#Hobart College

[jenorv]

A day in November and Beyond

In 1963, I was a sophomore at Hobart.  Thanksgiving was around the corner,  with a well-appreciated break from the usual round of studying, tests, and college life.  On Friday, November 22, 1963, I was crossing the Hobart Quad going to a biology laboratory when someone grabbed my arm and said, “The President’s been shot.” Lee Harvey Oswald had shot Kennedy from a sixth-floor window of the Texas…

[nando161mando]

Known as 'Hitler', this violent Catholic school has now erased this teacher's name from records

[trivialbob]

I love dealing with people who take pride in their work, and they’re nice about it too.

Several times lately I’ve tried making Philly cheese-steaks. I cut the meat as thin as I can, but I want it even thinner.

The grocery store closest to my house has an excellent butcher shop. The selection is amazing and it’s extremely clean. One of these times I am going to try one of the $42/pound cuts, after I practice preparing several less expensive ones first.

The guys working behind the counter are the best. If you bring in kitchen knives they will sharpen them while you shop. I heard that they will slice steaks too.

I asked one of the butchers about that, wondering if they’d use one of those big Hobart deli slicers.

“No, we don’t have any raw-food slicers.”

Didn’t hurt to ask, I thought. As I turned to leave he said, “But what I can do is slice them thin by hand.”

He gave me a big smile. “I’m really good at cutting very thinly. And when I’m done, I’ll put them between some wax paper sheets and press them even thinner. You’ll almost be able to see through them!”

I asked what it cost. He started to look at the price cards in the case. “Well, this cut is...“

“No, the cost for the service,” I interrupted nicely.

“Oh, no charge for that,” he said as he gave another big mile.

I’m starting to drool just thinking about the thin sliced steak for my next Philly cheese steak sandwich.

[offsidenewsco]

Welcome to a new series where we'll be highlighting various college hockey programs around the NCAA with a focus on the ones we don't think about as often.

This week's edition of Off the Radar is all about Hobart and William Smith Colleges Hockey. Read more here

[shaufflercollege]

Schauffler College Class of 1900

Top, Left: Anna Vasieck, Emma Dennis, Barbara Miynarik, Bertha M Norris, Bertha Toth Center, Left: Bertha Dusenberry, Marie Zoltak Front, Left: Myrtle Randall, Antoinette Brich, Mrs. H. A. Schauffler, Cora Mason

-Note: Front center (with wide lapells) is Clara Shauffler nee Hobart, listed as Mrs. H. A. Schauffler, co-founder of the college. Later in the issue, Miss Toth is listed as a Magyar from Hungary.

[thecrankyprofessor]

Reunion 2023 -the calm

[thecrankyprofessor]

Look at the exterior walls of Mt Vernon -- that's not ashlar masonry construction, it's butt-jointed wood with "stone" shapes carved into it, "drafted margin masonry," to use the technical term. A lot of late 18th and early 19th C houses use butt-jointed siding and some of them used painted lines to make trompe l'oeil masonry effects. The example below might have had such, but it's been painted flat white as far back as we have photographs (which is about 1855).

(even more interesting - the street facade below is butt-jointed, the other sides are clapboard)

690 South Main Street, Geneva, NY - Hobart and William Smith Colleges' President's House.

Historic Mount Vernon, Alexandria, Virginia

[prncssie]

caution mdni 9k words religious subtext, oral, fem reader, college setting, pet names

miffy note this is the sequel to peppermint patty! there will be a third and possibly a .5 part following at a later time c: pls do not spam like my blog! reblogging is always appreciated. pls also consider sending in requests or sponsoring some of my other works via fics for gaza

you could just about die right now; you’re ready to, hoping the dull, faux hardwood tiles would peel apart from the years old glue and open to reveal an endless dark abyss to swallow you up. why? because standing right across from you is hobart brown.

the moment reminds you of a movie. you stand in the library, warm air blasting through the central heating and bringing about a thin layer of sweat across your skin. you should have known better but you only intended to stay for a moment before escaping back to the coolness of outside. the winter months have begun to roll in and your semester has progressed from lounging around with your friends to spending multiple nights up in the late hours, typing away incessantly at your keyboard.

you’ve already gotten one book tucked into your chest and browse the shelves for another. french tipped acrylics grasp around the spine of yet another book and you pull it out to flip through the aged, yellow-stained pages. now that the temperatures have dipped into the thirties, you depend on the layers to maintain your warmth — an oversized cable knit sweater layered over a white shirt, gray leggings on top of tights, pink leg warmers over white socks, and platform uggs. you’ve even got a scarf tied loosely around your neck. walking around campus, you feel just a little chill but it’s bearable. the moment you stepped into the threshold of the library, however, you were quick to remove your trench coat and hang it over your arm.

you’re deep into it too, still flipping the pages and mulling over adding the book to the ever-growing list of resources for your project, when a shadow begins to edge its way into your peripheral. it’s not necessarily a big deal, but you find yourself lifting your eyes anyway. it’s more out of habit than anything else. still, you both freeze in your tracks and stare at each other akin to two little fawns, surprised to see another just like them.

hobie freaking brown.

you haven’t seen him since . . . when? september? october? well now it’s nearing the end of your first semester and you have yet to cross paths which, by the way, is entirely intentional. you bolt every time you see him and hobie knows it. he’s witnessed the display of anxiety with his own two eyes.

“ . . ., hey ☆.” hobie speaks first, maintaining a cautious distance. he clearly intends to walk down your aisle with the way his feet are positioned but he has yet to move, looping his hand around the strap of his bag. he feels just as awkward as you do, although confused because he’s been left in the dark. sure, hobie figured that the dynamic would change but if he knew you’d flat out ignore his existence, he would have denied you the experience entirely.

you suck in a breath and glance down the opposite direction. you’re already formulating a possible escape route but every possible plan your little brain comes up with is more embarrassing than the last. he’s already acknowledged you. you have to speak to him; that’s just proper manners. “h - um . . . wow, hi hobie. we haven’t talked in a minute. how are you?”

the corners of his mouth twitch and pull at the silver lip rings. he sniffs and shifts his weight. this is bullshit and he’d tell you but you’d probably disintegrate on the spot. there’s no point in beating around the bush if you’ve both ran into each other. this must be a sign, divine intervention. “fine,” is what he settles on, short and curt to prevent himself from pushing the sweet, small town girl too far and into a panic.

“that’s good. the semester’s about to end. how are your classes?” gosh, now you’re making small talk. it’s out of your control now. you’ve fallen into your default and there’s not a single thing you can do about it but smile with some form of anguish across your face. you’ve long forgotten about the book in your hands. there’s no chance you can slide it back onto the team wood shelves. it has to come back to your apartment style dorm with you.

hobie’s lip twitch again. this is painful. he assumes it’s the same on both sides but he knows enough about you to know that you’re not going to take the first step, even if you haven’t seen each other in weeks — those three seconds when you’re dashing around the corner in a blur don’t count. “fine. look, i should probably go unless you have something to say to me . . .?”

his question is met with a small shake of your head. you clutch your books tighter to your chest and will your attention not to wander too far, not to drink in his appearance and dwell on the feelings of grief for your friendship. your very first friend, the one who accepted you with open arms. maybe with too open arms. “yeah. i should go to. it was nice seeing you.”

hobie merely hums and turns in his heel. he leaves through the opposite direction, abandoning whatever task he came to fulfill. it remains unchecked in his mental todo list and he disappears from your vision, leaving you standing in the aisle alone. a chill makes its way down your spine. your entire body shudders with something vigorous and yet, you’re not cold.

spotting vivienne in the common space of your dorm is kind of a rare occurrence. it’s not like she’s never in home or refuses to speak to you. she just spends a lot of time behind the privacy of the heavy wooden door of her room with her boyfriend. other times, she’s on the other side of campus, strewn across his bed and empty mindedly staring at his tv screen in an attempt to seem interested in whatever show he’s trying to get her into.

however, this week the two are arguing and your red-headed friend makes it obvious with her questions. vivienne is laid across one end of the couch, twirling a strand between her fingertips, turned pale compared to the previous summer tan in the hotter months. “who’s that guy i saw you with the other day? he’s kinda cute and i think i’m getting annoyed with matthew.”

you don’t bother to look in her direction. it’s a risky thing to do when the named banned from your inner monologue makes a not-so-subtle frown appear on your face. if anything, you take it an as opportunity to lift the book in your hand closer to your face. you’re beginning to regret not reading in your room and shaming the impulsiveness that made you crave a change of environment. “i don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“yes you do!” vivienne is more interested in your bold face lie now that you’ve said it, scooting closer to your body curled up into the arm of the touch. “i know you do because i’ve seen you with him before, a long time ago. if he’s yours, just say that.”

“he’s not mine, viv. i don’t really know him like that, not anymore. we used to be friends and now we aren’t.” you say with a sigh. you attempt to deter her curiosity by lifting the book higher and making a big show out of flipping the page. you should have known, though, that it would be futile. all you’ve done is open up a can of worms as to why you aren’t friends anymore.

