please return to life i love your lil hobie series pls i would like more
i will i promise im sorry 👉👈
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please return to life i love your lil hobie series pls i would like more
i will i promise im sorry 👉👈
We were here once - The mall
Hobie Brown x GN!Reader
4/6
Part 1 > Part 2 > Part 3 > Part 4
1.9k words
Ah London. You ran away from that city a long time ago, but there are things you can't escape forever. Feelings, for one. So you come back, tracing the fading footsteps of your past, hoping to see the boy you left behind.
“Take care. I cared.
More than I think you know.”
White bulbs bled into the skylight above the center of the mall. The gentle hum of escalators, mothers tugging snotty children through waves of giggles and shrieks, friends and lovers shopping idly. It hadn’t changed much, not in a way that mattered. Heels clacked against reflective white tiles. Neon signs screamed for your wallet’s attention, every storefront a trapdoor to somewhere more expensive than the last. Anything to get you to spend more money.
It felt bigger in your memory. Or maybe you were just smaller then. Either way, it felt like too much now. A churn of noise and clashing music, all bleeding from the open doors of competing shops. The endless swirl of bodies, running like they all had somewhere better to be. There were the teen girls again. Always in packs, arms linked, moving like an entity of melting limbs, synchronized and self-assured. You used to think they were laughing at you, whispering behind manicured hands about your hair, your clothes, the unraveling straps of your bag. But now? They looked harmless. Just kids, same as you were. Maybe they had always been harmless. Maybe they’d have invited you to sit with them if you’d been braver, if you hadn’t pre-decided they were enemies for wearing glitter gloss.
Then again, some people were cruel. You’d learned that the hard way. Over and over until flinching first and trusting second became muscle memory. Now, standing there with years between you and them, it was impossible to say how much of that cruelty was real and how much was all in your head, trying to protect yourself from potential hurt.
The mall still pulsed with life, but it was different now, less magical. Still, the part that hurt the most was the gaping, empty space where the internet café used to be.
Gone, like the skatepark.
Some soulless fast food chain stood in its place, fluorescent-lit and reeking of fryer oil. It felt like someone had gone over your memories with a fat neon highlighter, crossing them out like mistakes. No constructive criticism, just erasure. It felt like that one evil teacher nobody liked, the one that threw assignments in the bin.
It seemed like the corner next to the fast-food had never been cleaned properly, the kind of spot everyone walks past without seeing. Dust clung thick over layers of torn flyers and sun-faded stickers, behind a pipe and an indent in the walls. But you knew that one, small, peeling at the edges, a crumpled band logo Hobie used to scrawl across every surface he could reach. You hesitated to peel it away to keep for yourself.
You remembered watching him slap it up there, years ago, both of you high off nothing but cheap soda and the thrill of getting away with existing. It was so stupidly, stubbornly him. And unlike your tags under the ramps, his marks seemed to stay.
Maybe that was your punishment for leaving: the city swallowing every trace of you. Your footsteps in the mud, your writing, even the tears you shed on concrete. Camden had turned its face away from you, but somehow, it remembered him.
You leaned against the same column as when you were waiting for Hobie. In many ways, you still were. You hoped he’d come and greet you, ask you about your day before you could find some flash games to play.
You remembered the internet café clear as day: the purr of outdated PCs, the click of greasy keyboards, the pale glow of monitors reflecting in Hobie’s eyes, a thin veil of blue over his dark iris, made them really look like the window of the soul. You’d sit there for hours, pretending the air conditioning was the only reason you stayed, but really, it was the games, the custom Myspace pages you coded side by side, the secret thrill of having a place that belonged to both of you.
Hobie was terrible at coding. Not because he couldn’t learn, as he could probably teach a toaster to play bass, but because he liked watching you explain it. You’d lean over, fingers flying over the keys, talking fast about divs and balises and inline styles, and Hobie would pretend to follow along, nodding like a student trying to impress his teacher.
“It’s easy, mate. I literally sent you the cheat sheet with all the tags!” you’d groan, dragging the mouse out of his hand like a parent confiscating a toy.
