. "Just spit it out." 

"I met Eren earlier today..." she began. 

"Yeah, and?" Hange prompted. 

Y/N's subtle, almost innocent blush didn't match her sassy chuckles. "He's hella cute." 

Hange's loud gasp echoed in the empty hallways, prompting Y/N to hush them intensely. "You're a taken woman, Y/N!" the brunette argued, albeit without seriousness. "And... He's a kid. Have some decency, you creep." 

"Hey!" Y/N quickly protested. "I never said I was going to sleep with him or something like that! Can't a girl admit when a boy is cute? I mean, did you see his eyes? He's going to be turning heads around here before you know it." 

Hange chuckled, "If he survives..." 

"What a depressing thought, Hange, for Sheena's sake," both continued walking. "Mark my words, he's going to be handsome and will have girls swooning over him." 

"Including you?" Hange teased. 

Y/N shook her head softly, regretting telling the squad leader about it. "I could teach him a thing or two," she joked back, earning a shallow laugh from her companion. 

"Don't let Shorty hear you say that," Hange warned. 

"I'm joking, I'm joking," she assured. 

The heavy stone walls seemed to catch every little molecule of dust between the bricks as she swung the door open to the basement kitchen, probably designed to keep the cold temperature for food storage. Or perhaps it was an old castle, and the staff was secluded to the forgotten and unpleasant part of the architecture. Once inside, Petra and Eren were cutting potatoes while sitting on big, chipped wooden boxes. 

"Hey," Y/N greeted, rubbing her arms over her clothes as the humidity and coldness of the place seemed to penetrate every piece of clothing. "The bathroom is free if you want to take a shower." 

Y/N chuckled softly at her own words. "Well, 'shower' is a bold word for sitting down and throwing buckets of water on yourself," she clarified, jokingly. 

Petra seemed to understand, smiled at Eren, and stood up to clean her hands before leaving. They were taking turns for showers, mostly because the former HQ lacked a water pumping system, so they had to fetch water early in the day. For showers, the water had to be warmed up by the stove and then carried to one of the rooms they had chosen as a bathroom. Neither room was ideal because of the wooden floors, but they made do. 

She noticed the big, almost innocent eyes of the cadet looking up at her, both seemingly waiting for the other to make the next move. Eren continued with his task silently until she cleared her throat. 

"So... have you taken a shower yet, Eren?" 

"No, ma'am," Eren replied stiffly, making her scoff. 

"You can call me Y/N," she said, taking a spot next to him on the box. "Here, let me help you, or we'll be having potatoes for dinner the day after tomorrow." 

Her hands began to peel the potatoes with expertise. "You're good at this," he commented, looking down at his own pile and noticing a good part of the peel had taken the potato with it. 

She chuckled, "Ugh, you know how many potatoes I peeled before I was promoted," she joked. "You're showering after dinner? Make sure to rinse the water out of your hair if you're going straight to bed; you might catch a cold otherwise." 

Eren seemed surprised by the comment, or perhaps by the interaction overall. "Yes, ma'am," he replied with less self-assurance. "Captain Levi said the rest should go ahead, and then we'll go... I feel bad that he had to wait to take his turn because of me." 

"You're showering with Levi?" she asked, entertained, cutting off a bit of the self-hate speech that the cadet was about to embark on. "You're not planning on stealing my man, are you?" 

Oh, how quickly the blood rushed to his cheeks. It was priceless. "N-NO! I-I, no. I'll n-never," the poor boy began to stutter. She playfully patted his back while having a blast. 

"Relax, Eren. I'm messing with you," she said between chuckles. "It's just a silly shower, sweetie. Levi goes to bed very late, so showering last doesn't affect him." 

"But Oluo said–" 

"Ohhh, please," she interrupted him again, rolling her eyes as she returned to her task of peeling potatoes. Momentarily pointing at him with the knife, as if to emphasize her point, she continued, "Do not listen to him. Oluo is like one of those very tiny little dogs. They bark and bark and may even bite more than a regular-sized dog, but they actually hold no power." 

It was time for the cadet to have a short chuckle at her comparison. "Mr. Oluo isn't going to like that." 

"Well, I'm higher in command than him so." 

There was a brief calm silence as both of them continued to prepare dinner. "You're too nice to me, Squad Leader," Eren murmured, slightly ashamed. "The rest of Captain Levi's squad is nice too, but I can feel their fear..." 

Y/N couldn't help but find it endearing, the little pout on his face. "Oh sweetie, I'm the one who brings the first paperwork of the day to Erwin, and sometimes I even have to wake him up. There's nothing you could do that could scare me after that," she said while reaching forward to pinch his right cheek while wrinkling her nose. "You're a cutie." 

The side smile mixed with a not subtle blush that extended to his ears and the subtle shame in his eyes. Everything in his attitude screamed 'I'm not a girl or a kid, don't call me that.' 

But that was exactly what he was in her eyes: a kid. 

Clicking his tongue, cursing under his breath, he moved the shaking candle around, trying to find a good lighting spot against the old mirror while passing the razor close to his skin. The flame shook under the little insulation of the old rooms, and the humidity of the showers didn’t help as it rained little drops of condensation too close to it. Unlike Eren, who had finished showering and looked around ashamed, unsure how to even begin to dress up for bed without looking awkward (he could start by not standing still in the middle of the room), Levi seemed rather relaxed. Apparently, his only problem was shaving under that type of light. 

The Captain looked over his shoulder, found the cadet looking as if he wished the earth could swallow him. “Come on, brat. We don’t have all night. Get dressed so I can take you to the basement,” Levi spoke up. “Don't be so tense. I cleaned the place myself.” 

‘The cleanliness is not my problem,’ Eren thought to himself as he tried to carry on. But keeping the towel around his hips while trying to put clothes on that stuck to his humid body, nothing was going according to plan. 

“I bet you shared showers in worse conditions at the training camps,” Levi kept his usual stoic face as he cleaned the residues of shaving cream from his face and carried on unaffected by the situation. 

But Eren couldn’t unglue his eyes as soon as he noticed them. Yes, them. The red striking scratches down the back of his superior. Well-marked, five on each side decorating his shoulder blades. Eren swore he was trying not to pay them any mind, trying to remember to breathe or even to stop the saliva as his mouth hung open looking at them. 

Levi mentioning the shared showers at the training camps didn't help. Because all he could hear repeating endlessly in his mind were the stupid conversations Reiner and Jean would have about the hypothetical chicks they were planning to lay with. How they throw their heads back as they moan your name. Their nails sinking in your back as you pounded into them. 

‘Think of something else, Eren. Think of something else,’ 

“S-sorry,” he stuttered out a reply as the object he was picking up slipped from his clumsy hands, gathering his superior's attention, who was now staring at him as he kneeled to pick it up with his face as red as a tomato and nervous eyes. 

Levi raised a silent eyebrow for a split second before slightly shaking his head, not giving it much thought. ‘Teenagers,’ he thought to himself while sighing. 

Eren wished he could stop his own mind because it wasn’t just Reiner’s voice playing in his head but the created mental images of what he thought, in his inexperience, it looked like: his superior—no—his hero, fucking the sweet, caring woman who had just been peeling potatoes with him. Her hands that pinching his cheeks, sinking its nails into his squad leader’s back while moaning his name. Wrinkling his eyes closed, trying to erase the mental images as he could feel the blood pumping. ‘You’re not planning on stealing my man, are you?’ her voice echoing in the walls of his head, pumped lips and sultry eyes as she looked back at him playfully. 

‘Think of something else!’ 

“What could you probably be thinking of?” Levi’s voice echoed as his worst nightmare. Had he said that out loud? This time Levi had turned around to face him, left hand resting on the sink as he had his trousers on but hanging loosely on his hips as he was halfway getting dressed. He didn’t seem friendly, and his dead glance demanded an explanation. 

“Ehm- I,” Eren began to stutter, trying to find a logical explanation. His mind was racing miles per hour, how to explain. He was peeling potatoes, she made a joke, now he knows they are dating, Levi had his back scratched by her. She, her nails, her joke, her pretty lips— 

“Y-Y/N,” 

Ah- He shouldn’t have said that, but it was the first word that came to his mind. 

“What?” Levi’s voice seemed to source from hell itself. 

Heavy steps again on the floor, as he rushed back to his room. “Oi, where are you going so angry, shorty?” Hange rested against the wood frame while drinking a cup of tea. They had heavy under-eye circles and despite the dose of caffeine from their drinks, they seemed very lethargic. 

“Tch, to talk to my girlfriend about not messing around with my subordinates,” Levi had a heavy frown on his face as his hair still leaked little drops of water. “I just had the most uncomfortable conversation with Eren,” Levi said between clenched teeth, barely modulating. 

Hange chuckled while raising an eyebrow, blinking a couple of times. “Y/N told you she thinks Eren is a cutie? I’m surprised...” 

Levi, who had never stopped facing down the hall to his room, not even when he began his conversation with the other squad leader, slowly turned around to face the brunette as he heard that with a clearly confused face that turned into a frown as the information sank in. “What?” he spat out. 

Hange began to chuckle as they feared that they had misunderstood, “Ha ha... didn’t you say you had an uncomfortable conversation about Eren?” 

“Clean up your filthy ears or go to sleep already, four eyes,” the captain said calmly before clarifying, “I said a fucking uncomfortable conversation WITH Eren.” 

“Now, tell me what the hell you meant by that and make it quick because I already stood in a leaky bathroom for easily half an hour hearing Eren stutter apologize after he said my girlfriend’s name with a fucking hard on.” 

Observing out of the window as she admired how calm the deep forest was at the former HQ. It was rather cold, but she had only her nightgown on, a sheer translucent piece of cloth. The door of the room swung open, revealing an extremely angry Levi. He shut his door close and walked up to her. 

“What's gotten into you?” She questioned, confused. But before she could even reply, he was grabbing her face, pressing her cheeks together, and slightly raising her face to have it inches away from his. 

“You’ve forgotten your manners. I’ve been too soft with you,” Levi groaned, “First of all, you don’t go around playing cheeky with my subordinates.” 