“oh my god, girl. you have to tell me what happened.” from the surface of your gorgeous and fresh white pages, four fingers go to bend along the edge and force it downwards until your face is visible. by now, vivienne is all up close and staring at you expectantly. her hair, dyed a very deep shade of red — one that reminds you of red velvet cake — is swaying so close every time she shifts her weight, you swear you can get whiffs of the coconut scented shampoo. fortunately, and possibly unfortunately, for vivienne’s genes, her hair lays bone straight so there’s no stray ends flying up your nose, no matter how thick the density is.

you sigh again, wracking your brain for a possible out. within the past few months of living with her, you’ve gotten to know and occasionally love all her quirks. at times, her stubbornness can be seen through a positive light but now . . . now she’s just bringing up old memories you couldn’t possibly tell her. as if you’d let such lewd descriptions fall from your lips. just the though of the sinful actions make your face hot with embarrassment and instilled guilt, especially when you factored in all the nights you spent with your hand down your cotton panties, rehashing those same thoughts. you think vivienne would laugh if she knew all this. after all, she is free spirited. “we just fell off one day. things got awkward because we have different backgrounds so we don’t really talk anymore. that’s all.”

vivienne’s eyes narrow, brown and larger than usual — probably because of the contacts she sometimes puts in. you can tell she doesn’t believe you when her head nods slowly and she drawls a slow “mhm . . .” it’s questionable why she doesn’t push you further until you’re forced to messily tell her the truth. “well, then it can’t be helped.” she frees you from her curiosity, scooting away to resume lazing about without a care in the world. “you never know though. maybe you’ll reconnect before the semester ends. winter is like the prime time for romance. it’s so cold and everyone always want to cuddle.”

at this, your nose scrunched and you almost snort your disagreement. as if, you think to yourself, as if there’d ever be a single moment in the near or distant future where hobie is romancing you, no matter the season. besides, winter break approaching only meant your return home and return to the church, volunteering to aid in the annual christmas play. “what about you and matt? you’ll probably be back together before you go home.”

“fuck matt. he’s a piece of shit and when he realizes he’s wrong, i’m not taking him back.” her response is followed by a huff of breath out of her nose. whether she’s waiting for you to ask her more, to send her an open invitation to continue your rant, or not, you don’t know.

all you know is her language is distasteful and you make no move to do so, filling the silence with a page flip of your book. what a silly thing to think, especially when you know she’s lying and will always take him back. if this is what relationships are, you sure don’t want one.

there is a problem, a big one. the moment you stir with consciousness, there’s something awfully uncomfortable in the air around you. even under your thick winter comforter, you can feel the sudden . . . cold, the chill that should be unnatural indoors. a shiver runs down your spine before you’re throwing the blanket off your body. “oh my gosh,” you mumble, wrapping your arms around your exposed shoulders.

you feet find solace in the furry slippers resting on the floor and you rise to support your weight on your own. your nose starts running rather quickly and you sniff, all while shuffling across your room to the singular window occupying the wall decorated in little print outs, polaroids, and other various wall decorations. your fingers wrap around the thin cord to draw the blinds upwards.

tick. tick. tick. there’s snow hitting your windowpane.

“oh my gosh!”

it’s almost simultaneous, the knocks against your door. you can only assume it’s your roommate but you get your answer anyway because she walks in, phone in hand and eyes widened in surprise.

“☆, you won’t believe the email they just sent out. the power went out and it’s going to be out until at least tomorrow. we’re gonna have no heat until they fix that shit. it’s the fucking storm. they’re saying we should try and go home early and they’re going to try and make accommodations.”

you don’t have it in you to internally reprimand her vernacular because all your brain capacity has gone into processing her sudden and rapid-fire news. it’s no surprise that there was a winter storm budding a few states over. news has been buzzing with predictions on how much snow will fall, how white the streets will turn when covered in such a thick, cold blanket. “what? when are they going to make accommodations? it’s freezing cold and i’m not staying here all . . .,” your attention falls onto your phone resting on your desk. 

you originally assumed it was early morning and the sun is soon to rise over the horizon in all its bright glory but the lack of birds chirping and hidden in the branches draws another reason for concern. you reach over and tap your screen until it illuminates the room and you’re astonished, all over again. it seems today, or rather tonight, is handing you all sorts of misfortunes. “it’s only two in the morning? i’m not sleeping here all night. it’s freezing.”

when your eyes find vivienne again, she’s leaning against your doorway and shaking her head. her thoughts have already whirred through the same shock you’ve experienced. believe it or mot, that temporary bump in the road with her man had already passed and she spent the last few minutes texting him back and forth. it was sheer luck that she was awake enough to catch the email as it was sent and rushed to inform you, likewise worried about the safety of remaining here for a few hours. “i’m mot either. i’m planning on going across camp, probably gonna sleep in matthew’s room tonight.”

this is awfully unfair. not the fact your roommate has already acquired an alternative shelter for the night, but because not only have you ran into someone you hadn’t intended to ever, you have no one to run to in times like these. your extrovert friend, the one who invites you places and out of your comfort zone has herself to think about. you feel too guilty asking for her assistance in pestering her other friends and your acquaintances. “i don’t know what i’m going to do. i don’t really feel comfortable asking anyone i know to spend the night. i mean, the only person i really hung out with like that . . .”

“call him.” vivienne says rather quickly. she almost cuts you off with her urgency, even going as far as walking across your room and pushing your phone into your hand. “just call him, girl. you need somewhere safe to stay tonight and i’m not letting you stay here. worst case scenario, he says no and i take you with me.”

her gesture, while nice and admittedly pushing you in the right direction, makes you shift uncomfortably. call hobie and ask to spend the night after everything that’s happened? or rather, everything that hasn’t happened. “i — i don’t know. i don’t think he’s pick up, much less let me stay over. maybe i’ll just use an extra blanket. it could be manageable.”

“absolutely not. why wouldn’t he answer?” vivienne is forcing your phone closer to you, as if having it in proximity with your chest will somehow magically unlock it and dial that number you’ve been avoiding for an unnamed time. you’ve even considered deleting it, believing you’d never use it ever again. 

“because we haven’t spoken in forever. he’s not going to answer. knowing him, he’s going to watch it ring and then text me. or not. i don’t know, he’s unpredictable.” your arm, with the hand boy currently forced to wrap around the thick phone case decorated in vivid swirls of color, wraps around your stomach to bring about a sense of security. a part of you is focused on the chill that settings in your bones and you regret slipping into a pair of shorts to sleep in. 

vivienne barely misses a beat. if anything, she only takes half a second to mull over your words and suck in a breath. you can almost hear the thoughts jumbling in her head. “okay . . . okay. then, we’ll stop by and try to convince him in person. if that doesn’t work, then we’ll just have to do plan b.”

it sounds reasonable. it would have been an effective plan had it been under different circumstances. for one, every building requires a keycard to get one, one that’s programmed for that specific building. neither of your key fobs would cause the electronic lock to slide away and allow you access inside. secondly, who’s to say hobie will even be awake? that he’ll come to the door and open it? that he’ll push aside whatever internal turmoil and allow you to stay the night, especially after the heat of your last real interaction. 

you purse your lips, preparing to share all your points with her but vivienne doesn’t want to hear it, and rightfully so. both of your health is at risk here and it’s better to try than throw all consideration out the window. there’s already a ton of reasonable explanations that oppose her position but you don’t really have a chance to communicate that. vivi has already made her way to her closet and pulled out a bag, large enough to hold your necessities had you sleep elsewhere. you’re too non confrontational to say otherwise and sigh.

this night is full of surprises, it seems. it’s like the universe curated this entire situation and left no space for any mishaps against her original design. not only was there someone who just happened to be walking out of the building you were headed into — where he’s going in this weather, you have no idea — but hobie was indeed awake and did in fact open the door.

it’s probable he’s already eyed you through the peephole because the wooden door is pulled at its hinges and he wordlessly leans against the doorway. hobie is dressed for bed, despite posing lively, arms crossed on his chest and an eyebrow raised in peaked interest. he’s waiting on you to say something, you know this, but it doesn’t make it any easier.

he looks so comfortable, standing there in plush jack skellington pajamas pants and a loose fitted shirt. there’s a logo blown up across the front. you can only assume it’s a band you don’t recognize. he’s not dressed up, but by a long shot. there’s even a few piercings missing and the usual jeweled accessories you see him with have been removed and put back in their rightful spot. still, you’re speechless and clutching the straps of your tote bag, securely looped around your shoulder.

it’s not the way he looks but him as a concept, an essence. it’s what he stands and the fear that you’ve been fighting to continually ignore. it’s the religious guilt for such a heavy sin you’ve never imagined you’d commit. he is tempting, a hologram of lucifer himself, a craving a lust that you cannot afford to get involved with. it will ruin your purity. or rather, your sanity.

you shouldn’t be here.

“what do we have here?” hobie’s voice acts like a harsh wind in the fog of your brain, pushing it all to the back of your mind and forcing you to refocus to the situation, at hand. “couple of strays, huh?” he’s smiling at the both of you but you know he’s talking to you. he’s looking at you, staring right into your soul to draw out the reason for your sudden appearance. “hi vivienne. ‘s nice to see you again.”

