In The Works

In the works

Hellooooo how are you??? doing love your writing btw 😋😋

Doing fine-ish :) kiiinda wanna jump off a cliff cuz I fuckd up all my finals but there’s still like 4 more tests to go and I actually care ab one of them so gotta keep goinggg

Hello how's the next part of For All the Mary Janes going and merry Christmas

Few thou written out, couple hundred still in my head. Happy Holidays!

MJs pt.2 (taglist 2)

@capsloc3

@ievaopsl1

@omgincorrecthpquoteslamp

@veytiri

@imherefxrthefanfics

@raviolisblog

@briannbz

@ifuckinglovefingerlingpotatoes

@qttcxtiee

@jxtcelle

@itsyuirgirl62

@moon-bo-young

@daddysmurfslefttoenail

@lunasolac

@madiexuberant

@void6sstuff

@thenightpillar

@lololol00

@1leo-known1

@millerworld

@jinkx069

@bewitchedancer

@kosmicsound

@frankie3974

@littebodybigheart

@isabelboo

@eveslays

@luvisbored

@loveolgy

@rin-18

@huan9jun

@fallenashesfade

@nycweb-slinger

@sleepyghoster

@doli09

@madebyoneart

@0dd0bsessi0ns

@ilovemesomebigmen

@adderspadders

@l0starl

@milkutie-blog

@lostpotatobite

@swinginbakeryeggmuffin

@hopefuldesignofkawaii

@tish22

@miyanaranagikenmal-intp

@nightrulesall

@aurora1656

@aniyas-weird-writing

@arisdelssy

@yoursidehismain

@deluludesiregurl

@zainnbug

@21944581

@spyderst4r

@screechingobjectconnoisseur

@1m4st4r

@ilbradipodisagiato

@softixx

@liuuubae

@eri2222

crossed out the ones i couldn’t tag

The Whole Being Soulmates Thing

summary; in this world, soulmates exist. he has one. it’s just that he already found someone, and your marks don’t match at all.

or, in which a stupidly stubborn punk in stupidly in love with someone who’s not his stupid ‘real’ soulmate.

pairing; hobie brown x reader, spider-punk x reader (soulmate!au)

warning(s); mentions of police brutality, not-too-detailed descriptions of injuries. r is non-gendered, no mention of r’s race. not proofread & written in the wee hours.

i am not black, i don’t have wicks. i did some research on how to properly care for them and wrote tiny parts in here with the info i had, but it may not be totally accurate. if something is wring, let me know. same for the lcp.

also hobie might sound a bit ooc but it’s a quiet fic and we don’t rly see him ‘quiet’ so eat my ahh(/j)

inspired by this post by @corrodedcoffeen ! not exactly 100% accurate but yea

He lived in a world full of soulmates and soulmarks.

Everyone who had a soulmate had a soulmark, like a little tattoo; whether it be on their arm, leg, back, even on their face. Sometimes, a person would have multiple soulmarks. In other cases, they wouldn’t have any at all. Some people were born with their marks, some appeared later down the line.

In most cases, people would do anything to find their soulmate. To be with them. To unite with their missing half.

Hobie Brown was among those who’d been born with a soulmate. Four little streaks that wrapped halfway around his left arm, like a scar from an animal that had halfheartedly tried to claw the whole thing off at birth.

Hobie loved his soulmark.

Not because he’d met his soulmate. Nor was it because the idea of a predestined partner made him giddy. No, it was because he felt a sense of pride whenever he looked at it. Pride that he’d beaten the system when he got you.

His thoughts wander as he sits on your your and his shared bed, a towel flat under his bum to prevent any grime that may be on his suit from rubbing off on the sheets. His vest and T-shirt had been haphazardly folded and placed on the bathroom sink, desperately needing a thorough cleaning after a particularly hard day, which left his torso bare for you to assess and repair the damage he’d been dealt once you peeled off the top half of his suit.

“Bit eager, yeah?” He’d joked as you hastily helped him out of his clothes, that cheeky smirk still shining through on his tear-streaked face. You’d answered with an exasperated laugh.

He had come home at two in the morning, stumbling through the window with a hand over the right side of his mask. When he’d ripped it off, tossing it on a random bit of the floor somewhere, you were met with red eyes, wet cheeks, a runny nose and a blood-crusted lip. Apparently, he’d been at the frontlines of a protest when one of the tear gas shells hit him right in the face, cracking his right eye lense and leaving him vulnerable to the gas’s full effect. You didn’t need to be told what happened to know what came next. After all, it was always the same routine with the pigs - gas the crowd and beat any individuals that strayed from the mass.