She could feel the tug from his grip, pressing her closer as her hands touched his arm. Breathing heavily, humming a moan at his words. “Second, you truly think you could have a brat like him when I can already tell you’re dropping with the idea of me teaching you your place again?” 

“Lev-” 

“Your next words should be ��Yes, sir’ if you know what's good for you,” he let go of her face just to slap her ass, “Go to bed and ass up, baby girl.” 

She moved excitedly in the direction he indicated but turned around as she bit her bottom lip, watching as he grabbed a belt from his uniform, “and that?” she asked curiously. 

“To make sure I’m the only one who leaves marks behind.” 

Link to my masterlist and my other works if you feel like checking them out.

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[stuffeddeer]

okay but..... pathetic yearning beast!stalkerzai... he's so quiet abt his obsession with u making up any excuse to have u around for subordinate purposes and when ur not around him he makes sure he can still keep tabs on u AHHH hes so sad and so smitten

"pathetic" i dont need to hear any more. im on board.

The continuous knocking on your apartment door leaves you anxious, quickly pulling on a comfy sweatshirt before answering the door. A breeze flies into the room, causing you to shiver, before you make eye contact with,

"Why aren't you at work today?" Dazai crosses his arms, an angry expression on his face. Though, the pout he wears causes it to be less intimidating than he'd normally be.

You glance into your apartment briefly, still feeling chilly while exposed to the outside air. "Um... I don't work?"

"You always work."

"Right. Which is why I have today off." Awkwardly, you itch your arm. "Am I… needed, Boss?"

Dazai sighs before walking into your apartment (with no invitation) and closes your own door behind him. "You're freezing."

"I'm slightly chilled," you shrug, brushing off the notion. Any other subordinate wouldn't dare correct the boss of the Port Mafia, but he'd always been more lenient with you - supposedly because you ‘aren’t as dumb’ as the rest. "But that's what the hoodie is for."

Without another word, Dazai plops down onto your couch, making a show of looking around your apartment. It’s tiny - the whole thing barely the size of his office at HQ — and Dazai wonders if you’d rather move in with him. For more space, of course. And he guesses you’d be saving on rent that way, too.

“How do you know where I live?” You ask curiously. Sure, it’s probably somewhere in your files, but your boss never seemed like the type to care.

Shrugging, he murmurs, “It’s my job.”

You want to make this visit quick, but kicking out your boss didn’t seem like a smart idea. “Are you thirsty? Would you like a cup of tea?..”

Yes, Dazai wants to try your tea. Just because you’re his subordinate, and he needs to make sure it’s up to par. What if he needs you to serve tea to some associates in the future? “I’d love one.”

Biting back a sigh, you fill your kettle before placing it on the stove, watching as your old gas stove flickers on. Silence hangs between you two - you had no intention of carrying the conversation when he just barged in uninvited.

Dazai seems to have a similar idea, sitting laxly on your couch and waiting for his tea. You pour one cup, uninterested in making one yourself, before placing it on the coffee table in front of him. “Sugar? Milk?”

“This is fine, thanks.” He takes a sip. Heavenly, he’s sure. Well, all tea tastes the same, but something about it coming from your hands… delectable. It’s as though he can taste the love you must pour into every cup.

Mouth shut, you take a seat on the chair across from him. “May I ask, sir, why are you here? Am I needed?” The question is posed once again as you hope for a quick resolution. Kicking out your boss is wrong, but hopefully he’ll read between the lines and show himself out - the same way he showed himself in.

A long sip of tea permeates the otherwise silent room. He’s doing this on purpose, you’re sure of it.

“…I was worried,” he mumbles into the mug, sound muffled and quiet.

“Sorry?”

“You should be,” he replies, uninterested in repeating himself. “I needed you today, only to find out you vanished into thin air.”

“I didn’t run, if that’s what you’re implying,” your eyes narrow. You would not be mistaken for a traitor.

“No, no,” he grins. You were at your most entertaining when you became combative. Dazai much prefers you like this rather than subservient. “You took today off.”

Correcting the boss of the Port Mafia was risky, but, “You gave me today off. A month ago, after that mission, you told me to pick a day to relax.”

That’s… true. It was a strenuous mission, and while Dazai made sure to keep you out of the fray, he thought a gift like that would make you feel touched and indebted to him. Annoyingly, he’d nearly forgotten, since Dazai had planned on reneging at the last minute to trap you with him. For your work ethtic, of course.

A pout graces his lips, unhappy at your disappearance from his side. And that he had no rebuttal to it. “Well, I still need you. I made dinner reservations for two accidentally, and the restaurant is rather strict. You need to come with. The meal will be comped, of course."

“Sir, I don’t— “

“Don’t want your job?” His eyes narrow, pout vanishing immediately. You had to go along with it. “I’m sure you don’t mean that, over something as silly as a nice dinner.”

“...Of course, sir.” You tug on the strings of your hoodie, wanting to emphasize that you aren't exactly dressed for something 'nice.' "What time am I expected?"

Dazai has to stop himself from swooning. How adorable. Well, it’s not you that’s adorable, of course. It’s the juxtaposition of such n oversized hoodie on you that he finds adorable, not you yourself. Definitely. “We can leave now, actually. Get changed, please. I wouldn't say there's a dress code, but it's not a 'hoodie' establishment."

Rather than lashing out at him for the snide comment, you choose to bite your tongue and head into your bedroom.

Exhausted was too light a word to describe how you felt. Donned in a 'nice' outfit that was rather uncomfortable, you stood outside in the cold air and harsh breeze as Dazai suggested to the host to let him in. This bastard didn't have reservations for one, much less two.

After the manager is called over and recognizes Dazai, you're quickly ushered in beside him. Dazai pulls out a seat at a secluded table in the back, gesturing for you to sit. "Come."

Without a second thought, you sit in the very seat he'd pulled out, stifling a yawn as he pushes you in. You’re Dazai's best employee - he must keep you close at all times. Which is why he takes advantage of your position as his subordinate to orders you waste your day off in a fancy restaurant across from him. If you want time off of work, you’ll have to spend it with him - just so he can keep an eye on you, of course.

[moondirti]

animalic (4)

← chapter three // series masterlist

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader rating: mature word count: 2.5k summary: things don't go according to plan warnings: enemies to lovers, light bondage, sexual tension, arousal, choking, canon-typical violence, dub-con elements, paralysis, suicidal ideation, self-hatred, angst, miguel o'hara is not nice, no use of y/n notes: y'all. i promise we are getting somewhere. i promise. lmk what you think tho cuz i thrive off comments

“Lyla?”

While you’re – regrettably – unable to make good on your promise to phase through the floor, you catch yourself hoping it splits to swallow you whole instead. It certainly would be a better alternative to the purgatory you currently face. 

“Lyla? Come in, Lyla.” 

Feeble rays of light filter in through the weathered windows, their reach slowly growing as night surrenders to the wakings of dawn. Variegated motes bob lazily, suspended upon the streams of sun, quivering back and forth between a range of countless colours. Paralysed and splayed atop the frigid, hard ground of the empty store-lot, you try counting them all for lack of anything else to do. Pink, green, orange, gold. You wonder what force chooses the order, whether it’s sequenced to fit some plan of high design. 

“¡Ay, coño–”

Slowly, you let yourself scrutinise other things, too. The scent of neglect that permeates the stale air, particularly pungent around the entryway. You trace the yellow-brown mass that runs along the door’s hinge edge, and attribute the vaguely muddy smell to rot. Then, it’s the glint of shattered glass, winking at you from lost corner’s of the room. They look narrow, far too inconvenient to clean out with a standard broom. You revel in the understanding that whoever had been in charge of scouring the wreckage appears to share your habit of quick quitting.

It’s only when your vision begins to water do you divert your attention to the situation at hand. Last you needed to blink, it took half a minute for the command to register, and even longer for the motor neurons in your eyelids to act. By the time you eventually got them closed, you’d already started contemplating whether his venom would be the death of you. 

(Lame end to a lame life.)

It didn’t take a genius to figure out, though. You know that, if he wanted to, he could’ve kept imbuing you with the substance until your body was no longer able to perform the basic mechanisms necessary to sustain life. He could have kept his fangs lodged deep into your neck – encroached upon your stuttering veins, bathing in the ichor that flowed – until he felt you go limp, concentrated with his poison. It would have been a denouement to his problems – right there, easy, sandwiched between him and the wall – but it wasn’t. Because he didn’t. 

Just like he didn’t let you plummet to your death that day at the quarry, or strangle you while you were unconscious back at HQ. 

So, no. It doesn’t take a genius to acknowledge that Miguel O’Hara doesn’t want you dead. As he fiddles with his malfunctioning watch, you endeavour to come up with a divisive list as to why that is. 

One: you’ve charmed him. The notion is almost funny enough to elicit a snort, given that you weren’t cast in an immovable anathema.

Two: he’s a good guy. Somehow, this option seems less viable to you than the first. 

You find your third prospect slinging from the threads of a fraying memory. 

You’d been a student, before – attending college at a reputable institute close to home. It’s easy to forget what it was like most nights: cramped in that two hundred square foot dorm, borderline losing it as you tried to validate your claims on matter-antimatter rockets and their potential contribution to interstellar travel. There were concerns of total annihilation, and sourcing, and an array of other limitations – that which you’d dedicated your academic career to drawing up proposals for. It’s laughable now; the stress and theories blurring together to form a vague picture of your long-lost ambition. 

You have a hard time conjuring what exact future you were so hopeful for, but the lamp by your roommate’s bed remains clear in your mind’s eye. Warm-white, comforting. For as long as you were awake, tapping away at a never-ending thesis, she’d work through the latest volume of her beloved murder mystery anthology. 

It was the night before your start at an internship with Alchemax that the series came to a close. Her aggravated screams still ring fresh behind the clouded pane of time. You had thrown your pillow at her in a belligerent plea.

(You wanna elaborate?

The suspect behind every case was shot!

So? Isn’t that a good thing?

