#to break a habit

[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.

[filibusterfrog]

my pet satellite

[anbaisai]

no no jamil let her speak

[strangedesired]

Headcanon that bruce is obsessed with his sleepy children

He like never gets tired or when he finally does get tired, he just immediately passes out. Bruce doesn’t have a “sleepy” mode so he didn’t know what that looked like until Dick was living with him and he loves it

He will wake them up when he gets home from patrol literally just to see them whiny and half-lidded because he cannot stop himself

And I personally believe that while Dick is super cuddly and affectionate when he’s tired, some of them would be mean when they get woken up, specifically Tim. But Bruce doesn’t care. Like Tim is straight up cussing him out and throwing elbows every time Bruce shakes him awake in the middle of the night, but Bruce is just so happy that it doesn’t phase or deter him

And the kids eventually have to have an intervention because Bruce is waking up everyone that is not on patrol at like 3 am and they are so tired the next day that they can barely function

Also, I think the only one who is secretly okay with this habit is Cass. She is such a light sleeper anyway that it doesn’t really phase her to be woken up and she gets to see Bruce after patrol and make sure he’s okay and he will probably give her a hug, which helps her sleep better.

[hemlock-dreams]

After Cap puts him out to dry, a now-humbled Peter swallows his pride, and pathetically crawls to Black Widow to beg for a crumb of training.

Widow agrees only because they sometimes have to work together in an Avenger's capacity, and she refuses to fight alongside someone as hilariously untrained as Spiderman.

So she carves out time and makes it clear that if he ever misses even a single session, she won't help him again. After about 7 months of pure hell, Spiderman is much less cocky and much more dangerous.

As for his fighting style/powers:

Spiderman is extremely sensitive to physical vibrations, and his enhanced senses extend towards pheromones in the air. If he spends enough time with specific people, he can parse their taste from the rest of the world. It's basically his prey drive working for a different purpose.

And speaking of prey drive...Spiderman is very good at tracking people. When he's actively chasing after someone, all of his senses zone in to their specific scent, their heartbeat, the sound of their voice- but the downside to tunnel-vision is that lots of moving pieces can be overwhelming. Big fights with lots of people are...very hard for Hunting Spiderman.

And, like most hunting animals, Spiderman's biggest weakness is stamina. Hunters are built for quick bursts of action, not sustained combat. He can track for a long time, but the moment enemies start actively resisting, time starts ticking and prolonged fights can wear Spiderman down fast.

This is because his body is always producing venom, and has a certain amount stored for active use, so Spidey is always burning small quantities to give himself a momentary bursts of strength/speed/etc. Using his webs/injecting people through his stingers also burns up venom- so he's got to be careful with those too. (This means that Spiderman spends more time jumping from building to building than he does swinging around) ((The spider venom was from the Portia genus, which is a jumping spider))

This is also how his Spider Sense works. It's not so much a forewarning as it is an unconscious boost of venom to speed up his sense of time and other reflexes. He doesn't sense things before they happen, but he can react to things very quickly as they do.

Most fights Spiderman has end in under five minutes, so it's usually not an issue. His base strength and speed is more than enough to handle most (normal) people.

However, when Spiderman is actively fighting strong people, he's probably burning through his general store of venom faster than he can produce it, which means that he experiences a dramatic drop off in effectiveness after 6-8 minutes, then again at like 15, then so on until he needs to physically stop and rest.

Unlike his berserker-burn, which uses up every drop of venom in his entire body in a single burst, Spiderman doesn't go catatonic after a long fight, but he can lock up and be an easy target.

TLDR: Hunting Spiderman is generally much stronger and faster than 616-Spiderman, but the trade-off is that he can't fight for anywhere near as long. He's much less flashier as well, because he can't afford to fight for extended periods of time, opting to put down foes as fast and efficiently as possible.

...Except when he's fighting people he's romantically interested in. Then his moves get flashier, overt, drawn out-- because many jumping spiders dance to court.

Once again, thank you SO much for all the love and support T_T

[localechoes]

my prophet and me

[thatsprettylane]

Obito Uchiha + Assorted Text Posts (Part 6)

[nitronine]

Sometimes I wanna send out a psychic beam to every tumblr user that just says "stop reblogging unsourced screenshots of tweets about current events like they're news articles because that is the absolute easiest way to spread misinformation"

reblog things when they are sourced and also LOOK AT THE SOURCES. are they credible? is there any bias? use your BRAIN. Activism is useless at best and dangerous at worst when all you have is incorrect information. And hey, if you go out and look for a source based on a screenshotted tweet and it turns out to be true? Link the fucking article so others can see it too.