“we’ve met before?” she speaks with such ease to him, you’re jealous. she’s unaffected, obviously. it’s a wonder if she can even feel the growing tension the longer you stand here and stare at him.

“mm, once or twice,” his lips upturn in a soft smile, accompanied by the crown of his head dipping towards his shoulder, left and right. “i don't expect you to remember me. it was only in passing.”

it gets quiet all over again and you know it’s because everyone is waiting. you’re the one who needs to ask because you’re the one who needs to stay. it’s so easy to ask and yet, so hard at the same time. so difficult to look hobie in the eyes and say can i sleep here tonight?

and yet, you do rather hesitantly. “um, i know that we are friends right now but i . . . our building has no heat and it’s really cold and it’s going to start snowing. i didn’t want to ask you but vivi said — anyway that’s not important. i just can’t stay there because it’s freezing and i’m not going home for a few more days. plus, they sent out an email saying that we shouldn’t sleep there so . . . i mean, you can totally say no. i’ll just follow vivi to her —”

“jesus fucking christ,” hobie cuts off your rant with. click of his tongue. it’s unclear whether his tone is annoyed because he speaks so slowly, shifting his weight until he’s standing and supporting himself fully. “you could have texted me all’at.”

you think, just for a moment, he’s going to step inside and slam the door in your face when he retreats behind the invisible boundary of his door. but no, he’s simply making room for you, motioning for you to walk through the door and entire his space.

“i got her. have a good night, vivienne.”

you think it’s more shocking being behind the door and in hobie’s threshold than it was trying to ask him to welcome you in. you only take a few steps until you’re standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. it’s exactly as you remembered, posters decorating the wall until only slivers of plaster are visible between the margins. there’s a tapestry hung up over the top of his bed. that’s new, along with the large mirror leaning against his closet door.

it’s cluttered, full of antique records and hobie’s personal artwork. he hangs his belts up on hooked command strips, studded and catching the purple lights from the led. it smells like bergamot, mist scented with essential oils spewing out the humidifiers on hobie’s desk. his large monitored pc is on and playing chainsaw man at such a soft volume, you almost miss it. 

“you can have the bed. i’ll make something work.” he takes a seat at his desk without sparing you a glance. much like the other night, your view of him is obscured. all you can really see is his fingers working together on what you perceive to be him crocheting, something that could have been surprising if you didn’t know he’s a jack of all trades.

you look over at his bed, blankets messily wrinkled and tossed aside. unlike your own, it lacks an excess of decoration pillows and stuffed animals. that’s not the part that seems daunting, though. it’s his bed in his room. “thank you, hobie. i really appreciate it.”

you’ve already hung your bed over the blocky stalk forming the makeshift headboard when he hums a response. hobie’s bed is lifted much higher than yours, obviously because he towers over you. it makes sense that his bed needs to offset the the affects of his height but for you, it’s an inconvenience. you don’t remember it being this tall before your fallout. you tilt your head and assess your possible solutions. a chair could be helpful but he’s sitting on it. there doesn’t seem to be a ladder in the room, probably because he doesn’t need it. “do you mind helping me . . . one more time? i won’t speak to you anymore, after that.”

hobie rolls back his shoulders, pulling at the muscles in his neck until they pop under the stretch. there’s a sigh that falls from his lips before he turns around and stands. “yeah, sure. can’t get on the bed?” he isn’t expecting an answer though because the moment you’re in his eyesight, staring at the navy blue duvet and clutching the light fabric between your fingers, it’s pretty clear what the problem is.

the distance is closed between both your bodies in a short span of a few seconds. it’s after that time where his hands circle around your waist with a firm grip. any other girl wouldn’t feel such a warm heat creeping up the back of their neck. you’re the only one on the planet probably, with all your inexperience, that oddly feels shy when he lifts you into the air and onto the bed with so much as a grunt.

you settle and shift until you’ve almost scurried into the back corner to evade any possible tension that could arise from the proximity. when you’re glancing back over your shoulder with your lips pulled into a strained line, hobie has his head cocked to the side and a gaze that lingers on yours.

he could question you now, he’s sure. he could nip this avoidance thing in the bud and get it over with. this could all be over today but . . . there’s just something in the way. it’s not like he isn’t confrontational or would rather protect your feelings but he can only imagine how this must feel for you. knowing that your friendship cannot go back to the way it was before after blurring the lines. a large part of him regrets ignoring his mental clarity and decided to go through with it anyway. he knew it would end up like this, sort of. you would lose all grasp you have on reality as you know it and send yourself spiraling into uncertainty. “ . . . y’know i’m not gonna bite you or something, right? you just need somewhere to sleep so you’re here. that’s it.”

as usual, hobie is the far more rational one in this situation. his demeanor reminds you of something lackluster, brushing off the situation at hand as if it’s nothing, as if what happened didn’t and he hadn’t had his fingers deep in your cunt a few months prior. “no i know. it’s just . . . with our history . . .”

his shoulders rise and drop in a shrug. the muscles on his shoulders, broad and somewhat stocky, tense and pull around his neck. the skin wrinkles before it settles back in its originally position. “clearly you don’t want to talk about it so we aren’t going to talk about it.”

similarly to your last visit, hobie takes a seat in his desk chair. he replaced the sturdy wooden one with his own and turns the seat until it’s facing your direction. hobie’s legs spread wide and comfortably; he slouches, rounding his back and slouching further down in the chair. he’s only eyeing you for just a moment before proceeding to turn his attention back to his show.

you mull his words over in his head, tossing them around your brain and deciding how they taste in your mouth as it all gets processed. the simple way to end things would be to nod and lay down but there’s an upset in your heart, a disturbance that makes you stomach turn with nausea. “well, what is there to talk about? we . . . did what we did. that’s all there is to it, right?”

his interest is suddenly peaked away, curiosity reaching an all time high while he swivels his chair around in your direction again. it’s astonishing that you, so shy and so quiet, had stepped up to plate and given him the opening he needed. hobie, in all honesty, has been waiting for this. he’s been stewing on his emotions and thinking over what he really wanted out of this for weeks. he missed you, the girl he rescued from having such a horrid experience at a party. “yeah, that would be it if you didn’t scatter like a fuckin’ bug under an overturned rock every time you see me.”

“hobie,” you can’t help but chastise him, falling back into your old habits. you’re even curled up in his bed and have nestled beneath the sheets, now warming from your trapped body heat. 

“i’d apologize but i’m not really sorry. you avoided me for weeks. you’re deadass lucky that i let you stay here tonight because technically, we aren’t cool anymore.” he’s gotten his arms crossed over his chest now, a brow raised to challenge you to press his concept of your less-than-friendship. “i’m always gonna look out for you, bug, but i’m feeling kind of betrayed right now.”

you tuck your bottom lip in between the space of your teeth and knaw on the brown skin, pulling at the dead and dry spots that lift with any contact of your tongue. an apology flows out of you quickly but you mean it, despite the predispositioned guilt you get at the drop of a hat. “i’m sorry, hobie. it wasn’t my intention. i just didn’t know what to do. i still don’t know what to do. i’ve never done — that — before and you were such a good friend. it scared me.” you can’t help but lock in your attention on a little red string, dangling off the side of hobie’s pillowcase. 

you don’t see the way he tilts his head and prolongs his gaze. it’s hard to tell what you’re thinking, at times. you’re not everyone else, and certainly not in a quirky way. to hobie, you’re far more delicate, far more likely to apologize for any and everything. you’re not well adapted, he thinks. the world could swallow you up hole at any given point and he can’t help but feel pity. or is it empathy? “i know. it is partially my fault. i should have stuck to what i said. it’s normal for a dynamic to change when you fuck someone. i can’t expect you to know that so yeah, i forgive you. we’re fine.”

still, there’s some deep settled guilt inside you, locked away and unable to be opened. weeks worth of unresolved questions and answers left up tn your interpretation. it makes you frown so hard, the lines could be etched into your otherwise smooth skin. “no, it’s not you. i’m just, i dunno? different, i guess. i’m not normal but i wish i was because then this wouldn’t be such a big thing. no one else cares like i do.”

“but that’s okay. you shouldn’t feel guilty because you feel differently than anyone else. it’s fine, ☆. it’s okay. it was a mutual decision. it just won’t be a decision we make again.” his shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. it could seem dismissive is if was anyone but hobie, the one person who would do all he could to ease your worries. “i know you. i know who you are and how you think and what you’re like. it’s okay, really. we’re cool, yeah? just go to sleep and relax. ‘m not mad, really.”

you sniff and curl up into the corner of the bed. you tug the soft sheets up to your chin and tuck it under. the fabric brushes across your nerves in a way that’s soothing, comforting like a warm hug. you look at hobie, really look at him. you look at him like he’s altering your world view, pulling away layers and layers of complex ideas, thoughts, and opinions. his brain isn’t like yours. it’s filled with never ending patience and coolness, sewn together with the raw emotions of life’s worst moments. he’s forgiven you, without a second thought, for running away and ignoring him for weeks. are you friends again?