No, dumbass. It means the detectives fucking lost! They’ll never be able to prove how right they were.)

Admittedly, you know very little about Miguel, but you have an idea of what matters most to him. It’s entirely possible, then, that he refuses to kill you for what your death would do to negate his efforts thus far. 

“Oye,” 

Your mental traipse is reeled in when the devil himself snaps at you. Steadily, your pupils roll up to look at him. 

“I need your day pass.” 

You continue to stare. His jaw clenches. 

“Because of your little headbutt outside, my watch is busted. My only hope of fixing it is by using the parts of your day pass.” 

Is he asking? Does he expect you to respond? 

You can’t fool yourself into believing he’s that ignorant. 

But Miguel stays on standby, scanning your lax form. He takes in the webs that wrap around your waist, branching out to your thighs and shoulders, restraining your arms behind your back. When his eyes meet yours again, the reluctant question you see glaze over them pushes the recognition to the forefront of your mind. 

He is asking. 

Or, notifying – making sure you’re aware of what he’s about to do. 

God, you wish you could speak. You’ve never come up with so much to say without promptly blurting it out before. Irritation and amusement rip at one another within you, locked in a brutal dogfight fated to have no real winner. How hypocritical of him to pick and choose when your treatment takes priority over his mission; you’re littered in marks that all point to his prior negligence of such subtle humanity. Four stabs above your wrist, a pounding migraine at your temple. If it weren’t for your paralysed stomach, you’re certain you would have regurgitated your innards as consequence to the concussion he’s given you.  

But, oh. 

How funny would it be if you agreed. To let him discover the harrowing truth for himself. 

Deliberately, you muster an affirming blink.

Miguel's weariness escapes him in a heavy sigh, the weight of it etched upon his expression. Thick brows furrow, evidence to his age creasing between them, before he sinks down with a purposeful grace and carefully flips you over. Despite the resentment that festers in your gut, you can’t help but hiss a mental sigh of relief at the service it does to your elbows, which had begun throbbing in response to the pressure that the hardwood floor exerted.

From that point onward, it becomes a guessing game of sorts; you can’t see him, nor are you able to tilt your head and confirm your assumptions as to what he’s doing. Deprived of your most reliable sense, the others strain to fill the gaps in your knowledge, drawing upon every available cue; the sound of his miniscule grunts, the warmth of his skin – that which penetrates through his gloves. You’re alarmed into attempted action when the characteristic rip of his claws equipping pierces the strained air – your body powerless in addressing the adrenaline it secretes – until the spider-man touches his forefinger to your palm.

“Relax.” He all but commands. “I’m just cutting the webs off.” 

You’ve no reason to trust him, of course, but you can’t exactly pitch a complaint right now. 

(Perhaps it’s in your best interests to ignore how easy he’d been able to read you.)

A few moments of jostling ensue, before he withdraws with a curse. Your arms remain ensnared in the tight restraints, the ache that smarts your skin all too real for the continued predicament to be illusory. An assortment of jokes occur to you. 

Can’t get it up? 

In your peripheral, you catch him weighing his options. The pause is laden with a sticky indecision – this change in placement, you realise, exacerbates the already difficult task of breathing for you. 

While you fixate on that fact, he seems to come to a conclusion. With one swift manoeuvre, he positions himself astride your thighs, straddling the deadened extremities, and reaches forward to push your wrists apart. You’re quick to catch on to his intention, how the arrangement gives him better leverage, yet–

His groyne presses into the swell of your ass, worsening with every bid to sever the webbing. It’s impossible not to notice, especially not when the seam of your jeans start to shift in tandem, smoothing over your clothed core.  It’s not exactly ecstasy, far from it — no rainbow blooms, tingling gold from your toes to your nose – but it’s been ages since you were last roused like this. Enough for it to feel brand new, a wrapped curse in a prim little bow, eager for all that you shouldn’t be. 

And… Christ– 

And then he unfastens the lines around your arms, and runs his hands up your skin. It’s not gentle, nor is it brutish, but you can feel his desperation escalating. His touches grow progressively antagonistic, kneading your palms up to your shoulders, patting down to the shallow pockets of your pants. You’re searched like you hold the key to his success – you suppose that, in some oddly comical way, you do. And it should be upsetting, blasphemous. 

But you’re no sacred thing. You’d laid down that possibility a long time ago. 

No. You’re foul, questionable at your best, and erupt into goosebumps over the ruthless grip of a man who hates your very soul. You’re a deeply detestable spirit, truly, but a detestable spirit who has just managed to get one up on Miguel O’Hara. 

He throws you back around, wrapping his hands around your throat. His snarl is primal, maturated in acrid anger. 

“Where is it?” 

You’re sure that, in some alternate reality, your face is stretched in a shit-eating grin. 

“Where’s the fucking day pass?” 

Your satisfaction is short-lived. 

You’ve never been one to notably detest humiliation. It’s productive – healthy, even – in smaller doses; a fitting consequence for those who you deem deserve it. Yet, as you find yourself unceremoniously hoisted over Miguel’s shoulder, forced into a meandering parade through the streets of New York, you breach into uncharted territory – a threshold where your tolerance encounters its breaking point. 

He makes no effort to soften his strides, unmoved by the idea of providing even a shred of respite for your susceptible self. If anything, it feels as though he deliberately seeks out the harshest terrain, silently chastising your earlier defiance in the most passive aggressive manner known to man. He’d reinforced your constraints before marching out on this fruitless venture, and now you bobble uselessly, backside pointed upward, anchored solely by the meaty arm around your knees. 

At least you’ve regained control of your mouth. 

“D’stroyed it. Gone. Dearly d’parted–” 

“If you’re going to run that little mouth, then make it helpful.” 

“M’bein’ helpfoo,” you start, straining your weakened vocal cords in an effort to mock him. The grip of paralysis may have slackened its hold, but neurotransmission remains at an all time, sluggish low. In all actuality, it astounds you that he can even begin to decipher your words from the tangled murmurs they become. 

“You had it on at the convenience, and a little bit afterward. You can’t expect me to believe that you dealt with it while running for your life.”

Running for your life. Sure. 

Displeasure sparks at the confidence he imbues in his assumption.

“Escoos m– hnngh–” A sudden jump of stress robs you of breath, your stomach plummeting alongside the rapidly distancing ground. As Miguel propels himself above the city skyline, effortlessly evading the crowded streets via a web he’d grappled to an adjacent building, you’re confronted with a stark reality – that this is the very first time you have ever, and likely will ever, experience what it’s like to swing. 

It’s exhilarating and nauseating all at once, gravity relinquishing its command as you transcend the confines of the physical, soaring through some reality where law loses significance. If it had been you, your arms and skill and jurisdiction, you’d never come down. But maybe that’s why it isn’t; maybe your life was meant to lead up to this, and only ever this. 

(Not antimatter technologies or heroic conquest. Yeah, this feels more fitting.) 

Your skin prickles. You phase through the sturdy frame that’s held you up so far, and plummet from its grasp.

Slicing through the boundless sky, you’re accompanied by a profound tranquillity. It isn’t absolute – fear still gnaws at your core, its presence undeniable. But, amidst the churning horror, your instincts are fainter than they ought to be. They whisper in a subdued tone, overshadowed by conflicting conceptions. One, being the inference you’d drawn earlier about how – whether you like it or not – Miguel would not let you die. 

Another, quieter suspicion hints toward the full reality of your… relief.

Though, of course, you’re right about the former. Tree-trunk biceps wrap around your waist, pulling you close as he slingshots off to a nearby rooftop. You flop into him, a ragdoll to the overwhelming force of his agitation, and squeeze your eyes shut at the hints of patchouli permeating from under his mask. 

You don’t have to face the gospel just yet.

“¿Qué mierda? Eh?” He shouts, propping you up against a ledge. “What the fuck was that?” 

You don’t have an answer for him. Your heart lurches, catching up to the urgency at hand, striking on the hollow bars of your ribcage to some reckless tune. It’s only amplified by the torrent of blood distending through your system, throbbing at your temple, rushing by your ears. 

What the fuck, indeed. 

He damns you, it seems, with a fervour that breaches the heavens, as if willing God Himself to commit his plea to eternal memory. Or not; truthfully, you can’t tell. With the roar of your own snowballing thrill, it becomes impossible to discern the sequence of interrogations that explode from him. The world around you fades to the background, your preoccupancy consumed by the disquietude it leaves in its wake. 

Your sense is only validated a minute later when, two blocks away, an ear-piercing shriek ruptures your dissociation. 

Miguel stiffens, slowly turning to face its source.

𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘈𝘙𝘈𝘊𝘏𝘕𝘖-𝘏𝘜𝘔𝘈𝘕𝘖𝘐𝘋 𝘗𝘖𝘓𝘠-𝘔𝘜𝘓𝘛𝘐𝘝𝘌𝘙𝘚𝘌 𝘋𝘈𝘛𝘈𝘉𝘈𝘚𝘌:

Earth-15 – analysed, marked as closed. 

Spider-totem – The Spider: soon after being bit by his radioactive spider, convicted felon Peter Parker merged with Earth-15’s variation of the carnage Symbiote.

Notes – do not engage, at any cost. 

chapter five →

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[aidemint]

To Break A Habit | Routine Doesn’t Get You Kisses Like These

Summary: You kinda-actually find out he wasn’t joking about the spider stuff. Okay. But you’re totally cool about it. Totally.

Word Count: 5.1k

Pairing: Hobie Brown/GN!Reader

Notes: 5 minutes of screentime and i’ve already wrote more about this guy in a week than i usually write about anything in three months jesus christ

Masterpost | AO3 |  Part 1 | Part 3

“40081’s got this hoodoo shit goin’ on.” Hobie sighs as he makes his way down the main hall of Spider-HQ, recounting his mission discoveries from days prior. “Some sort of bad luck spell that’s making the world lose its plot.”

Gwen paces beside him, listening intently. “Sinister Six behind it?” she asks with a frown. “Or do you think it’s something else?”