Now, as Hobie’s fingers tap a little rhythm on the mattress, your hands glide a washcloth long his skin, being careful to minimize pressure on his bruises. Which, granted, is hard when they cover most of his back and ribcage, but you made it work somehow. Tear gas residue sticks to anything it can, and although his body was mostly had been mostly covered, it gave the both of you peace of mind to clean anything off just in case. He thanks you by softly gripping your other hand, his fingers lacing together with yours.

“Need more milk?” You ask, going to put the cloth down and grab the already half-empty sprayer on the ground next to the bed, having already been used in the bathroom just minutes prior and put there just in case. He shakes his head, the hand that’s not on yours gently grabbing your wrist and guiding it back to his chest.

As you continue, he thinks back to the first time he’d held your hand like that.

It was when the two of you were barely teenagers, when he didn’t fully understand how the whole ‘soulmates’ thing even worked, or how messed up it really was. The only thing he really knew was that people were supposed to stay together forever if their marks matched, even if that wasn’t always the case.

Having known each other since you were just kids, he remembers wishing so badly that your soulmark matched his. He had wished that little planet on your ankle could be washed away, a temporary tattoo or doodle instead of an actual mark. He remembers drawing little black holes at the corners of his school worksheets, hoping that one of them would eventually swallow your mark whole and replace it with four lines identical to his.

Back then, he had wished his ugly little bands would somehow arrange themselves into a square. At least then he could insist that his mark was a planet. A weird square one, yeah, but a planet just like yours.

But as you looked at him with that warm glow in your eyes, he swore you were the best thing that had ever happened to him, soulmate or not.

If only that kid could see him now - here, with you.

He suppresses a smile that threatens to slip onto his face, as moving his lips makes the cut sting.

“You almost gave me a heart attack,” you mutter, wiping at the last bit of his torso. Hobie lets out a low sigh.

“‘M sorry love,” he says back, giving your hand a little squeeze. He really does mean it. He hates seeing the worry and sadness in your eyes every time he came back to you after one of these days. Fuck knows how he’d cope with it if you came home like this just every now and again, let alone what seemed like every other day recently. “I do try to be careful.”

You hum in response, getting up from your spot and holding out your hand for him to do the same. He does so with little to no hesitation, only waiting a moment to brace himself for the soreness that would follow. You lead him to the bathroom.

“Everything off,” you say, then immediately follow it up with, “Don’t.”

“I didn’t even say nothin’!” Hobie protests, feigning offense. As if that glint in his eye didn’t give it away.

“You need to get cleaned off properly.” You stress the lest word, letting go of his hand so that he can strip. “You can’t just go to bed after a quick wipe-down tonight. You need a shower.”

“But it’s gonna be cold.” Hobie groans. Tear gas wasn’t anything new, he’d had to clean the residue off of himself more times than he could count. That didn’t mean he was a fan of the cold showers that did most of the actual cleaning. Despite his complaints, he hastily steps out of his remaining articles of clothing as you start the water.

His muscles tense as he steps into the shower, pulling him out of his somewhat drowsy state. He quickly scrubs every part of his body, wanting to get out as fast as possible.

He washes his hair out last, taking care to not mess them up no matter how much he hates the temperature of the water. He’d made the mistake of trying to shampoo the whole of his head in one go just once before, and he’d be damned if he had to go running to the auntie down the street again to fix any tangles neither you nor him could sort out.

In his defense, he’d almost bled out just a couple hours beforehand that day. Having your first (superhero-related) near-death experience tends to shake you up a little.

“You’re such a man-baby,” you’d teased him as Hobie gripped your hand for dear life, the woman you’d guaranteed could get that nightmare of a knot out sorting through his hair with an arsenal of olive oil and a wide toothed comb.

“Oh piss off—” his reply was cut short as she detangled a particularly nasty bit of the problem, unfortunately having to tug exceptionally hard at his head. “Ow!”

The woman - Aunt Margaret, as you’d introduced her - tsked at him to sit still, poking at the tangle with the handle of her comb to see if it would give way now. Luckily, most of it did. She muttered something along the lines of ‘young people nowadays’, but in a sort of gruffly affectionate sort of way. From what you’d told him, Aunt Margaret was sort of the neighborhood mom, always helping people who needed it no matter how much she gave them grief for it.

The three of you made small talk over tea after his hair was nice and hairball-free, albeit a little slippery. Turned out, Aunt Margaret had plenty of stories of her own to share. Hobie had been delighted to hear about everything that had happened when she was a part of the League of Colored Peoples, almost ready to practically beg the woman to adopt him.