“okay,” you mumble and wiggle around until the mattress contorts to the shape of your form. you lick your lips and continue to stare at him like he’s altered your entire philosophy. it’s strange that the guilt is still present, although oddly enough its strange how it’s not as potent. it doesn’t feel as debilitating; you don’t feel like you’re suffocating under the harsh scrutiny of your lord and savior. instead, and only for a second, you consider the possibility that you’re staring at the most gracious in the flesh. the thought makes you scoff and shake your head at yourself, briefly alarmed that you’d even consider such a thing. “goodnight then, hobes.”

you don’t know what time it is when your eyes flutter open and peer into the darkness. you don’t remember falling asleep. in fact, the last thing you do remember is rolling over and staring at the wall, pacing your breathing until it followed a slow regime to lull you into unconscious. you don’t remember feeling tired and drifting off into sleep. the one thing you do remember, however, is hobie waking you up to ask if he could sleep next to you.

as usual, he was entirely respectful about it and left a pillow in between your bodies, working as the barrier to protect everyone’s personal space. you don’t fault him too much, anyway. the floors are too hard to willingly spend the rest of the night on comfortably, especially in your own room.

you head lulls to the side until you’re face to face with what you think is hobie. your eyes are slow to adjust to the lack of lighting but his breath is audible, soft and fanning over the pillow barrier between you. with the more time the passes, the clearer his distance facial

features become, although still muddied by darkness. your brain is able to connect the dots and visualize his peaceful expression in the gaps the darkness provides. 

he looks so . . . sweet. so pretty and even if no one can hear your thoughts, you’re still embarrassed to think it. he’s the prince of darkness, inviting you to brush gentle fingertips across his cheek. it’s not something you get a chance to think about, almost in a trance with hazy eyes. it makes him stir, eyeballs swirling beneath closed lids. your touch breaks him from his sleep, placidly. one moment, his chest rise and falls with each inhale and exhale. the next, he’s peering back at you with half closed lids and registering the surroundings he’s found himself in. “hm?”

it’s as if his voice, a soft hum, brings you out of your trance as if he’s snapped his fingers in front of your face. you yank your hand back with intent regret and humiliation. he caught you. “oh, i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to wake you.”

“mm,” his voice comes out gravely and still obviously under the influence of sleep. the back of his hand brushes against his eyes, knuckles digging into the corner. “did you poke me or somethin’?”

you don’t respond to his question. instead, you curl your lips into themselves as if leaving it hanging in the air would stall enough for him to forget. lucky enough, his ebbing exhaustion did half of the work for you. hobie doesn’t ask again, nor does he press for me. he’s too busy trying to understand the situation as a yawn escapes his lips.

his attention eventually settles on you once more. he doesn’t think you realize how close you are, leaning over the boundary to get a clear view of his face and a clear feel, too. there’s something in hobie that wants him to tease and poke and prod at you. he refrains though, only because it’s far too late in the night to become that active. it’s too quiet to start pestering you; the moment is too personal.

you both spend a minute with silent eye contact, prolonged and oddly intimate. it’s as if you have a conversation without even speaking a word, looking into the soul of the other. it renders you speechless. not a single word comes to mind when you’re laying close enough to see what seems to be an outline of an eyelash clinging onto his cheek. 

“this isn’t — we can’t do this.” hobie sighs under his breath with a shake of his head. he rolls onto his back. his palm comes to weigh heavy on his head, tugging downward. 

even you know what the problem is, unable to feign innocents and ask what he means. there’s tension; it’s palpable. of course it is when you’re so close to each other in such a small space. this setup would have been better had hobie slept on the floor but his aching bones would plead victim in the following morning.

you don’t know what to do, though. a piece of you wants you to throw whatever inhibitions you hold out the window. it’s become a pattern now. once the moon rises and you become in close proximity with your personal ultimate sin, everything you know becomes useless. your beliefs are casted into the back of your mind and you become ready to do whatever he asks. it’s not like the last time had no effect on you whatsoever. if anything, it opened your eyes to a world previously unknown.

you didn’t know fingers could feel that good before, much less it still worked if you did it yourself. nonetheless, it didn’t compare to hobie’s masterful experience. it’s been something you’ve often reminisced on often, so much so that you’ve considered praying for it again. you know better but you can’t help yourself, losing what will you had. 

“why not? we talked about it so it’s okay, now.” you know you’re lying through your teeth when you say it, yet you’re persistent. you’re already laser focused on the possibility of just a little excitement in your otherwise dull, rule following life. another night of hobie’s fingers down your pants and holding you on the tip of your toes. 

he shakes his head again, just as insistent not to do this as you are to do this. “y’know that’s not how this works. we can’t. you can’t. we know how this will end. you’ll get shy and ignore me again. i don’t think we should head down that path.”

your expression is concealed by the veil of darkness but the bed still dips when you sit up and redistribute your weight. you sit mermaid style, knees bent and supporting your new position with a hand pressed against the rather soft surface. this is a new side of you that not even you could have prepared yourself for. it’s a desperate side, a needy side that clicked into place so suddenly once put in such an ideal situation. “i won’t. we’ve already done it once and now i know what it’s like so it’s fine. technically, i’m way more experienced.”

it’s not that hobie doesn’t want to. he’d be happy to, excited to even. however, just like the last time, it’s him who has to be the one with restraint. it’s him with the power and charm to bend you as he pleases but hobie’s had enough experience to know that in the end, it’s possible that neither of you will be speaking shortly after this. does he really want to ruin a potential friendship right after reconnecting? “this is ridiculous. you said the same thing before. you said it would be fine and it wasn’t fine. i don’t want to do all that again.”

“i won’t. i promise i won’t. we don’t even have to do . . . the real thing. think of it as a teaching opportunity. would you rather i do it with someone i know has my best interests at heart or literally anyone else.” the words are leaving your lips before you can even think about it. they even taste absurd on your tongue, dripping in a viscous nectar, sweet and honey-like; it’s a precious rarity bestowed upon earth from the heavens.

“you’re going to drive me crazy.” hobie drawls lowly. there’s a moment where the possibility hangs high in the air — will he or will he not? his hand finds your arm and brushes the tips of his fingers along your skin. he can feel the goosebumps that prickle in his wake and it’s just not, if not more enticing. the right decision is to deny you; it’s obvious. yet, he just can’t. he can’t do it.

you, in all your needy innocence and purity, seated at the tips of his fingers and hanging on to every last word. you put too much trust in him. he knows you have this image of him you’ve conjured up. sure, you can trust him to protect you with his life and keep you somewhat sheltered to the bad things in life but in the end, hobie is hobie. he’s a man with a deep dark fantasy of ruining the perfect girl, turning her away from her views and forcing her to become drunk in him. when you’re sitting here tempting him with that sweet voice of yours, it all seems easier for his moral compass to become more and more misaligned. 

“fuck it, whatever. come here.” regardless of his debilitating ethics, his guiding hand that comes to cup your cheek and draw you nearer is just as gentle as you remember. it’s a touch that you’ve worked hard to bring back to the surface during those particularly lonely nights; you don’t even realize just how quickly you’re leaning into it and becoming passive in his presence. 

half your body is over his, a hand pressed into his chest. it’s a little awkward, the way you’re dangling off his side but all your focus is on the rhythmic dance your lips do together. it doesn’t last long anyway because hobie does all the adjusting for you, rolling onto his side and forcing you on yours. his thumb caressing your cheek, drawing small circles and gliding down the expanse of your face until he reaches his goal destination, holding your chin in his grasp.

he’s still setting the pace when his other hand hooks beneath the bend of your knee and pulls it over his waist. the fuzz of his pants pills the fabric of your leggings but it acts like a magnetic force that inclines you to get even closer. “what am i to do with you?” his words feel hot against your skin, melting his question into your nerves and leaving a permanent sensitivity to his touch.

your novicity is glaringly obvious when you’re already withering at the feeling of his lips against your neck, grazing down and across, covering as much of the open space as he could. his kisses are oddly sweet; they’re wet, leaving behind a thin gleaming layer of spit, but lacking any graze of his teeth. he’s still lapping at your skin when his hands have discarded their precious place and found a new solace, burning hot against your bare skin under your shirt. “you want me to this, you want me to do that. can’t even handle the consequences of your actions.”

your lips begins to tremble with such fervor, you’re forced to tuck it between your teeth. you don’t remember being this humiliated last time, or maybe you were. it’s hard to tell because your thoughts are quick to become hazy when his fingers find the fabric of your bra.

hobie, for one, wasn’t expecting it. the flash of confusion across his face goes unnoticed when he’s settled in the crook of your neck and he doesn’t spend too much time dwelling on it, either, in fear it’ll break the moment. knowing you, you were probably too “good” to take it off, as if keeping it on was a sign of respect. or perhaps, it just seemed like the right thing to do in the presence of a man.

“that’s not true,” you say with only the slightest trevor in your voice. you can feel the clasp to your bra snapping apart. it hangs loose at your arms now and allows enough space for hobie to resume his conquest, slipping his hands underneath.

he chuckles when you gasp, so airy, right next to his ear. he pulls himself out the corner of your neck to look at you, to memorize each tweak of your lips and your eyes open wide and needy. he’s merely grabbed at your breasts, catching your hardened nipples between the webs of his fingers. “no? but you’re lyin’, bug. and you know what, lying is bad.” his chuckle turns into a grin, one that seems especially wicked when he’s rolling them between his fingers.

your open mouthed sigh gets lost behind your shirt tugged over your head with hobie’s assistance. “i’m not lying,” you insist but the guilt of your fib eats you away, nonetheless. you’re still pouting when you’ve pulled your arms out of your bra straps and leaving it to be discarded somewhere in the bed.