“Not certain,” Hobie responds with a shrug. “But I’m close to catching the anomaly. Things should reset once it’s out of the fabric.”

“Hope it gets resolved soon.” Gwen sucks in a breath from between her teeth. “Miguel’s not looking too happy these days.”

Oddly enough, the mission so far had been almost deceptively easy—three days into the operation Hobie had already located and shut down a multitude of energy pockets emanating from certain parts of the city. A variant of Mysterio or Osborn was bound to show up soon, as the sites were likely siphoning vitality from the dimension. Now he just needed to gather intel about the effects of the magic while playing the waiting game. Luckily for him, he has a direct source.

“Relax Gwendy, it’ll be fine. I even got in touch with one of the locals for—” Hobie starts assuredly, turning to address his drummer, but pauses and swivels around when she’s noticeably no longer keeping up with his stride.

“You what?” Gwen stands frozen in the middle of the walkway, eyes blown as large as dinner plates with her mouth slightly ajar. She readjusts herself with a shake of her head, though her hands and shoulders remain raised and stiff. “Hobie, please tell me you’re not getting to know a civilian. ”

“Then I won’t tell you that I’m ‘getting to know’ a civilian.” A roll of his shoulder and he’s back walking, half-lidded eyes peering at Gwen when she inevitably joins again, bobbing and weaving through a downcurrent flow of Peter Parkers. “And I won’t tell you that it’s strictly for information about the mission.” A coy smile tugs the edges of Hobie’s lips upward. “Probably.”

Gwen looks just about ready to explode at the last quip. “You just told me— Oh my God, you know that, out of everything, is against protocol. Very against protocol,” she hisses, her voice lowering as her lip curls and she leans further into the privacy of only each others’ company. “What will you do when Miguel finds out?”

“You gotta live freely past the propaganda, Gwendy,” Hobie replies nonchalantly, patting a palm on her shoulder as a point of reassurance. “Just think about it.”

The best Gwen can offer him is a wary glance and a moment of hesitation, but he takes it with a grin anyhow. He’s certain she’ll eventually come around—the extent of their friendship isn’t something so miniscule that a few words of indoctrination would ever be enough to turn her.

It’s a nice notion to have, but he unfortunately doesn’t get much time to dwell on it—suddenly, his watch buzzes with an alert.

Hobie checks the device. “Someone’s ringing me, gotta bounce.” A few taps of an orange screen and a twist of a dial, then a portal opens up just shy of his left arm. “Been fun, Gwendy. Don’t blame me if I come back late.”

No matter how hard she rolls her eyes, Gwen can’t help but give into the smile that creeps onto her lips. “Stay safe, loser,” she responds, bumping her fist against his.

“Safe is practically my middle name.” With that, Hobie ducks into the gateway, and disappears.

How the fuck do you accuse someone of having spider powers without sounding like you’ve gone insane? Since morning you’ve been stuck in a cycle of decision-making for a seemingly hopeless situation. You thought the hard part was over after seeing the guy in the costume swing away on white silly string, but the mostly sleepless night and brainstorming the resolution to be had was another beast altogether. What doesn’t help much either is the fact your favorite pair of jeans are now stained to shit because an idiot thought it would be a good idea to trickshot a half-full Starbucks drink into a trashcan you were standing right next to.

Oh, New York, how it surprises you each day. You swear you’ve never had bad luck like this in your life—and now you’re twenty minutes late, punching in your timecard and hurrying to tie on an apron.

Even through your shift the anxiety doesn’t go away, despite how you try to ignore it. Nervous energy bleeds into your work, shaking hands spilling and dropping drinks; your preoccupied mind is nowhere near as focused as you need to be for the rush—you remake a drink three times in a row before being on the receiving end of a tired lecture from an angry customer.

“Something on your mind?” one of your coworkers ends up asking after most of the crowd has dissipated. “Or just tired?”

You’re on the verge of bursting into tears actually, but you manage to stifle it with a deep breath in. “A lot of both,” you mumble in response. You can’t tell her about Hobie, and it’d be too winding to describe the entirety of everything. She’s pretty good at giving looks of pity and she’s already shot you one following the complaining customer. Honestly another one is the last thing you want to deal with right now. “Maybe I should’ve just skipped work today.”

“Don’t worry, we all have bad days,” she offers with a consoling pat on the arm. “How about you just calm down for a bit and take your break? I’ll make you your favorite drink and get a bowl started for you.”

The gesture does ease your nerves, even if only by a little. You sigh, shoulders slumping, and give your coworker a grateful smile. Parting ways then, she returns to her station to honor her word and you make your way to the back to punch in the start of your break.

Exhaustion starts to seep in when you catch yourself staring blankly at the time card machine, watching the hands of the clock tick away second by second. There hasn’t been significant progress in terms of settling the whole “Hobie Brown is a superhero” dilemma, you realize, just a lot of pain and aching on your part. Maybe it’s time to put the matter to rest just for a brief half an hour—you’ll pick it up later. There isn’t even a guarantee Hobie will show up to the shop anyhow.

Yeah, you have time.

The chunk sound of the punch machine brings you back to your senses and you put away your slip before making your way back to the front of the house.

“Drink’s ready and bowl’s on the way. You can enjoy that while you wait,” your coworker chirps, sliding a cup to you when you emerge from the back. You’re just about to voice your thanks before she cuts in again, gesturing to a spot just beyond the counter. “Oh, and someone asked for you. He’s right over there.”

Your eye is already twitching before you even look. But you suppose you hate yourself and the world at this point, because you slowly turn to where her hand points regardless and find the one man you just made a pact with yourself to not think about.

Hobie greets you by name and gives you a friendly wave. Out of courtesy, you force yourself to return in, lips pressed together in a tight smile with the short extension of your hand.

“Heard it was your break,” he says, approaching the glass panel between the two of you. “Mind if I intrude?”

Yes! you scream internally. Yes I do mind very much!

“No, it’s alright,” you end up saying to him, staving off a growing impulse to whack yourself upside the head.

“Sick,” is all Hobie replies with before he retreats to a nearby table. “I’ll be waiting here—don’t rush yourself.”

It’s right about now that you’re wishing he wasn’t so nice and you didn’t like him so much so that this process of confrontation would go about smoother. Your gaze lingers on him and you bite in the inside of your cheek as you think about the validity of what you witnessed yesterday.

The option to not tell him and maintain your chances of still potentially becoming friends like normal exists. Dodging the awry reputation that comes with the manic conspiracy theorist persona is always good. You’ll get over it one day, right? Leave the suspicions behind and assume that the image was just a hallucination brought about by stress; convince yourself that Hobie Brown is just your average British punk-rocker.

But you can’t fight the feeling in your gut, how it burns, and suddenly you’re leaning over the counter, over the glass.

This is a bad idea. “Hobie,” you call in his direction.

He looks up. “Yeah?”

Shit, this is a bad idea. “I have something to tell you.”

“Wah’gawn?”

“It’s… I think it’s a matter best told in just our own company.” You look around apprehensively, a slight crease in your brow. “Mind going somewhere more private?”

Trying your best to ignore the suggestive look your coworker shoots at you from your peripheral, you beckon Hobie to come into the back. Walking through the kitchen, you usher him into the storage pantry and shut the door behind you when you join him.

“I’m guessing we’re not just here to kotch?” Hobie teases with the sideways tilt of his head.

“Unfortunately.” Your gaze lowers to the ground at the admission, fingers finding one another and squeezing. “Been thinking about something for a while.”

Hobie lets the change in the air stew until it thickens before responding. “Ready when you are.” His voice is softer, malleable, lost of all its previous playfulness and replaced with a certain kind of sincerity.

The slightest incline of your chin brings your stare back to him. You wish it served the simple purpose of just admiring the slopes and angles of his face, but your lips part and your curled hand trembles, and it all reminds you of the gnawing insecurity.

“I need you to tell me the truth.” You say it slowly, sincerely, keeping your voice as steady as you can despite the way your heart rate thunders. “Please.”

In your supplication, you aren’t certain how to appraise the extent of your desperation, but Hobie’s gaze does not leave yours. He nods wordlessly, a glint of something in his eye and it looks a lot like deference.

You take it as permission to continue. “When you brought up Parker”—you swallow thickly—“you were talking about something real, weren’t you?”

A beat of silence. There isn’t any external reaction from Hobie, standing as still as he had the moment he stopped in front of you, face lax and hands tucked away in his pockets.

“Ain’t got a Scooby-Doo what you’re talking about,” he says plainly, unfaltering in every word. Even then he doesn’t move, fortress-like in his disposition.

Perhaps he truly doesn’t know what you mean, you think. The chance is present, albeit slim, though present nonetheless—and how tightly you clutch this sliver of hope. But for a moment, in your hesitancy and under Hobie’s untelling stare, doubt creeps in—your palms grow clammy against the material of your pants, sweat assisting the glide of your fingers against one another. Your eyes search those of the man in front of you, wishing his look could change so you could find the courage to ground yourself.

What if you’re wrong? What if it’s all a fallacy, some trick of the light? New York is no stranger to oddities but even this seems too extreme. Coincidental talk of Spider-People leading to an impossible accusation. Fucking Spider-People don’t—shouldn’t—exist. The idea grows more absurd the longer you question it. Peter Parker got the short end of the stick, if there was even a long end in the first place, so what the hell are you doing?

But what if you’re right?

A breath rattles through you. “Hobie.” With a new waver in your voice and a tremble to your hands, you stand unsure of how your conviction bleeds through what you say but you try anyhow. “I know you’re gonna think I’m crazy, but I saw a masked man walking on the side of a building yesterday.” The admission comes quickly, riddled with cracks, but you’re entirely too focused on the followup to care. “After the conversation we had about Spider-People, after the whole thing about superheroes, tell me that it wasn’t you up there. Because I saw your— your fucking pins and I’ve never— God, I don’t even know! I’ve never seen something like this.”

Your fists clench, fingers digging crescent-shaped craters into the flesh of your palms. The marks bite, angry red and stinging—perhaps aching even more the absence of Hobie’s response, the seconds you give him to reply.