[if-you-heart]

did someone ask for MOOOOORE music inspired art

present for a friend on here ^.^ it’s not letting me tag them for whatever reason. ugh

[aidemint]

To Break A Habit

The masterpost for To Break A Habit.

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

Pairing: Hobie Brown/GN! Reader

Read me on AO3!

Chapters:

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

2. Routine Doesn’t Get You Kisses Like These

3. Bad Luck and Bad Decisions

4. [To Be Named (And Written!)]

[lunarw0rks]

simon the type to keep a spray bottle within his reach, for you;

you slouch? one spray to the nape of your neck

you bite/chew your nails, god forbid? two aggressive spritzes to your face

[ultravioletbrit]

“mistake” - Jegulus microfic - @into-the-jeggyverse - 544 words

Regulus is avoiding James. Or more accurately, Regulus and James are avoiding each other. It seems they can’t be alone together because when they’re alone, mistakes happen. 

Regulus’ first mistake happened in the Quidditch locker room. He doesn’t know how it happened, but one minute James is congratulating Regulus, and the next minute Regulus’ back is against the wall and there are soft lips on his. 

A few days later, Regulus was alone in the back of the library. This one wasn’t really Regulus’ fault, James shouldn’t have been there, the library should be Regulus’ safe space. Regardless, somehow Regulus’ hands ended up in James’ hair and James’ hands found their way to Regulus’ waist. Mistake number two.

Mistake number three didn’t even happen when they were alone, it happened in the middle of dinner. Regulus looked at James. That was it, just a look. But James was already looking back, and it felt like so much more than just a look. It was only moments after dinner that Regulus was being pulled into a broom cupboard where they were very much alone, and mistakes happened.  

So now they’re avoiding each other. They both change and leave the locker room as quickly as possible ensuring they’re not the last ones there. They both study in the front of the library with their respective friend groups. They made eye contact once and Regulus hasn’t seen James in the library since. Regulus makes sure to sit with his back to the Gryffindor table at all meals, mirroring the way James has been sitting with his back to the Slytherin table.

It's exhausting avoiding someone you actually have no real desire to avoid. So tonight, Regulus decided to avoid the Great Hall altogether and have dinner in the kitchens. This turns out to be… a mistake. It seems James had the same idea and is already sitting at a table having dinner. As soon as they make eye contact, Regulus turns on his heel ready to flee the kitchen.

“Wait!” James stands up and stops Regulus from leaving. “Have dinner with me?” James asks.

“Why would I do that?” Regulus huffs.

“Or I can leave. Just don’t miss dinner because you’re avoiding me.” James tells him.   

“I’m not avoiding you.” Regulus lies. James gives him a pointed look and Regulus rolls his eyes. “You’re avoiding me, too.” Regulus says.

“Why?... Why are you avoiding me?” James asks.

“Probably the same reason you’re avoiding me.”

“I’m avoiding you because I shouldn’t want you, but I desperately do.” James says shamelessly. Regulus’ can feel his entire body getting warm and he knows his face is several shades of red. His mouth opens and closes without saying anything, not knowing how to respond. “Have dinner with me?” James asks again before Regulus finds his words. Regulus glares at James for a few moments before relenting with a sigh and sitting down at the table.

Their dinner ends up being filled with light banter, meaningful glances, shy smiles, and feet brushing against each other under the table. They stay long after their plates are empty and when they leave the kitchen and James lifts his hand to Regulus’ cheek and leans in for a soft, slow kiss, it doesn’t feel like a mistake at all.  

[frownyalfred]

Imagining a fight where Bruce goes to punch Clark (who usually lets it land, only to chide Bruce for risking a broken bone after) but Bruce has a sliver of Kryptonite hidden in his fist. Just. The betrayal.

[kylejsugarman]

so fucked up that jesse "if im left alone with my own thoughts i'll kill myself" pinkman was put in a cage for six months and presumably left alone with his own thoughts. my guy went from smoking crack and driving go-karts just to avoid his own mind to laying in a dark hole in the ground for days at a time. lol. lmao even.

[male--wife]

giogio

[90s-2000s-barbie]

Linkin Park - Breaking the Habit (2003)