“mhm,” he hums, now eyeing your tits on display for him and begging to be sucked. it’s the only natural that he does as his urges want him to, cupping the bottom and flattening his tongue over your areola. by now, he’s rolled you onto your back and flicking his thumb over the other that’s been left otherwise untouched.

you cradle his hand between your hands, dragging your fingers along the coarse locs and into his scalp. you’re barely aware of what you’re doing, caught up in your nerves tingling beneath your skin. the sense is heightened when his teeth clamp down on the hardened bud and pulls. the pain is immediate and your back arches in response. however, the pleasure that follows is unexpected and sits just below the surface, piquing your curiosity and wanting him to do it again.

“poor thing. i really don’t know what to do with you,” hobie kisses your cleavage. he eyes you from his position below your head while his hands continue to explore your body, finding the soft flesh of your hips and massaging them. “everything’s too much for you. you’re not ready for the real thing. you can’t handle a cock yet, even if you’re begging for it.”

his demeanor is slow to change. you could have sworn hobie spent the last few minutes doting on you. there wasn’t a moment you considered his words had a harsher inclination. perhaps it had but you were too past relishing in the feeling of his attention. it was like watching someone transform into someone else, metamorphosis into a darker version of himself

you can’t help but acknowledge the shame that begins to flood over you at his words. they make you feel small, as if you’re not in control of your own body. you were bound to respond like this; it’s just your destiny. you will always gravitate towards hobie like a moth to a flame.

“stop it. don’t say things like that.” it’s not much to say but it’s all you can manage, cheeks rapidly heating up with an intense heat. your hands ever-so-sweet fall from the entanglement in his scalp and take their designated space on his shoulders.

“don’t say things like that?” hobie speaks with a lift in his voice, replicating the pitch of voice you decided to use with hands on your hips to roll you onto your back. you miss the way his eyebrow raises in the dark and the tug of his lips turn upwards. “what do you mean don’t say things like that? am i not supposed to say the word ‘cock’ when i suck on your sweet pussy?”

you crane your neck higher and higher the lower hobie slides his way down your body. you unintentionally tighten, drawing your muscles together. your breath catches in your throat when your eyes meet each other. there’s almost a split second where the words are just ready to spill out of your lips. it would be yet another chastise, another moment where you mention your disdain for such vocabulary. you never get to it because hobie beats you to it. he interrupts you with a sly grin and a tongue sliding across the fabric of your pants. the material deepens into a darker shade of the light blue when his saliva sinks within and catches your clit.

it’s over your clothes and yet it feels so good, unlike anything before. not like before, when hobie had you strewn across your desk. although, this new adaptation is a bit more dull. his hands maintain his strong hold, although there isn’t much current need. there’s no attempt to pull away from you. you’re not at all wiggling about but instead, opening your legs wider to entice him a little more.

you gain a small squeeze from your actions and a chuckle that follows shortly after. hobie’s wordless response is enough, at least for him. he attaches his lips even more, circling around your clothed clit and sucking it through your clothes. his tastebuds are full of boring cotton but his sense of smell is delighted, inhaling you in your purest form with the intention of imprinting this memory in his head.

you whine and mewl and keen, voicing your somewhat opposition to your current position. it felt good, really, having his nose brush against your jeweled pearl biden behind the hilt of a hood. the most drunken part of you, intoxicated off the high of lust, nearly convinces you to lift a shaking hand in hobie’s direction with the intention of pulling your damp panties away from your skin.

it doesn’t get really far. if anything, the moment the elastic waistband brushes against the pads of your fingertips, the fabric is just out of reach again. your hand becomes trapped within hobie’s grip and rests against the sides of your thigh. he fixed you with a glare, or rather the gleam in his light-catching eyes do.

“don’t be a terror,” he mumbles while turning his head towards the soft flesh of your inner thigh. his mouth meet the skin is a soft kiss, teeth just barely grazing behind pillowed lips. “tell me what you want, hm? can’t be ruining the poor angel’s purity.”

before he’s able to finish his sentence, you’re already pouting at the ramifications of your impromptu decision. how dare he suggest you’re better off filling your mouth such dirty words when he could so easily go in what direction you’re clearly steering him towards. “you’re being mean,” you can’t help but fuss and have already begun to tug towards freedom.

your attempt gets you nowhere but in a tighter grip and less than subtle smirk. he doesn’t attempt to hide what malicious intent he may hold. “what do you mean, duck? i’m spoiling you. just tell me what you want.” the way he says it is so condescending, as if it’s absolutely not a big deal and you’re working yourself up. his large brown eyes feign an innocent expression when he hooks a finger on your panties to pull then to the side. “just ask me for it. isn’t that what you want?”

you watch through the darkness as hobie cranes himself just a little further. your pussy is already yearning for him, glittering with cream and revealed to him as a tempting dessert with tart icing. he opens his mouth, letting his tongue dripping in saliva just dangle over your wet cunt. “just ask me. ask me to eat this pussy ‘til you cum. say it.”

a thin line of spit drips from his tongue and gets lost in the whipped mess that is your arousal. it disappears in the milky slick that clings to your folds and you can whimper as though you can feel it searing your nerves.

how did you end up here? you’re trapped in a dance with the devil, fighting between your innate desires and the knowledge ingrained in you. your mouth has already gone dry from hanging open with no words to leave them. your heart pounds within your chest, thrumming behind your ribcage and making the situation all too real.

“ask me, dove. ‘pretty please eat my pussy’. that’s all you gotta do f’me.” his words are are vulgar as his grin, a perfect imitation of an archangel. his eyes fall towards your pearled clit, pulling the hood upwards with his thumb. it’s a soft touch but just as effective in revealing such sensitive skin to him. he can’t help but burble at the sight and lets his tongue dangle over your clit again. another droplet falls in place and you keen, just was before. 

“you want it so bad. i know you do. just look at the mess you made. say it. tell me you want it and i’ll give it to you. i’ll give you whatever you want. just have to ask me for it first.” he’s nearly begging for it, begging for you to lose your inhibitions and use him. or let him use you, whichever comes first. “tell me you want it. tell hobie you want it.”

it’s dizzying, almost. you can’t catch up, much less catch your breath. you’re not even sure why you’re winded. it’s not as though you’ve done anything and yet, every breath you take seems to dissipate before it reaches your lungs. this is cruel. it has to be a form of punishment. illegal even, to force such words into your mouth. still, there’s some sort of morbid thrill that comes from it, like this opportunity is a flame in the dark, flickering and taunting you with its warmth. “i – i want you to eat my . . . pussy.”

it’s much slower than you anticipate, the onslaught feeling of his lips circling around your clit and suckling on your watery essence. regardless, the feeling is all the same and results in your legs attempting to clamp shut around his head. it’s a knee jerk reaction that earns you a muffled grumble and two large hands placed firmly on the backs of your thigh. the hold is advantageous in pushing them away from his ears and towards yours. 

it’s a simple impulse and yet, it sends fresh adrenaline pumping through your veins. your newly freed hand buries itself in the coarse mix of hair atop hobie’s head. he’s just as receptive to your touch as you are to his, murmuring vibrations against your skin in a deepened hum. it does a number on your sensitive cunt, sending you back to be pressed into the less than comforting mattress. you’ve gathered fist-fulls of hobie’s hair. the feeling grounds you, just enough to keep your sanity from floating away into the pillowy clouds of your imagination.

you can hear his lips wrapped up in your wet walls just as much as you can feel his tongue prodding your insides. he somehow manages to find every cavernous corner within an inch of reach, swallowing each drop of arousal you have to offer. you cry and whine a shaky mixture of “hobie” and “please” over and over again. the words drip from your mouth like a mantra, a lewd prayer that only he can fulfill.

it doesn’t compare to the first time he’s done this, not at all. gentle hands have turned into harsh clutches, fingers digging into your skin. there is less reassurance this time, no soft words exchanged between the two of you past your muted murmurs and his occasional drag of air when his lips leave you. the strangest part of it all is that you’re gushing, far more than you were when he took his sweet time with you.

perhaps this is what you needed all along. this is what you really wanted. a twisted side of you really wanted this. behind the good girl facade, what you really want is a silver-tongued devil to bring you to the precipice of your existence. it just happens to be a mere coincidence that the brink is a blinding orgasm that steals your breath and sends your lurching. 

you could say your body began to fight against it, warning you with a tingling sensation that began in the pit of your tummy. it radiates throughout your limbs from there, causing your toes to curl and your hands to circle into tighter fists. you release your hold on hobie’s hair and trade it for the sheets instead. the fabric becomes wrapped and disheveled between your fingertips. you could have warned him, putting a little more effort into getting some lucid words out, but the moment you open your mouth, it’s all incoherent jumble.

hobie doesn’t seem to mind your wordless state. in fact, he gains a sort of ego boost from it by pulling away, ruining your orgasm into a vapid release, all while watching your needy hole wink at him in dissatisfaction. “greedy, greedy girl. what did i say? tell me what you want, hm?” it’s as if you’re not there, merely an extension of your pretty cunt all on display for him. he lays eye-level with it, fascinated by the infinite watery slurry seeping out.

hobie likes to think you were begging for it when he languidly slaps a hot palm on your pussy. he even has a smile across his face and remedies the slight pain by rubbing his hand across your folds. your previous cum provides a glow he’s never seen before. a sweet dewiness handpicked from handspun gold and liquefied into a nectar just for you. “i’ll give you anything, treacle. anything. just ask me for it, would you?”

in hobie’s head, in his depraved mind, this is for him as it is for you. maybe the real reason he was so hesitant to go down this road is because he knew what it would have meant. this very moment signifies the beginning of the end, the moment where every dark and carnivorous desire takes hold and he follows through with what he really wants . . . what hobie really wants.

to let darkness consume and devour you whole, snuffling out your halo until you’re standing in the abyss, illuminated by a single flame. him.