“Who are you?” Dry—your throat is so dry. Your voice can’t be anything above a whisper with how hoarse the question comes, flaking away with every shallow breath you take.

Silence blankets the both of you then, soundless space a limbo between comfort and unease. Unsure of what to do with it, what to make of the situation you stand in now, you let it hang listlessly, drawing upon an empty room and an even emptier conversation.

It takes a handful of moments for Hobie to even look like he’s processed all that you’ve said. Under your scrutiny, the smallest movement of his eye is the only discernible change to the testament. Whatever goes on inside his head is a complete mystery to you for the few minutes that elapse before he speaks.

Finally, he shifts in his stance. “You want me to just come out with it, yeah?” he asks, not sounding terribly happy, but not as nonplussed as you expected. He sighs when you nod slowly. “Alright. I’ll start from the top, then.”

He tells you his name is still in fact Hobie Brown, and he was bitten by a radioactive spider three years ago. Formerly a runway model, though not a role model, he’s been protecting the streets of his hometown against the PM. When he’s not playing shows, antagonizing fascists, or staging unpermitted political “action-slash-performance art pieces,” he’s out partying with his friends.

“And don’t call me a hero,” he ends with a frown. “Hate the label. Calling yourself a hero makes you a self-mythologizing, narcissistic autocrat.”

When he stops, you have both hands to your temples, pressing down hard. You can deal with his anti-authority spiel just fine—some part of you even agrees with the sentiment—but there is so much to unpack prior to the statement.

“So you— you have actual spider powers? Oh my God?” you sputter, eyes blown wide in an expression of surprise you’re sure looks exaggeratedly dreadful. “What even— that’s— what even are spider powers?”

“Dunno really.” Hobie gives a shrug. “Enhanced hearing, speed, vision, and sticking to walls are the main perks. Also links up to my—”

“Can you shoot webs out of your butt?” you blurt in a sudden horrible realization.

There’s a few seconds of tense silence before Hobie bursts into laughter, arms crossed around his torso to hold himself, shoulders bunched to his ears. The ring of his joy through the air lifts a weight from it and suddenly the atmosphere doesn’t feel as crushing as before.

Witnessing his state, it doesn’t take long for unease to fade away and for you to start softly chuckling with him.

“You’re so jokes,” Hobie cackles, a hand over his eyes as he leans back. A long, shuddering breath tears through him in his attempt to calm down. “But to answer your question, no I can’t shoot webs out of my arse.”

“Thank God,” you breathe, clutching your heart. “Wouldn’t have looked at you the same if you said you could.”

“I don’t think I can look at you the same after you just asked that.”

“Hey, in my defense it was just to get to know you better.”

“I’m sure that’s all it was.” Hobie gives you a pointed look, but is quick to smile after. “Speaking of which, I came in to ask you something as well.”

“Oh?” You blink. The sudden shift in conversation is unprecedented, taking you slightly by surprise, but suspicion is quick to replace your wonderment when you notice a change in Hobie’s features. A squint narrows your eyes. “What are you plotting?”

“Nothing, it’s just I have an excuse now that you know me better.” He pauses briefly, staring at you for a moment. “I wanted to ask if I could know you a little better.”

Your lips purse in confusion at the phrase, forehead pinching. “But you already know me?” you ask, brow raised. “Don’t tell me you forgot everything already.”

“I didn’t,” Hobie reassures gently. “I was just thinking instead of talking over a counter we could do it over dinner? Maybe a movie, if you have the time?”

A beat passes and suddenly realization sets in, drawing all the air out of you. The smallest groan escapes you as you bury your face in your palms, the skin of your neck and cheeks burning hot. Every inch of you seems more sensitive in your mortification—were you always this close to Hobie, and was his cologne always that strong?

“I’m an idiot,” you whisper from between the gap in your hands. “God, I’m such an idiot.”

Hobie supplies a soft chuckle to ease your embarrassment. “You’re not. It came out pretty corny anyways.”

“I can’t believe I’m getting asked out by a guy with spider powers.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

You groan again, a tight breath pressed against your fingers. “You are so lucky you’re cute, Hobie Brown.”

It is as endearing as it is exasperating that you can practically hear how big his smile is. “You free tomorrow?”

“Anytime past five,” you reply softly, slowly inching your hands away from your face to peer at him. “Where should I meet you?”

Hobie’s grin tilts sideways at the query, a new sparkle of mischief brightening his eye. “I’ll come pick you up.”

Dates aren’t exactly a new concept to you—you’ve been on a handful, and they all go about the same. The first time, someone shows up with flowers or a small gift to start the evening right, then you’re whisked away for three hours to some place to hang around and have fun. It’s conventional, it’s safe—sometimes you enjoy the company more than the actual activity, leading to a second or third outing, but there’s nothing too special about the dance you do with routine.

Along this line of reasoning, Hobie crash-landing on your balcony with one of the most ridiculous offers of transportation isn’t exactly the way you imagined your date would start.

“You are not web-swinging me to Manhattan,” you tell him, still inside your apartment, arms crossed and shaking your head vigorously. “I don’t care what you have set up, I’m not gonna risk going splat on the damn concrete.”

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Hobie pushes playfully. “Promise I won’t drop you.”

You frown, brows furrowing and lips pursing as you glare at him. He returns the look as calm as ever, a slight smile edging the corners of his mouth and stance open in invitation. The way he holds himself has uncertainty creeping to you, forcing out your fervent disagreement in favor of consideration in a rather slick way of persuasion.

Perhaps you should’ve known you wouldn’t win, with the sheer difference in your demeanors. Your staredown continues for a couple of minutes before you sigh, breaking eye contact with a reluctant drop of your chin and a gentle moan of diffidence.

“Can I at least close my eyes?” you mumble, walking out and shutting the balcony door behind you.

“You can do whatever you want,” Hobie replies, sliding on his mask and gloves. “Just hold on tight.”

Stifling a breath when his arm wraps around the small of your back and under your thighs, you cling to his shoulders as he lifts you up and climbs on the railing.

“You ready?” His chest rumbles under your touch when he speaks, and you can only give a small nod in your position, heart pounding against your ribs and face buried deep in the nape of his neck.

Hobie laughs—a deep, warm sound—and then launches off your balcony.

There are no words to truly describe the feeling that swallows you while in freefall. Wind blasts past your ears in violent howls, gravity pulls your figure down but your insides up, and the only thing you have to ground yourself is the feel of Hobie as you clutch him with every bit of strength you possess. Adrenaline thrums through every vein, lighting your nerves on fire and prickling your skin with gooseflesh; even your energy to scream depletes into fueling the rush that floods your senses.

Upon the first pull up, Hobie’s web catching a surface to swing from, your gut lurches and a serrated gasp shudders through you. Your arms pull you impossibly closer to him, fingers clawing to dig deeper into the back of his vest.

“Easy now,” he chuckles, sounding miles away with how loud your heart beats in your ears. “I promised I wasn’t gonna drop you, didn’t I?”

“D-Doesn’t make it better,” you gasp, shivering now that the breeze whips against your back.

“Try to relax—we’ll be there soon.” Though he says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world, it proves contrary to the way his grip tightens around you with the next swing.

Despite how comforting the gesture is, you find that you can’t relax much while still flying through New York a hundred feet in the air.

After what seems like days of travel, Hobie finally lands on solid ground, giving you a moment to catch your breath before setting you down gently. His arms are threaded underneath yours as you try to balance on shaky legs, knees bent and feeling all too much like jelly for your own comfort.

“I feel like a newborn deer,” you sigh, voice trembling from the withdrawal of adrenaline. Jitters quiver your fingers, lightly chatter your teeth, and shake the thin chamber of your chest. “My God, how do you even get used to this?”

“Gotta learn to trust yourself,” Hobie hums smoothly. “First time’s always a tad tricky.”

You only nod, gaze now pinned to the ground as he gradually guides you forward, step by step, until you’re stable enough to slowly walk on your own. From there, the slightest incline of your head brings your attention to a small spread of food and flowers laid out nicely on a patterned blanket. A warmth comes to settle in your core at the sight, softening your eyes and easing the tenseness in your limbs—contentment reaches you and the stress gained from the ride here begins to fade, if only by a little.

“Hobie, this is so sweet,” you coo, pleasure lightening the tone of your voice.

His rings just as sweetly through the evening air. “Good to hear—would’ve been gutted if you didn’t like it.”

You laugh at the response, casting an affectionate glance at him that just grows fonder upon meeting his charming reciprocation. The bend of his brow, the part and curve of his lips, the crinkle of his eye—all of it has you transfixed for a generous moment, barely able to notice the way your navel aches with longing in your stupor.

The feeling persists throughout the evening, present in every winding conversation and instance of quiet shared between the two of you. It’s rather freeing to be unconstrained by the formalities usually held by the label of a first date and to sense such endearment for the whole of it. There is no talking to only talk—every sentiment has meaning, every word punctuated by some semblance of tenderness; there is no awkward atmosphere brought about by nervous tension—you rest comfortably, leaning back on your hands, as does Hobie, elbows on crossed legs, positioned towards you.

Hours pass by easily in the space, kissing the sky with hues of orange and gold and violet as they bid a teary farewell, trails of light following in the wake of their departure. Yawning clouds push to the east, unlined shapes dissipating with the fleeting luster. Soon, the New York city skyline is only a bleak, black horizon that cradles a half-yolked sun just shy of its surface.

Golden rays grace your skin, full and temperate and real. You’re just about to gush to Hobie about how this is your favorite time of the day when you’re stopped by the shallow movement of his arm.

He shifts to pick the carnation laid closest to your hand, snaps off the longer part of its stem, then tucks it delicately behind your ear. Wordlessly, he adjusts the petals, and grins when they seem to his liking.

You’re practically bursting at the seams when he retracts his hand, fingers ghosting the curve of your cheek on their path back. Heat rushes to your neck, white-hot on a quick shot up to heat every inch of your face. The sensation catches your breath, widens your eye, tucks the tip of your bottom lip between your teeth, and all you can do is sit and watch Hobie as he admires you.