“Yeah, yeah, ‘easy,’ you say that ‘bout everything,” Hobie would huff, leaning back so far in his chair it creaked dangerously. “Easy for you, Einstein. I’m not out here romancin’ the bloody HTTP.”
“Oh my god, you don’t romance HTML, you just—” your hands would fly up, exasperated, “—you just tell it what to do! It’s rules. It’s logic. Even you could follow that.”
“Could, yeah. Don’t want to.” He’d grin, wide and lazy, like he was proud of being impossible. “Why would I do it myself when you’re so good at it, huh? Like watchin’ a magician pull a rabbit out their hat.”
“That’s not— I’m not—" you’d splutter, and Hobie would tilt his head, all mock-serious.
“What? Not a magician? Could’ve fooled me, mate. Look at all this.” He’d gesture wildly at the screen, which was usually some half-finished page covered in clashing fonts and colors because Hobie insisted that lime green text on a red background was “punk as fuck.” Which, according to your burning retinas, was a lie.
“Okay, fine,” you’d sigh, already scooting closer, already typing over his mess. “But only if you stop making everything look like a migraine.”
“Oi! I’ve got taste, thank you very much.”
“Doubt it.”
“You’re the tasteless one.” He’d flash that grin again, sharp and full of trouble, and somehow you always forgave him. Sat there for hours, breathing the same recycled air, your knees knocking under the desk, and neither of you ever mentioned that you could’ve been anywhere else, but you stayed there, together.
Looking back, it was obvious. He didn’t want to learn. He just wanted to hear your voice, watch your hands move, let you be the expert at something. You didn’t get it back then. It felt like a weird blind spot in his otherwise sharp brain, like, how could someone who could rewire a speaker with a lighter and a paperclip, could break through zone restriction to play cheap games on your console, not understand basic HTML?
But you got it now.
Some other afternoons, when the heat was too much and neither of you had the energy to go anywhere cooler, you’d wander into the other shops, just to mess around, trying on clothes you could never afford. Ridiculous stuff. Feather and sequined hats. Oversized trench coats and evening dresses. You thought you looked ridiculous in them. But Hobie didn’t look ridiculous. He wore them the same way he wore everything, like a dare. A middle finger to anyone who gave him side-eye or called him names under their breath. You envied that. The way he could make anything look cool, from secondhand blazers missing buttons to ripped tights as sleeves. He could’ve walked into any room wearing a wedding dress and somehow made it look punk.
“How do I look?” he asked, twirling dramatically in a sequined minidress that probably belonged to a girl band’s backup dancer.
You squinted. “Like you’re about to drop the worst pop album of the decade.”
“Nah, mate. It’s post-ironic,” he said, striking a pose. “It’s anti-fashion.”
“It’s anti-my-eyesight, yeah.”
You swore he could’ve been a model if he wanted, the way he carried himself, that loose, effortless confidence. Afterall, he made school uniforms look cool, which you thought was physically impossible.
Once, in some cheap accessory shop full of knockoff sunglasses and plastic chokers, Hobie pocketed a studded bracelet, the tiniest, stupidest thing. He turned to you right there in the middle of the aisle, flashing it like he’d just pulled off the heist of the century.
“For you,” he said, sliding it onto your wrist with a kind of exaggerated care, and you thought it might’ve as well been a ring. His fingers lingered, adjusting the strap beyond necessary, his touch warm against your skin.
“You’re actually so bad at stealing,” you whispered, shoving your hand into your sleeve like that would somehow make the evidence disappear.
“Rude.”
“You literally made eye contact with the cashier while doing it.”
“Yeah, and she blinked first.”
You barely swallowed your laugh. At this point, you were pretty sure the cashier was flirting with him. And you hated it. Not out of jealousy, though. Definitely not jealousy. Just… it was annoying, that’s all. So unprofessional.
You twisted the bracelet around your wrist, testing the weight of it. “What if they call security?”
Hobie scoffed. “What, for a bracelet? Be serious.”
“You could at least pretend to be subtle—”
“I am subtle.”
“You’re wearing neons.”
“Yeah, and?” He wiggled his fingers. “Distraction tactics, mate.”