[turquoizxe]

𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐘𝐨𝐮

Hobart “Hobie” Brown x Spider!Fem!Reader 

Synopsis ― You’re a college student who has been patrolling your city for the last year. The surge in responsibilities have your grades and mental state suffering, and tuition is expensive, your parents are paying for the rest of what the scholarships don’t cover. Life just seems to be in a constant loop of a mess, why not add a friend into that? Hobie Brown had performed on campus for a festival, and you’d see him more often than not afterwards after getting to actually meet him. He has such a different vibe to him, you’re almost sure that he’s not from here. Bad news, he’s not. 

Just For You ― Self-Insert Series 

Disclaimer ― ATSV SPOILERS, 3 parts for mature audiences (17+), 5 parts for adults (18+)

Content ― fem!reader, slow burn, eventual smut, angst, fluff, introduction to existing atsv characters, use of foul language, suggestive themes, violence, generally sensitive topics(relationships, mental health, near-death experience, etc.)

Mature Ratings (17+)

Installation (1/5) : ‘Dodgy’ — Released!

Installation (2/5) : ‘Piss Off’ — Released!

Installation (3/5) : ‘Chuffed’ — Released!

Adult Ratings (18+)

Installation (4/5) : ‘Give You A Bell’ — ;)

Installation (5/5) : ‘Fancy’ — ;)

Note : I’ll probably post this on A03 as well!

Tags will be posted after the conclusion of the series.

[liyawritesss]

ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛᴀʙʟᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜ

Characters: Spider-Verse!Hobart “Hobie” Brown [Spider-Punk] x Black!Fem!College!Reader

Type: Drabble

Word Count: 1.4k

Synopsis: Hobie’s got a habit of letting himself into your dorm room. Thankfully, you’ve got your own suite, and tonight isn’t any different.

Warnings: cursing, very very horrible british accent & slang I apologize in advance/please teach me better, brief nudity (he’s taking a shower chill you horndogs), I perceive Hobie to be around 18-19.

A/N: Was listening to a 90’s playlist while writing this so yeah there’s a couple of 90’s songs references in here.

Song Suggestions: “comfortable” by H.E.R., “So Into You” by Tamia, “Brown Skin Lady” by Black Star, “I Wanna Be Down” by Brandy, “Be Happy” by Mary J. Blige

Tags: @6-noir @babyboiboyega @badass-dora-milaje @jacuzziwaters @venusdraco @mbakuetshurisprincess @shuriszn @verachii @writingintheshadowsforever @cafehyunji @niyahwrites @pantherheart @marsfunzon22 @movie-enthusiast22 @famedrs-blog @honeybleed @briology @pnkweb

Sign Up For My Taglist Here!

Hobie can see the pretty lavender color seeping from your window about a block out from your dorm building. It’s the color you use to signify that your window is open for him to come through, and he has to admit, in times like these, he’s glad that the both of you decided on the bright, pastel-like hue that shines from your LED strip lights.

To say the hero was tired as an understatement. His body was screaming for rest; has been for the past week. But one can’t rest in the face of oppression, and Hobie Brown never turned down any action that would cause unease and unrest for the elitist politicians of his society - and neither did Spider-Punk.

Said action was the reason why Hobie hadn’t gotten proper rest or taken care of himself like he knew you’d want him to in the past week. He normally didn’t care for the repercussions his actions would have on himself, always telling himself that it was a risk well worth since it brung him and his people closer and closer to the freedom they desired, no matter how small the steps were.

However, upon meeting you, and subsequently falling for you, and subsequently taking on the label as your partner, he’d come to understand that you just wouldn’t have any of that. Although begrudgingly at first, Hobie began to take your advice and constant nagging on taking care of himself better, but now it had gotten to the point where he simply couldn’t do those mundane tasks of self care without you. Even sleeping became hard without you, or at least, something that reminded him of your presence.

Hence why he was swinging from building to building to reach your dorm hall, because while Hobie wasn’t in the right mind to admit it to himself, he was in need of your love and care, and only you could ease him in the way he needed.

He hangs off the wall as he gazes into your single suite dorm, the muffled melody of Mary J. Blige’s “Be Happy” reverberating through his body. You’re doing a little dance in your desk chair, pretty hair wrapped up in a headscarf, the maroon hoodie you had on swamping your upper body. You had a writing utensil in hand, and with the books opened on your desk, it appeared like you were doing assignments for class. Hobie smiles to himself under his mask, wondering how he ended up with such a smart and intellectual person like yourself.

He has no problem raising up the window and slipping inside, his practiced movements quiet and agile as he pads across your hardwood floors. He pulls the mask from his head, freeing his face and wicks from the stretchy material, taking a deep breath. Your room smells like home, traces of lavender sage trailing in the air, and he can feel the headache that had been plaguing him for the longest finally begin to subside.

Hobie begins to search through your drawers, trying to find the stash of clothes you insisted on him keeping at your place since the first few times he’d crashed there. In the midst of doing so, he feels a pair of arms trail around his midsection, and not long after, your voice floats to his ears.

“I love how you never look in the bottom drawer,” you say with a teasing lilt in your voice, “y’know, where your clothes have always been.”

“Hello to you, too, pretty.”

Hobie allows himself to be shooed off to the shower, as you tell him you’ll worry about getting his clothes and some food together, He can’t resist the lopsided grin that spreads across his lips as he follows your orders. The hot water against his sore muscles and stinging scratches and other injuries feels like heaven, and when he emerges from the bathroom, he smells like it, too. The lavender body wash is his favorite out of your collection, and he chuckles when he sees you’ve got two tall bottles of it stored under your bathroom rink, almost anticipating that he’d use it anyway. He loves how well you know him.

Hobie dresses in the gray sweatpants you left out for him, opting to remain shirtless for the comfort of it. Definitely not to see your flustered face as you walk back in your room to him sitting on the edge of your bed, ready to be taken care of.

When you walk back in, the song on your speaker switches to the easy one-two step tempo of Brandy’s “I Wanna Be Down”, a container of food in one hand and a first aid kit in the other. “Tell me where the knicks are.” You say, setting the food down on your nightstand, and Hobie proceeds to show you the various scratches and bruises on his body that desire your gentle touch and attention.

They’re not so bad, which is surprising considering how wild and reckless Hobie usually is, so you figure some ointment and muscle cream for the soreness will help for the night. Calloused hands hold the container of food that you’ve so graciously warmed up for him, and as he eats, you encourage him to talk about his day.

“Bloody prick wouldn’t shut up,” he grunts after a few bites of food, and you assume the ‘prick’ he’s referring to is one of the members of the local government that, for lack of better words, did not have the support of the younger generation when it came to his reign in office, “wan’ed to knock his head off his shoulders so bad. King dick arsehole.”

You laugh at his choice of words, and it's the best sound he’s heard all week.

He’s done eating faster than what he anticipated and with the food in his system, his body begins to feel more heavy, the exhaustion beginning to seep deep into his bones and become visible on his face. Your heart swells at the sight, his lidded eyes and slight head-nodding to your music more than enough to tell you just how tired Hobie was. 

You take the empty container and place it on your dresser, taking Hobie’s head into your hand and pressing gentle kisses against his cheeks, his forehead, his eyelids, his lips. He all but relishes in the feeling, each peck of your lips leaving a burst of comfort in his wake, and it causes him to nearly melt in your hold. His large hands make their way up your biker shorts, riding up your thighs into the crevice of where your pelvis and thighs met, and under your hoodie to feel the warmth of your bare skin. You stand in between his legs here, though Hobie decides that this isn’t close enough, and reaches to the back of your thighs to pull you onto his lap.

It quickly becomes addicting, the feeling of your lips on his face and your skin under his hands. It’s not long until you’re laying on your back and Hobie is settled between your legs, his head tucked into the crevice of your neck, his upper body resting almost completely on top of your own. One large hand rests on the curve of your ass, the other is under your hoodie, resting on the side of your ribcage, thumb subtly swiping under the curve of your breast.