There’s a look in his eye that you hope is reflected in yours, how beautiful he is. The warm vermillion hue of the sun hits his complexion and it’s like there’s nothing else in the world to behold but him.

Suddenly you find yourself reaching for the flowers on the blanket, clasping multiple in one hand and halving the stems with the other.

Leaning forward, palms stained with sap, you place the carnations in each of Hobie’s wicks, uncaring of the smell of chlorophyll or the tremble of your fingers. You only return to your seat and wipe your hands when you finish, the expanse of his head dotted in small blooms, all that’s left of the original bouquet messily cut stems and loose leaves.

A breathy laugh escapes you at the sight, light and happy and bright. “You are so pretty, Hobie,” you whisper, your heart swelling with adoration. “And I wanna kiss you so bad right now.”

He smiles. “I’m not going to stop you,” he says, then wraps his arms around you when you crush your lips to his.

You feel you must be drunk on something, but are entirely too far gone to care the slightest bit. Hobie is every bit as soft and warm as you imagined, his hold homely, his scent familiar. Breathing him in, bergamot, plum, and sandalwood filling your lungs, a dreamy sigh stutters out of your nose before you start to move.

The kiss takes on a steady rhythm then, perhaps the easiest thing you’ve had to follow. Each press of your lips against his finds just the right amount of resistance, the feel of his piercing snug as it nudges you in every shift. Your hands find purchase in cupping his face, fingertips smoothing the silver studs that line his ears and thumbs stroking his cheeks.

Hobie’s touch rests just shy of your waist, the bend of his elbows against your ribs, palms flat against your scapula. His chest rises and falls with every breath, a slight hitch in the motion when you crawl to his lap, sitting in the space between his legs.

The two of you share your own pocket of heaven for a minute longer, then with one last kiss, you part. As your eyes flutter open, Hobie slides a hand off your back to thumb your lip, swiping a finger across your bottom one.

You make a questioning noise but remain unmoving as he works, sliding his digit across sensitive skin.

“My lipstick got on you,” he explains when he finishes, showing you black makeup smeared on his thumb. “I liked the look of it, but didn’t know if you did.”

A gentle laugh spouts from you at his kindness. “I’m all for you giving me a makeover next time,” you say with a grin.

Hobie gives a small chuckle back, delight sparkling in his eye. “Good.”

The afterbuzz of the date still tingles the back of Hobie’s neck even hours later. It’s ten o’clock, the moon at highrise and not a single star in sight in the muddy violet pool that overhangs New York. He’s in the middle of a stakeout, monitoring an energy station reopened as bait for whatever, whoever, might come out in response. The task of fully focusing proves rather hard in the wake of remembering the warmth of you as you held him, the brush of your lips against his, and your small gasps of breath, but he tries anyhow.

Hobie’s just finished shaking off the image of your face in the light of dusk when his watch buzzes. He looks down with a frown, noting the peculiarity of receiving a call this late.

“Gwendy,” he greets, an orange hologram of Stacy appearing with the twist of a dial. “What are you ringing me for?”

“Hey Hobie,” she returns flatly, not providing much else before quickly casting her gaze askance.

From her projection, Hobie can gather that something seems off—Gwen’s stance is completely closed, arms crossed and feet together. What looks like nervousness twists her features, pinches her forehead, pulls her lips tight together. She’s never been good at hiding her emotions, but even this seems exaggerated.

Sobriety seeps into Hobie then, the high of hours ago eroding. “Something wrong?” he asks, voice dropping low.

Gwen pauses, hesitating. “Miguel wants you back at HQ,” is what comes from her after a few seconds. “Now.”

“What about the mission?”

“He just says to leave. There’s been some new intel. That’s all I know.” Gwen swallows thickly, her eyes flickering back to Hobie. “See you soon.”

“Alright, see ya.” The hologram blinks twice, then disappears. Hobie taps on his watch to open a portal back to Earth-928, dubiety sinking its teeth into his thoughts. Miguel was ever the autocrat, so he was never quite fond of the guy, but the way Gwen had come to him—with a fresh feeling that extended beyond terror etched in her expression—that doesn’t sit well. He doesn’t need a spider-sense to recognize that something is amiss.

Somehow, he can’t elude the feeling of dread that creeps to him when he’s swallowed by the vortex.

[lowkeyremi]

i rlly liked the gyaru post n was wondering if you could write hq boys with a gyaru crush ( like the guys have a crush on a gyaru ) myb a small fic ( tanaka, yams aone pls )

I'm glad you liked the last one! This is such a cute concept tbh, Aone would be too scared to say anything lmaooo

HQ Drabbles: Gyaru Crush 💕 ft. Tanaka, Yams, and Aone.

Content: Fluff, a lil bit of stalking cuz Tanaka's just like that, miscommunication bc Aone isn't good w words, crushes.

Banner credit: gifcities and geocities

Tanaka Ryu:

"I should have packed lunch today, this sucks." Your best friend nods when she sees your soggy french fries.

"That bald guy is staring at you again." She slurps her yogurt tube in a few seconds. You look around and sure enough that second year was looking at you again.

You're in your third year now, according to Sugawara the 'bald' kid's name is Tanaka, and it's said he has a huge crush on Kiyoko.

"Probably thinks my makeup is weird like everyone else does." He notices you looking and turns away to his short friend... it's Nishi something.

"Or maybe he likes you." You roll your eyes while she wiggles her eyebrows.

"Yeah right, it's obvious he likes Kiyoko." She cringes when you eat a mouthful of soggy fries.

"He might be using Kiyoko as a cover up." You weren't going to keep waiting for him to say why he's always being creepy so you walk over to his table.

"Why are you always staring at me?" His short friend giggles and turns away.

"Staring- me huh?" His face flushes as he stammers for words.

"Yes, is it my makeup? I know it's not normal but starting is really rude." Out of the corner of your eye you can see his friend covering his mouth to try and conceal his snickering.

"Ah- it's not like that! I think your makeup is unique and I think you're really cool!" He blurts out and his friend bursts into laughter.

"Noya shut up!" He elbows him.

"Really? Is this some kind of joke?" He notices your hand on your hip.

"No! C-can we be friends?" His voice sounds like a shy little kid.

"Um... sure?" There has to be some hidden motive behind this...

"Got anything else to tell her, Ryu?" The short fry wiggles his eyebrows.

"Nishinoya I will end-"

"I'm gonna go finish my lunch." Tanaka starts stammering again when you start to walk away.

"Could um... could I get you dinner sometime? AS FRIENDS THOUGH!" He suddenly adds.

He definitely has a crush on you.

"Yeah anytime." He smiles, and you skip back to your table.

________

Yamaguchi Tadashi:

"Is that all?" You ask politely scanning his cart to see if he's got anything else.

He nods his head yes, "Your total is 870 yen, how would you like to pay?" He hands you 1,000 yen, like he does every time.

"Keep the change." You sigh and look for change.

"That's too much of a tip." Yamaguchi (as you've learned from your uncle), comes in maybe three times a week for the same thing and tries to leave you a huge tip.

"Your hair's really pretty." He notioned to the style you were going for today, you think it brings out your makeup.

"Keishin says I look like a rebellious punk." You giggle right along with Yams.

"It's Uncle Keishin to you, brat! You're lucky to even be getting paid!" Yamaguchi quietly snickers because you rolled your eyes mimicking your uncle. Once everything's bagged up you hand it to him.

"Bye, Yams." He takes the bag, and holds still like a statue.

"Something wrong?"

"When'll you be back to work here again?" There's this look in his eyes that you can't quite determine.

"When ever I get back from school, I can't take a lot of breaks or I'll get behind on my assignments." He frowns.

"Hey, not my fault I'm a college student." You shrug.

"I really wish I could go with you to ward off all the weirdos who think gyaru isn't cool." He's an adorable little third year.

"Gyaru's not for everyone. I get hateful comments all the time, but they don't bother me that much anymore." It's the hard truth, you cannot force people to like you.

"Well can I take you out when you get back?" Oh, he's real brave today. Not once has he asked something remotely as obvious as this.

You can tell he likes you, that much was clear. This is the first time he's been straightforward with you though.

"You can take me out when I get off of work." You lean over the counter and press your glossy lips to his cheek. When you pull away you can see a faint mark of lip gloss from your lips.

"Go on to school now, Yams." He spirals at your smirk and walks out like a drunken man.

You're bonked on the head with newspaper, "Do your job and stop flirtin' so much!"

"Don't take your frustration out on me, I know you don't get any Keishin." He grumbles at your laughter.

"It's Uncle Keishin."

________

Aone Takanobu:

"Kogane! I'm so going to beat your ass!" Your threat echoes through the gym and no one makes the effort to save him.

"I didn't mean to mess up your makeup and hair, please forgive me!!" He whines.

The idiot thought it'd be funny to spray you with his water bottle, long story short he got a little heavy handed with the pouring.

You raise your fist to hit him but you're stopped by a hand much bigger than yours. A low grunt can be heard and you turn around to see Aone holding your wrist.

"He deserves it! Let go!" He thinks his grip is too tight, so he loosened it.

"H-here." He hands you his team jacket.

"Thank you, Aone. That is so sweet." He nods.

"Um I know how important your clothing and hair are to you." At first you can't tell if he's being genuine or a goody two shoes.

"Um... gyaru right? I thought it was super weird awhile back." At least he was honest.

"How'd you know?" You most likely already know the answer.

"I did some research after seeing your unusual clothing option that one time." He rubs the back of his neck.

"So you're stalking me?" That's honestly what it sounds like.

"No- I just wanted to understand you better." He says with a little more confidence.

"Why?"

"Ah....." His cheeks go red and he power walked away.

Huh... interesting.

Hey sillies, im tired so ima go to sleep. Also I watched a horror movie by myself for the first time but I didn't get scared at all. Idk I just kept screaming at the main character being so dumb. bye guys 😘

[cleverthylacine]

Just watched Ep 1 of Earthspark S2. And I'm furious.