You sighed but you were already looking down, already pressing your fingers over the bracelet like it was something precious.
Hobie just grinned. “To match,” he said, flashing his own wrist where his own battered bracelet hung loose.
You still wore yours. Even now. Your fingers found it out of habit, twisting it around your wrist like a worry stone. It was now just as battered as his own back then. You wondered if he still had his.
Standing there, in the middle of the overstimulating buzzing lights, looking over the many floors linked by escalators, surrounded by the latest fashion and hip fast food place… You thought it wasn’t the places you missed, as much as the version of yourselves that lived in them.
The kids you were when you could spend time fighting over fonts (the one he wanted wasn’t even legible!) and hexadecimals (you wondered why he was obsessed with the title between that ugly orange until you realized it spelled EA7A55…). The kids that still haunted this place, before you knew better, before you realized it was temporary. Or maybe you did know back then, but you didn’t know how much it mattered.
Most of all, you missed the you who thought staying was maybe an option still.
And that stupid, cheap bracelet, you remembered the way his fingers lingered when he slid it onto your wrist. Like a promise neither of you could put words to back then. Something about staying. Something about belonging.
Most of the time, you felt something that was close to sadness. Sometimes, though, your thoughts went dark. Intrusive.
You’d stand at the top of the escalator, looking down at the shining floors, the rows of shops, the glossy posters advertising perfume and phones and shoes no one actually needed, and you’d imagine the whole place catching fire. Just orange flames eating at the walls, glass cracking, mannequins melting into plastic sludge.
You imagined Hobie standing in the middle of it all, smoke dancing around his boots, face streaked with soot, grinning like the world was finally ending the way it always should have. He wouldn’t run. You knew that. He’d be the last one standing over the ashes, and you’d find him there, the metal studs on his jacket reflecting the flames.
You thought about that more often than you’d admit.
Just another story you told yourself when you couldn’t fall asleep.
You hoped you wouldn’t actually need to burn down London to find him. You hoped that if you turned a corner fast enough, you’d see him grinning, waiting. Maybe he always knew you’d come back. Maybe he would’ve stopped looking and you could surprise him.
You’d see his back, come up to him, and say something stupid, like “Hey, long time no see.”
heyyyyyyyyyyy long time no see,, haha so funny, ghosting you halfway through a story about ghosting... ahem... anywayyy... hope whoever still reading this enjoyed it after like seven months,,... thankfully my draft were thicc enough for me to remember what the hell i was planning,,..
Tags (sorry if you're tagged and not interested/forgot about this, thought i'd still just... ping you... or something...) : @myassisasolarsystem @planetaryfire @wittysidecharacter @ellisspiderman (hello you)
i have a difficult situation at home with daily verbal/physical abuse. I can't leave the house, get medical help and medication because my mum forbids me and throws them away. you can support me by donating and i will draw you your request!!! (in dm) pls reblog if you can
https://boosty.to/ahouuu/donate
I'm diagnosed with depression/autism/adhd/c-ptsd/hypermobility and chronic migraines. I can't get any help, so I'm actually surviving :(
hi hello!! quick question, did you try to make like some type of connection throughout the chapters in handpicked or however you phrase it
because hobie attempted to steal those flowers for a funeral and then he said someone in roberts life had passed away🤔 or am i genuinely going crazy
Hi!! This might be disappointing, but to be honest, I didn't plan it that well!
In my first first draft, Handpicked was only 5 chapters long, and was more focused on Hobie's grief. Robert didn't exist there.
Then, I kinda scraped that because it just didn't fit in like I wanted it to. And when I introduced Robert, I didn't have a plan with it, I kinda improvised everything from there 😭
I did think about it though, but I wasn't sure myself, my timeline for the story started to blur a little. I really liked this idea because Hobie's grief would be more complex, with feelings of guilt deep in there, despite his lack of acknowledgement.
The fact that you clocked this makes me think it does make sense for it to be the same person, even if I didn't push for it!
I plan to rework Handpicked to really polish it, maybe some times during the summer vacations, and if so post a polished/reworked version on like ao3 or idk, just something I've been thinking about. If I do, this might be implied in a better way in it.