Your touch brings him just as much comfort as just the simple skin-to-skin contact he enacts on his own. One hand roams the surface of his back, tracing figures into the dark skin littered with even darker blemishes and scars. The other rests at the nape of his neck, holding him close as you continue your kissing assault on the punk-alt boy. Hobie sighs into your neck when he hears you begin to hum the tune of the new song playing. Even though you’re barely above a whisper, he hears you clearly and the wave of comfort that floods his form is indescribable.

It doesn’t take long before his breaths start to even out, and the weight of his body begins to sink into your own. Pressing one final kiss into the crown of his head as “Brown Skin Lady” begins to fade down into a low hum, thanks to you turning down the volume through your phone. With Hobie fast asleep, it leaves you no choice but to your own slumber. It’s not like you can go back to your homework, after all.

[madschiavelique]

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ . ★ . ჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻

Chapter 1 : First Day

pairing : teacher!miguel o’hara x student!reader summary : you visit your new university with the help of Hobie, and when coming back to your new apartment you meet your charming neighbour Miguel. turns out, he is not only your neighbour, but your teacher. (not proofread) content warnings : none word count : Route A : 4,2k | Route B : 4k masterlist of the fic : here.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ . ★ . ჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻

Your lungs fill with the cool air of mid-September. The leaves are beginning to turn brown, a few falling onto the perfectly cut green lawn of the campus park. You can't wait to walk on them and hear them crunch under your shoes.

But for now, the sky remains blue on this late afternoon, dotted with a few cottony clouds, the gentle caress of the sun's warmth licking the skin of your cheeks. You breathe softly, calming your excited little heart for the new terrain that now stretches out before you.

At the end of this weekend, you'll begin your new year at the Academy of Science and Polytechnics, otherwise known to its students as ASP. Your previous university didn't live up to your expectations, nor did the one before that, but as they say, third time's the charm! At least, you hope so...

You're expecting to have a little more experience on various subjects than your future comrades, and you're quite happy to be starting out with a head start. Not that it's a competition, but the comfort you have with certain subjects is reassuring.

You're a little worried that the age gap might divide you from them, but you try to reassure yourself that, just in case, other people your age who want to change course will be along for the ride?

You give a quick nod, in the hope that it will give you enough courage and uprightness not to stumble and spread yourself like a pancake in a profoundly ridiculous fashion anywhere on campus, and start your walk to its entrance.

You're supposed to meet up with a certain Hobart Brown, who's supposed to be your guide for today - perhaps he's a student representative? 

Whatever the case, you hope the visit won't be too long. Because not only is today your visiting day and the first time you've set foot in your new college, it's also the day when a good deal of your belongings are moved into your new apartment, which is located just a few blocks from the campus.

You'll receive several boxes containing, among other things, your books and the few manuals you've bought in previous years, clothes, your hygiene kit and a mattress to inflate. The apartment would be empty, with nothing but a refrigerator already installed as furniture.

You'd be on the third floor, the last one, as the building isn't very big or wide, with only two apartments per floor. You just hope your next-door neighbour won't be unpleasant. The reason you're hoping the visit won't be too long is that you'd like to take advantage of the delivery men’ presence to help you get everything up to your floor. Since the building is small, it lacks an elevator.

When you arrive at the large, imposing door of your university building, your gaze inevitably falls on a young man with an atypical style leaning against the wall right next to the entrance. Piercings, free hair, punk clothes and an aura of I-don't-give-a-shit to match, you wonder what degree he must be in.

With a toothpick wedged between his lips, he looks up at you, a shiver running down your spine as he tilts his head to the side.

"It's you? [Name] ?" he asks, calling your name, taking the toothpick from between his lips with his fingers.

It's at this precise moment that the realization hits you that the Hobart Brown you're supposed to find was this young man.

"Hobart?" you ask, raising both eyebrows.

"It's my name, but I prefer Hobie. Well," he nodded, rolling his eyes, "Hobie's a derivative of the one I was given at birth. Let's not get into the habit of names please, it's bad."

The scent of the anarchist anti-system was a perfume he nonetheless seemed to wear gracefully.

You pout understandingly, your lips forming into an inverted smile as you answer simply.

"Gotcha."

He smiles, nodding.

"Well, you're here for a tour," he says as he starts walking towards the interior of the building and you follow him, "but that's a particularly broad and useless term in this context. A tour only lasts once, and you discover things. But since you're going to be coming back here frequently, and you're still likely to discover new places, you could say I'm introducing you to the building."

"Are you in Arts?" you suggest as he walks down a corridor which you look at on either side where classes with their numbers are inscribed. "No, let me guess, you're in Philosophy."

"And you're perceptive." he smiles. "I like you, you seem to catch on quickly."

The university is, after all, home to the vast majority of the sciences, including the humanities. So Hobie is in philosophy, which is not surprising. It's interesting that he was the chosen student for your tour - sorry, introduction to the academy.

"Here's a typical corridor, nothing special, you'll come across lots of them," he sighs as he swings his hand in the air as if chasing a flying insect around him. "On the other hand, on this floor there are a few empty classrooms that we use from time to time, and obviously without the knowledge of the professoriate."

"Makes perfect sense," you say with a shrug.

"It's very useful for the meetings we hold about blockades," he informs, turning to you while walking backwards. "FYI," his ring-fingered hand rests on his chest, "I'm kind of the leader of our blockade committee, although being a leader or having one at your head isn't something I endorse. You could say I'm... the spokesman, the one who makes the speeches at our rebellion events, because let's face it, when you get tear gas thrown in your face, it can be confusing."

He seems to look you up and down, weighing up the pros and cons for a few seconds.

"Would you like to join us?" he finally said, with a jerk of his chin in your direction.

You crossed your arms, looking up at him.

"I'll think about it," you reply simply.

He smirks before turning again and walking straight ahead.

"Now, let me show you what will really matter here for you. You're in 'real' science, aren't you? You like playing chemist? Toying with vials?"

Hobie's little prejudices make you smile and laugh slightly.

"If you're nice, the one who toys with vials will show you how to make a better assortment of components to respond to tear gas."

He turned to you, laughing heartily and pointing at you as he walked to the staircase at the end of the corridor. 

"I like you," he repeated as he led you upstairs.

"This is the second floor, in case you can't count. I don't know all your stuff and your complicated scientific words for this or that or such-and-such subject," he says, his head tilting this way or that, "but one thing's for sure: this is where you'll have most of your classes."

In the hallway in question, coming from a room that had just been locked by her, a lovely dark-skinned lady with gorgeous afro hair was walking towards you.

"And you may well find yourself in class with Mrs. Drew," he said, almost raising his voice and smiling as you walked towards her.

She walked slowly, unhurried, chin high as she smiled at the young man's call.

"Hobie, convincing one more person to tag the campus lawn with a capital A?" she said in a voice that was half sigh and half sneer as she came up to your level.

"You know me at this point, you know I never do the same thing twice," he says with a shrug before plunging his hands into his back pockets. "But for once I'm bringing in a bright element that will go into your side." he turns to you.

"A new student?" asks Professor Drew as her eyes settle on you.

"Nice to meet you, I'm [Name]," you smile simply.

"Welcome, miss." she says, inhaling heavily. "I hope you'll get used to the rhythm here, it can sometimes prove to be merciless."

"Jess, don't be so hard on a new arrival, you'll scare her away," warned a new voice.

A slightly disheveled man with light brown hair came towards you.

"This," Hobie began, "is Professor Parker. You're going to have to put up with him too."

"Eh, I'm not someone you 'put up with'," commented the aforementioned Parker, imitating a finger-crunching reaction to the use of words, "it's not my fault your religion is Spinoza and mine is Mendeleev."

"It's crazy how you're both so distinctly the same mental age," Jess sighed. "Anyway, welcome to our midst miss." and she headed off down the hall.

"Oh, so you're new!" realized Peter, "welcome to ASP."

"Stands for Appearant Soporiphic Problem," Hobie sneers.

"Does Freud have an acronym too?" puffs Peter.

"Of course," he says before raising his hand as if viewing an imaginary title in the air, "MI."

"Mission impossible?" asks Peter, frowning.

"Mommy Issues." corrects Hobie.

"Very funny," laughed Peter falsely, "I hope that as a reconversion option you've chosen the circus?"

"I'm already there. "

"I am fully convinced you never graduated kindergarten." This little chat lasted a few more minutes before Peter in turn left to go home and the visit continued. Ten minutes later, the visit was over.

You told Hobie that you were new to the city, and that everything was a bit of a discovery. You learnt that the building was very old, just like a few others in the town, and that many changes of direction had led to it being rebuilt over the years, while preserving its charming, slightly old-fashioned setting. "Well, I've shown you the parts that are important to you here," says Hobie as he descends the few small steps leading to the building's main entrance. "You mentioned that you were new to the city, so do you need a mini 'tour' of it too? Just the surrounding area, to familiarise yourself a little", he suggests.

Here's your first choice! Select the option you want.

Choice A: Decline and go straight to your flat. Choice B: Accept and take a short tour of the surrounding area.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ . ★ . ჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻

tag list : @deceitfuldevil @allysunny @zkelecr0w @chichimisaki @luvrdonny @oooof-ifellforyou @aisyakirmann @carelesswister @jojos-wife @akiras-key @love4saturn @simpychaotic

[chaoticspeedrun]

What's your top 5 favorite characters?