Don't read this if you don't want spoilers. Or if you think the showrunners can still do no wrong, and are unprepared for the level of Incandescent Fury of which I am capable. But if you DO have spoilers for the whole season and understand my particular vibe, PLEASE read this and reblog with answers (but use the cut for the sake of my followers)...

Reasons why I'm mad:

A year goes by in which all of the stuff I was actually interested in presumably happened: dealing with GHOST, the Decepticons and Autobots cooperating, and also, Mo and Robby getting cool mech suits.

Then for no reason other than "Decepticons huh" the Decepticons apparently forgot their alliance, turned on Our Designated Good Guys (tm) and just randomly started trying to conquer and/or kill everything again. Or were they screwed over, yet again? I really hope so, not because I want them to suffer but because there needs to be a freaking reason why they turn on other Cybertronians when they are stuck on Earth. But I don't have a good feeling about it given the contemptuous attitudes displayed by Bee (as usual, because ES Bee is a fucking asshole) and Robby (disappointing, he wasn't like that before).

And we never did get to find out what the fuck was up with GHOST or why the Decepticons were all in jail (and no, "Decepticons huh" is not an acceptable reason--they have every reason to hate us.)

Breakdown is a terrible parent for no reason? BREAKDOWN?

The Chaos Terrans thing gives me the same willies that the Orcs in Tolkien (I am not a Tolkien fan) used to do. I am not comfortable with the eugenicist/ableist notion that people can be born corrupt and innately evil, especially not if it has something to do with HOW they were born.

Soooo... if you've finished the season (I know you've been posting a bit about it) is there any reason for me to continue?

Reasons I would continue:

Ravage continues to be basically the same Ravage I write, only much smaller.

RavWave (as a ship, not just platonic interaction, mostly because I would watch anything for that no matter how messed up)

Explanation that there actually is a reason why the Cons turned on everyone, and what that reason is. Did they want to put them back in jail? Did they want them to do forced labour? Did Megatron start whaling on Starscream again? I note Tara isn't around Con HQ, what does Tara know?

Quints are interesting and not just scary (the Quints in Cyberverse scared me more than many adult horror movie villains did, BUT they are also just kinda evil and mean and we have no idea why, which would not have been particularly interesting at all except for the fun of watching Hot Rod and Soundwave become the faction leaders while OP and Megatron were unable to be)

Chaos Terrans are not innately bad or do not need some mystical power of nuclear heteronormative family to make them good

The Decepticons get something out of the ending other than screwed

We find out more about Dot and Megs

Some Cons are good parents

More Tarantulas and Nightshade content

Hashtag continues to have a relationship with Starscream that affects the plot as it develops

We are actually told what happened during the year they missed

Reasons I would not continue:

Cons are just bad because cons are bad.

Ravage is Soundwave's daughter or pet or in some other way not actually a grown-ass adult Decepticon officer, making Soundwave a father who raises child soldiers or a guy who runs dogfights, which is not cute even if he is snatched af

(they don't have to be lovers though my shipping heart was pleased when their PDA in the deleted scenes embarrassed Starscream, but she has to be a Real Independent Person who could be someone's partner if not his)

Chaos Terrans are innately bad until "saved" by the Power of Love And the Nuclear Family (or just innately bad)

Emberstone continues to be Allspark Mark II so why even change the name?

Bee's incredible assholery is never called out (it's not funny when a starving person accidentally kills their starving teammate due to a mistake they made because they were starving)

Only Autobots and people who form nuclear families can be good parents

Everyone being friends with the cows goes to the PETA place

Cons get nothing but screwed

Please tell me this series hasn't gone where I was afraid it would. Or let me know that it has so I can decide if it's going to be so bad I'll be mad the whole time like I was in Ep 1.

Warning: anyone who clowns on this post to be a RavWave anti or say "The Decepticons are supposed to be pure evil, duh!" will get blocked.

[half-man-half-lime]

I always get annoyed when Worm readers criticize Taylor & Cauldron without actually engaging with the premise, but there is evidence against them there. (Gonna focus on Cauldron in this post.)

There are some legitimate points to be made against them that I've probably heard most of already. There's the fact that so much of their choices stem for Contessa's desire for efficiency, and she turns away from paths that might be harder- although to be fair, there's more points of failure in, for example, telling the world's governments about the dangers of Scion.

There's the fact that when they choose who to bring into the fold, they take in people like The Number Man, a former serial killer, and that colors all the decisions their leadership makes.

There's a notion, tangential to Sveta's criticism of Doctor Mother- again, they took the easy path by dehumanizing their victims with test numbers and blocking off any sense of empathy, because they feel a need to live with themselves; even the lack of empathy clouds their judgement and their so-called objectiveness, leading them to hurt their victims more than they actually had to.

The thing that interests me though is that you can't really pick and choose which consequences count. They wanted to be consequentialist? Well, the Irregulars' raid on Cauldron HQ that hampered the fight against Scion is by definition a consequence. Acting like the Irregulars ruined a perfectly good plan is ridiculous, because if it was such a good plan then they wouldn't have been invaded.

They think the ends justify the means? Surprise! The ends include the Endbringers. There are so few Parahumans left alive by the time Scion turns on humanity that nothing Eidolon contributed could have been a net benefit. Especially considering what the Simurgh was planning near the end of Ward.

We also see some of that in Ward- all of the PR campaigns, all the cover-ups, it all comes crashing down the second the PRT is gone, and any attempt at communication is hampered by the fear of what an informed public might do. The anti-Parahuman who shot Fume Hood and set off the second apocalypse did so because he only had part of the story, and never actually had the chance to see the PRT & Cauldron's full perspectives.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Aldous J Pennyfarthing at Daily Kos:

Following Donald Trump’s example is typically a very bad idea. This is the same guy who stared at an eclipse, thought it might be a good idea to inject disinfectant, and insists on flushing toilets 10 to 15 times, even though the government recommends stolen top secret nuclear documents be flushed no more than three times in order to conserve water. And while listening to Trump is equally as bad—Truth Social investors are discovering that now—it might, ironically, end up saving the country. You may recall when several starry-eyed Republicans ran for president based largely on the notion that a guy with a fraudulent business who’d literally attempted to end America and faced dozens of felony charges might have some vulnerabilities in the general election. Well, one of those candidates—former South Carolina Gov. Nikki Haley—stuck around a bit longer than Trump would have liked and it’s still having an impact.

[...] On Tuesday night in the GOP’s closed Pennsylvania primary, Haley got more than 155,000 votes, or roughly 16.6% of the total. This is a pretty significant number for someone who’s no longer campaigning, and whose opponent is a universally known figure running as a quasi-incumbent.

The Hill reports that Haley got close to 20% in several Pennsylvania counties. And this could be reason for concern with “polling average of the state from Decision Desk HQ/The Hill has Trump ahead of President Biden in the state by just 0.4 percent, meaning every vote may have added importance there compared to many other states.”  And it’s not just in Pennsylvania. According to The Hill Haley “received more than 77,000 votes in the Georgia primary in March in March a few days after she dropped out, more than 150,000 votes, or almost 20 percent, in the Washington primary and more than 110,000 votes in the Arizona primary.” Clearly, Trump remains a polarizing figure within the GOP. And since telling Haley supporters to go screw, they’ve pretty much obeyed. The good news for Trump is that, as a wannabe dictator, he demands slavish obedience to all his dictates—and people are falling in line. The bad news for Trump is that if people actually listen to him, it could cost him the election.

As Washington Post senior political reporter Aaron Blake notes, the results in closed GOP-only primaries since Haley dropped out appear to show her momentum has barely slowed. 

In closed primary states so far, Nikki Haley continues to nab around 15%-25% of the GOP primary vote despite dropping out in March. That would be a bad omen for Trump come fall.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I’m a little in denial about everything with Lilia but I gotta ask: Do you think Malleus OB can “fix” Lilia in a certain way? Like how sometimes hibernation gives second wind to animals (or how humans feel better after naps.

I am very well aware I’m grasping at straws. I just don’t want my tied for favorite boy to die.

I… don’t think that’s possible, no matter how much we may want it to be.

When Vil greets Lilia at the farewell party, he asks Lilia point-blank if there “really is no other way”. Vil recalls his own predicament returning from Styx HQ as a withered old man and how Malleus was able to restore him to his youth. He asks if Malleus can do the same for Lilia so he can retain his magic and stay enrolled at NRC. To this, Lilia explicitly states that is isn’t possible. “Malleus said it himself: he cannot turn back time.” The only reason Malleus could help Vil was because some external factor robbed Vil of his time; the same is not true of Lilia, who is losing his fight with time (something everyone will naturally succumb to eventually).

Things in the world of Twisted Wonderland are destined to move forward and change, in spite of how much one may wish to remain in their current blissful, carefree school days. All Malleus is doing now in his OB state is prolonging the inevitable because he cannot accept, nor reverse, that change. The whole point of these events and the buildup to it is that “no matter how much power or magic Malleus has, he cannot do anything to change his circumstances”.

Now, I don’t know if that necessarily means TWST will actually permakill Lilia (because he is an integral part of the main cast and marketing) 💦 If time loop or dream theory turns out to be real, then it’s possible some external forces or other deux ex machina could save Lilia…? But at the same time, saving Lilia would kind of detract from what Malleus would have to learn about mortality, friendships, and change. I have no idea what direction the story is planning to go with him from hereon out or how dark the devs will be allowed to go. We’re waiting with baited breath for what’s next 🥲

Side note, I wanted to share something I noticed while thinking about how to respond to this question. So… the wording of the ask is very telling and reflective of the current state of the TWST fandom. “I’m a little in denial about everything […]”, and, “I am very well aware I’m grasping at straws. I just don’t want […]” Don’t we realize it???? We sound exactly like Malleus. We’re in denial about what’s happening and we don’t want things to change.