Two weeks later, when he decided to drop by again, the topic of soulmates came up. Aunt Margaret asked if he’d found his soulmate yet, to which he replied he didn’t believe in the soulmate system. She nodded in agreement.

“Just as well,” she had said, a frown making its way onto her face. “I’ve seen too many good people get their hearts broken because of that bloody mark.” She eyed his upper arm, exposed in the sleeveless top he’d worn at the time. “I got mine covered ages ago.”

“Did you meet your soulmate before that?”

Aunt Margaret shook her head. “That’s a story for another time, Bartholomew.”

He still makes time for tea with her every week or so.

The second he steps out of the shower, he’s greeted with a huge, warm towel fresh from the dryer. He wraps it around himself as you usher him back to the bedroom where you’d laid out some comfy clothes for him. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices the clothes he’d discarded on the bathroom floor is long gone, along with his vest and tee that were sitting on the sink.

“I put the studs out on the veranda to air out,” you say, noticing him glance at the empty sink. “They’ll need washing, though. My eyes got all weird when I looked at the vest too close, and your belt’s not much different. The rest of everything’s in the machine.”

Pulling on his bottoms, Hobie silently nods at your words before pulling the tank top you’d dug out for him over his head. He then walks over to place a kiss on your head. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you close to leech off your warmth. He lets out a little noise of contentment when he feels you hug him back.

Wordlessly, he walks the two of you to your the shared vanity, plopping himself down on the seat. You grab the hairdryer off the table, checking to make sure it’s okay for you to help before switching it on to dry his wicks. Hobie closes his eyes as you make your way through each piece, eventually stopping once there’s no more water to be purged. Your fingers sorting through his hair so carefully is calming - almost therapeutic, and it takes all his willpower to keep himself sitting straight up for you.

After that, he clumsily grabs you and throws you over his shoulder, ignoring how you yelp in surprise and unplugging the dryer. He then proceeds to carry you around your place, flicking off all the lights before getting back to the bedroom and (softly) throwing you on the mattress.

“Was that really necessary?” You groan as he throws the sheets over the both of you. Hobie then proceeds to drag himself half on top of you, using you as a full body pillow.

“Definitely.” He replies, his voice a bit muffled against your pajamas.

You laugh. “Sure.”

He tilts his head up to give you a goodnight kiss, murmuring ‘dream ‘bout me’ next to your ear to which you respond by playfully pushing him away.

“Rude,” He mutters, smiling into your clothes as he huffs in indignation. Your laugh echoes through your body, a sound more beautiful than any music he had or would ever hear.

He doesn’t fall asleep too easily that night. Rogue thoughts on soulmates and fate flinging about his skull. For some reason, they’d all picked tonight to bug him to pieces.

Unknowingly, his grip around you tightens, feeling your weight in his arms. It grounds him as all the doubts try to throw him off, to destabilize something perfectly happy.

What if they find their soulmate? Then they’ll decide if they want me or them. (Me.)

What if I find my soulmate? What, like I’d break their heart for a stranger? Yeah. Fat chance.

He swatted those questions away like pesky little mosquitoes until he eventually fell asleep, choosing to focus instead on your heartbeat ringing in his ears.

So what if you two weren’t soulmates? He loves you, you love him. That’s all that matters.

The universe can suck an egg.

—

The next morning, Hobie woke up at 11, as usual. You woke up right after him as he stirred, like you always did. The two of you lounged in the comfort of your the sheets for a while before you had to eventually get up for breakfast.

Hobie was trailing behind you on your walk to the kitchen when something catches his eye.

His reflection in the vanity mirror.

Something’s… off.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh shit.

“Y/n?” He calls, looking down at his upper arm just to make sure the mirror isn’t playing tricks on him. Sure enough, there it is.

You turned around at his voice, eyebrows furrowed in a confused way. “Hm?”

“Look.”

He watches as your confusion morphed into surprise and then back to confusion again. Then you auickly check your ankle, confusion turning into realization.

“We match.”

Your soulmarks had somehow changed overnight, turning into small, stylized sun symbols that stand out more than either of your marks before ever did, clear as day.

It’s a few moments of stunned silence before laughter breaks out between the two of you.

“You know what we have to do now,” you manage, an arm around the front of your midsection and the other hand on your face.

“I think I do.” Hobie says, practically wheezing

By the end of the day, the two of you have covered up your new soulmarks with mismatching tattoos.

Quick question for MJs pt2,