Guys, please, do you not know me?

YOU CAN'T ASK ME THESE QUESTIONS I AM PHYSICALLY UNABLE OF SHUTTING UP.

So, listen-

1) Wallace "Wally" Rudolph West

KID FLASH/THE FLASH

Initially Kid Flash but he has been the Flash SINCE 1959, so if you weren't born in the 40's THE FLASH YOU SAW AS A KID ON TV OR COMICS WAS PROBABLY THIS GUY, NOT BARRY ALLEN (the blond) (Unless you are very young and existed during the era where a horrible comic writer made him disappear for a bit in 2011-)

This idiot is the love of my life since I was 5 years old, when I learned to oil paint my third painting was a portrait of him and I am VERY proud of it.

While The Flash is often referred to as the comedic relief character and dismissed because of that, this is THE LAST thing he is, and he is an incredible and well developed character as well as OVERPOWERED, which makes him very hard to write, since he has even been a sort of god at some points, all crisis in the DC universe even animated are usually if not always stopped by a speedster and most of those have been stopped by Wally West.

2)--

I can go on I swear the problem is I- can't really choose an order for the rest? So, in no particular order

Hobie "Hobart" Brown

SPIDER-MAN/PUNK

Particularly the Across the Spider-verse iteration.

James "Jim" Hawkins

Treasure Planet is my favorite animated movie, it is very dear to me, I made a podcast for a college class ranting about it, I know every detail of the movie's production, I have also read what there was of the script for the scrapped sequel and why it was sabotaged.

I also just really resonated with Jim even as a kid, and now? I am/was him, that guy is me. (My dad is fine and present before you ask-)

And we're ending with

DONATELLO and LEONARDO HAMATO

These two are obvious for all of you, so I thought I'd mention Macaque and Red Son from Lego Monkie Kid too.

Please don't do this to me, I CAN and WILL rant for hours if encouraged to, I have not even scratched the ice berg on these characters and why I love them

[mercurygray]

watching the rain forrrrr Fred & Brady?

Oh, this was a good one. Thank you for giving me an excuse to write them!!

It was bound to be quieter, out here with the rain.

She hadn't joined the Red Cross to be the center of attention - it was true enough that you got some of that being one of four girls in a truck, but that wasn't the same as having the spotlight on you for an unscheduled one-woman episode of Command Performance using a borrowed guitar.

Sadly for her, though, it looked like her usual seat was already taken. John Brady rose from one of the crates, his pipe giving him an almost patrician air. "Oh, I'm sorry. Didn't think there'd be anyone out here," Fred said, turning to go back inside.

"Plenty of room here for whoever wants it," Brady offered, gesturing to a second crate with his pipe. "If you don't mind a little company, that is - or the smoke."

"Reminds me of home, actually," Fred said, smoothing down her jacket and sitting down. Her grandfather had smoked a pipe - usually out on the fire escape, so the apartment wouldn't smell too awful. The smell of it calmed her. "It was getting a little loud in there for me."

"The sound of earnest appreciation," Brady said with a smile. "You made that guitar sound better than Jimmy does."

Fred blushed. It had been Curt's idea, because wasn't it always? Now, now - I think I'm owed a little treat for making it home in one piece, eh? Now where's - where's Fred? I wanna hear her sing me something. I know she's got a real sweet voice and we ain't all heard it yet.

She'd tried to beg off but Curt wouldn't take no for an answer, so they'd chivvied her up on stage, and Jimmy Hobart had handed over his guitar and pulled a stool out, and she'd tuned it up and asked Curt what he wanted to hear. Somethin' nice, he'd said with a grin. Somethin' sweet.

She wasn't about to go singing him a love song, so she'd pulled out one of those cowboy ballads she thought she'd be singing so often, I want to ride to the ridge where the west commences, Gaze at the moon till I lose my senses, Can't look at hobbles and I can't stand fences, Don't fence me in.

She'd done that one, and another by Gene Autry, until Egan had joined in and gotten the whole club singing, and then Hobart had come back and she'd been able to sneak out the back door, back to the rain and the smell of Brady's pipesmoke.

"Not all of us studied music in college, Lieutenant Brady."

"You know, I wouldn't mind if you called me John," he offered quietly. "Curt's not Lieutenant Biddick, is he?"

Well, Fred, you walked into that one. "Curt excels at making himself an exception. There are rules I'm supposed to follow - and up until I got here I was pretty good at it."

"What do you think changed?" Fred looked over at Brady and found he was watching her with careful, considerate eyes - an armchair philosopher with his pipe.

She snorted and looked out into the night at the rain. It was a good question - what had changed? She was still the same person who'd left Madison twelve months ago - still had the same parents, the same college degree, the same training. Was it this place, or these people? The answer came back very unannounced, and she smiled to herself about it. "Apparently flyboys are very persuasive."

Brady chuckled. "On behalf of my fellow flyboys I will accept that compliment. So do you have any other tricks in those uniform sleeves of yours, Miss Fred? You dance, you sing, you play the guitar, you charm hardened pilots out of their seats, you make excellent donuts and a hell of a good cup of coffee. Is there anything you don't do?"

Now it was her turn to laugh out loud. "I also play a pretty good game of cribbage."

He didn't have time to respond to that, because just as she'd said it the door was opening again and Curt, listing a little bit to starboard, joined them outside. "John Brady, are you getting my best girl a drink?"

Brady sat up a little straighter, taking his pipe out of his mouth. "I can be, if she needs one."

"Hey, what is your drink, by the way?" Curt had turned his attention to Fred. "The next time I phone in I'll know what to ask for."

"A whiskey soda." Fred looked over at John, a little impressed.

Curt clapped him on the shoulder. "He remembers! See, this is why you're never gonna leave us, Fred, because we spoil you. And do you know why? Because we know a good thing when we see it. And you, Fred, are a very, very good thing."

"Maybe even the best thing?" Fred asked, getting up from her crate. Duty called - somewhere in her mind she could see the shift supervisor tapping her wrist. She'd danced too long with the same soldier, and there was no more time for quiet.

Curt was laughing at that, pulling her back inside and saying something about the jitterbug and showing Blakeley what was what and who was who. And Fred couldn't help but notice the feeling of Brady following them, resuming his seat on the stage and his clarinet, the smell of rain and his pipesmoke lingering on her jacket.

[shaufflercollege]

Schauffler College Class of 1906 +faculty no names listed

-Note: the lady in distinctive black (likely mourning) clothing near the back of the photo is Clara Shauffler nee Hobart, co-founder of the college.

[mybeingthere]

Thomas Swanston was born 1956 in Annapolis. He graduated from Hobart & William Smith Colleges 1978, then studied in London and at the Studio School in New York.

“Thomas Swanston’s current body of paintings reminds us that the overarching theme of migration carries a multitude of connotations; most notably, migration speaks to the mystical movement through space and time, from one location to another then, with an ultimate return Home. The recurring pattern of Sandhill crane migrations speaks to us of nature’s ability to hold both as true: rhythmically change and a remaining consistency, throughout the seasons. To the end, such is the human life.

Like migratory cranes, physical and spiritual travellers alike explore new & familiar places, to return to the one singular locale that they call “Home.” In their seasonal Migration and in their triumphant return from near extinction back into the cycle of life, Sandhill cranes uniquely notify the viewer that all journeys have a purpose and an end, no matter how long they might be or how far away from home they take us.” (Visions West Contemporary)

[vampirevatican]

Start of my Hobart Brown obsession

british slang/dialect: "peng", "alls i 'eed is a wank n a biscuit."*, "that's for true", "piss off", "bloody 'ell"

hear me out him saying "all i need is a wank and a biscuit" is him joking after getting hurt, that is his "'tis a flesh wound"*

"big steppa" rly makes me think islander roots, which makes me think of hobie with caribbean ancestory, which makes me play #twerk it by busta rhymes ft. nicki, which becomes a teasing fantasy on its own

listen... him saying pum pum in reference to the vag, and it's mainly when he wants to be cute or affectionate with his dirty talk or very suggestive flirting

him taking care of you on your worst days? like making sure you eat, get good sleep (no matter the method), soothing you through a break down or spiral, giving you reassurance

hear me out... the back rubs, the cuddles, the forehead and cheek kisses. bonus points if it's a moment of just sobbing and reassurance and once he sees you've stabilized a bit he tries to get you to laugh

hobie with a nihilist black gf... yes this a bit of a personal indulgence, all of this is hear me tf out, just think about it. he gets with this girl bc her "crap on the establishment" is literally saying "all of this is pointless, we're on a literal floating rock, do what you want."

speaking of alt black power couple... punk x goth. like you can't tell me that wouldn't be cool and fun af

speaking on alt black folks, hobie being into anime intrests me. i did a character ai and went for pop team epic (bc that anime has no consistency) and one of the replies knew the characters names, listen i just think y'all watching animes together and talking about them would be fun... along with like knowing openings and outros. singing them together!! come on.

more brit nd caribbean slang i remember from a college course, arctic monkeys and other random spots in my brain that light up thinking about how hobie speaks

wifey, pickney, blud

bin, right/proper, slag, shag