I wonder if this was planned out from the very beginning. The devs getting us invested in the world of TWST and its characters, only to threaten to take it all away at the very end. This relates exactly with lines Malleus drops about his beloved virtual pet: “Gao-Gao Dragon-kun is fictitious, he more or less exists in a fairy tale. If that is the case, then I don’t see a reason to put a (30 day limit) on his lifespan.” Lilia chimes in, agreeing that it is like a “never ending fantasy”, but then points out that it is because you need to eventually say goodbye that you will cherish the time spent together all the more. Notice their phrasing, all the references to desiring a fairy tale which never ends. That is what we, the players AND Malleus, want. We want to stay like this, forever and ever, locked in one place. We don’t want Lilia to go, we don’t want the third years to leave on their internships, we don’t want the students to graduate and leave us.

This is what fiction like TWST provides for us, an escape from reality, where magical things happen and we’re surrounded by fun people who always stay with you no matter how much you change in the real world—and now TWST is challenging that notion. Is it really right to want to live in an eternal dream like this, at the cost of fabricating your happiness?? Or is it better to wake up and face reality, no matter how harsh it may be?? Even if our loved ones will leave, even if Lilia will die? This is both what Malleus and we, the players, need to come to terms with, rather than continue to delude and convince ourselves to stay in “the dream” with a false sense of security.

[theinstagrahame]

It's been a wild few months here at theInstaGrahame HQ, but what never fails to make me happy is the rad games I get from the mail. I'm getting over a cold, so I'mma work on this instead of anything productive I could be doing!

Here's my month of RPG mail calls, and why I'm hyped!

Coriolis: The Last Cyclade: I've been curious about Coriolis' Middle Eastern-themed sci-fi vibes for a while, so I put this on a Secret Santa wishlist; and this is what I got! Excited to dive in.

Curios: Albrecht Manor and Jasper Park: Good Luck Press is one of those game design teams I'll try anything from, and the pitch for this is really unique. It's not an RPG per se, as much as a collection of books, papers, maps, and other materials that point toward a mystery you get to figure out. Playing it is just... looking through stuff.

Salvage Union: I am a big fan of post-apocalyptic media, and a fan of the mecha genre. So, yeah, this was an easy sell. It's built on the Quest system, which I've been meaning to get more into anyway, and it looks like a mech repair manual!

The Zone (which I apparently thought people would just recognize): This game is available for free online, but the box set is gorgeous, and features some designers I love. Trying to set up an online session soon, but I do really want to play it in person.

Deimos Academy: Honestly, I picked it up because of the creative team, but also the pitch is great. I skipped my high school reunion, but if there was a chance to go back and face a monster? I might've thought about going.

Brindlewood Bay + Nephews in Peril: I was originally just going to get the super popular Elderly Detectives Solve Eldritch Crimes RPG, but the title of the expansion/mystery book was just too perfect.

Rebels f the Outlaw Wastes: I've already mentioned I like post-apocalyptica? Well, this took a neat approach to achievements/leveling that I was super intrigued by, and I just dig the fun vibe. The reason I like post-apocalyptic media is that it's hopeful, and this feels moreso than a lot of other stuff.

Skyrealms Almanac and Creatures and Folks: I've been into setting guides this past year. And like, this one is also a coloring book? Hell yeah.

Stoneburner: I've been following the creator on Twitter and elsewhere for a while, so I was curious about this title. But definitely sold when they talked about some of the inspiration being the original Starcraft games.

Forgery: Again, picked it up because I really like Banana Chan's work, but this is a paint-by-numbers solo RPG about forging a demonic painting. So like, yeah. That's rad.

Vast Grimm: Space Cruisers: Vast Grimm is Mork Borg in Space, but I'm also a big fan of ship catalogs, so I really wanted to check this one out.

.Dungeon: Everything Snow makes is beautiful, queer, and nostalgic, so when they mentioned a re-release of .Dungeon was coming, I really wanted to check it out. I have a lot of nostalgia for the

Cloud Empress (everything, including a patch!): I mean, you say Nausicaa and I'm listening. This has some roots in that world, but also does some really interesting things with the Mothership game engine. I'm especially intrigued by the notion of replacing racial traits with age traits, and having a series of pretty mundane jobs as the classes.

Layers of Unreality: The first of this month's Zine Club deliveries! I keep hearing about Liminal Horror, and this particular module I've heard nothing but incredible things about. So I'm really hyped to check out what happens in these backrooms.

Fear the Taste of Blood: My second Zine Club book this month! Kayla Dice is one of those really rad creators who I think deserves more attention than she gets, so I'm really hyped to dive into this take on classic movie monsters.

I also got this from my partner's family's Secret Santa.

Okami is one of those games that sticks with me, and has ever since I first saw images from it, and played it. It's a genuinely beautiful experience, and while it's maybe not a game everyone will like, it's one that I really enjoy, and the art is a big part of that.

It stands out as an example of what you can do with a video game that's nearly impossible with most other art forms, and also a reason that I don't think the Arms Race for More Photorealistic Graphics in video game consoles is worth the effort.

[cosmictap]

I wrote!

Logan walker is a sad sad man I love him

CWs: Implied suicidal ideation? nobody makes an attempt, but it’s worth noting his thoughts arent very happy in the beginning

Logan Walker. He would never call himself special by any stretch of the imagination, and everything in his files tended to agree with that notion. He had, in his professional opinion, the best brother in the world, but him? He was quiet, anxious, regularly described as ‘weird’ by his classmates. He didn’t; or rather, tried not to, let that affect him. Getting through highschool frankly was nothing short of a miracle. They all knew it. He lucked out in his last year before joining the US army, with one Cameron Rorke - his third favourite person, fourth if he was including Riley. He and Cam went through it all together, every stupid little fight he had with his brother, every time he convinced himself the world was out to get him, that it’d be better if he was gone from it entirely.

They did everything together, until Logan and Hesh joined the Ghosts, and the clusterfuck that was their dad’s death. Cameron- he tried, he really did, but he’s never been the best at dealing with processing grief like that, he just felt unbearably guilty, it was *his* dad who killed Elias, after all, despite Logan’s insistence he wasn’t to blame. He’d move heaven and earth for Logan, they both knew that already; but he wasn’t sure how to fix this. If it could be fixed. Death was complicated, he knew that much.

***

Months later, Hesh and Logan were sent on a mission, stealth- as is their usual- in and out, get the information and *leave*. Of course it didn’t go that easily. On their way out Hesh was shot, twice, both bullets hitting, and shattering, his knee. It effectively fucked them, their stealth was near impossible, and they were slowed down significantly.

Logan never once considered leaving his brother behind.

They struggled through it, coming to a head in the middle of a bridge, Hesh’s balance shifted, causing him to slip out of Logan’s grip for just long enough for his leg to collapse under him, semi dangling off the edge of the bridge. Logan could feel his heart pounding, his hands beginning to shake uncontrollably, but he couldn’t let it get to him, he had to pull his brother up, he had to.

***

The Ghosts, back at HQ, could only listen in horror, they knew they were too far to help, that much was obvious, but it didn’t stop the sinking feeling everyone felt, the whole situation was so eerily familiar. The image of Elias trying to hold onto Rorke for all he was worth, how he fell, the atmosphere in the air. Powerless.

They listened as Hesh practically begged Logan to let him go, to just let him die. Surprised, and heartbroken, when Logan responded.

*’I’m not *leaving* you! Fuck- This is the first time i’ve actually felt comfortable, i’m *not* letting you die.’*

He’s not sure how he manages it, but he gets himself and his brother back home in one piece, anger and fear written on his face clear as anything could be.

***

He let himself cry once he was safe, right in their rec room, surrounded by family. Someone - he thinks Keegan - got him a cup of tea. It’s perfectly made and just makes him want to cry more. He leans into Cam, using his best friends - partners- jumper to wipe his tears off onto, letting out a small smile as Cam flicks him for that move.

He’d do anything for his team, for his family. He knew that more than anything.

I listened to Call Your Mum by noah kahan while writing!

[john-macnamara]

*Norton sighed as he walked into the debriefing room, it wasn't like he was allowed on field missions anymore but as head of the files department it was required for him to go at least once a week. He normally went every time, simply to get a notion of how much rush of reports he'd get in the next week. Besides, he had things to discuss on the subject of the files back at HQ, so it was fairly necessary this time.

He glanced around the room, only a few people being there considering he was a couple minutes early. He blinked tiredly, silently wondering if he could get Giovanni to go next time and put him to work taking notes. He took his seat at the table, quickly logging in to the laptop he'd brought in with him to discuss the intake and destruction of older, unimportant files for physical storage issues.

He looked up from where he started pulling up his spread and data sheets as the General walked in, standing up to attention with everyone else.*

Good morning, Sir.

*He gave John a soft nod, a couple others following suit, but staying silent. It never really made sense to Norton to wait until his commanding officer addressed him unless there was an obvious tone shift in the room leaning towards it, so it didn't really bother him that he was the only one to speak upon his entry.*

@peip-agent-no-5

Hello, agent.

[John waits for the remainder of his people to file in before he begins, alongside some attending virtually on the screen behind him.]

Luckily for us, we haven’t gotten many reports this week. But of the few we have, they’re fairly intensive.

Vanderbilt, I need your crew on cleanup in Fair Banks, Missouri. Our extermination of the carnivorous gnome population left more damage —and witnesses— than intended. Pay off those who saw, and make sure no one else does. I’ll wire you whatever’s necessary.

I also need a reconnaissance squad to circle Lake Tahoe. There have been rumors of kelp monsters in the lake, presumably they got there from the ocean. Colonel Sanders, gather your best people from the California area and send them out with two weeks worth of rations.

As for the recent incident by the Gulf, we still need a few people to track down remnants the cult Carvour previously dealt with. I’ve calculated their most likely positions, and I want two agents sent to each. Alongside multiple squadrons purveying the coastline. They’re water based and likely trying to find a new idol of worship. Lieutenant Bellview, collecting people for that will be your job.

[He takes a deep breath, having finished with the most pressing matters. The remainder of the meeting is spent on logistics, the less glamorous side of secret military organizations. Who needs to be paid off, who needs to be silenced, how to get further funding, etcetera.]

[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.