Sorry this isn't a clear answer about master foreshadowing, I wish it was! Thank you for your question too, allowed be to ramble for a bit lol
★★The Misfits We Are 138 Official Music Video 2011★★
group hug
ref + sketches under cut
We were here once - The skatepark
Hobie Brown x GN!Reader
3/6(?)
Part 1 > Part 2 > Part 3
2.2k words
Ah London. You ran away from that city a long time ago, but there are things you can't escape forever. Feelings, for one. So you come back, tracing the fading footsteps of your past, hoping to see the boy you left behind.
Warnings: general teenage angst, self indulging Im14andthisisdeep
“But it’s okay that you’re going.
You need to. And I want you to have everything.”
You wanted to believe you were mistaken. After all, you had been gone for a long time, the kind of time that blurs edges and rewrites maps in your head. But no matter how many turns you took, how hard you tried to remember, you couldn’t find it.
You were sure it was there. Between the Fish & Chips place and the launderette, yes, that had to be it.
There was only a warehouse now. Ugly and blocky, the kind of building made for forklifts and fluorescent lights, not for kids with scraped knees and too much time. At most, the stairs railings could still be skated on. It stood exactly where the skatepark should’ve been, like some architectural act of erasure.
Across the Spider-Verse, 1:06:57, Frame 96330
Trust the process, they said, as it got progressively worse.
(the middle one is okay but I wanted my lighter value be pure red, and then it went south) (i just wanted to play around with gouache, but i'll try with acrylics some day, I find it easier)
We were here once - The school's rooftop
Hobie Brown x GN!Reader
2/6(?)
Part 1 > Part 2 > Part 3
2k words
Ah London. You ran away from that city a long time ago, but there are things you can't escape forever. Feelings, for one. So you come back, tracing the fading footsteps of your past, hoping to see the boy you left behind.
Warnings: general teenage angst, self indulging Im14andthisisdeep
“And I don’t want to hold you back,
even if I wished you could’ve stayed.”
The sight of your old school wasn’t one you were particularly attached to, and you weren't sure why you walked here first. Maybe it was the road you knew best, from following it everyday. They repainted the walls, changed the name, but it was still the same walls that held your anxiety all those years. You weren’t sure how you felt about it now, bittersweetness curling in your chest. It smelled like youth, innocence, something you lost. It smelled like alienation too, the solitude of your teen years lingering in the corridors.
You watched the kids smoke and laugh in front of the fences, and you wondered if a single person in there still remembered you. Maybe the janitor, the one who pretended not to notice when you snuck up to the roof, if he was still working there. If you got to see him again, you’d thank him.
Just thought about Hobie Brown
Day 10× better <3
Rotating him in my mind
hehehe nice catch cheer!
NOT MY NAME QUARTERBACK
sorry just wanted to say hellooo
HAHAHA I was so confused you had me looking this up 😭😭 hello!!
We were here once - The train station
Hobie Brown x GN!Reader
1/6(?)
Part 1 > Part 2
1.5k words
Ah London. You ran away from that city a long time ago, but there are things you can't escape forever. Feelings, for one. So you come back, tracing the fading footsteps of your past, hoping to see the boy you left behind.
Warnings: general teenage angst, self indulging Im14andthisisdeep
“I didn’t want to make it hard,
I think we both hate goodbyes.”
You stepped off the train at its last stop, London. You had only put foot in this railway station once before, and it was the day you left. The wind whipped your face, cold and unforgiving, dragging you out of the wagon’s borrowed warmth. London had never been kind to you, and today was no exception. It welcomed you like a slap. The smell of wet asphalt made your nose curl, and you swore it smelled worse here than anywhere else in Great Britain, than anywhere else in the world. It smelled of metal and pollution and blood. Of something foul that assaulted your nostrils and made shivers run down your spine.
It hadn’t changed. London was still London. Bigger and smaller all at once. The same tall red bricks, the same industrial bones, columns and metal arms clutching the glass ceiling like Atlas holding the world, while the grey clouds pressed down, heavy enough to fall. People rustled everywhere, carrying their heavy luggage, running against time while you walked right back into it.