Tikiki05 - Anti-ghostflower - Tumblr Blog

i think what saves me from a lot of discourse is that i'm simply Not Reading All That

*Gwen going through the worst moment in her life*

Concert audience: WOOOOOOOOO YEAGHHHHH 👺

Did you know I’m actually a really really big fan of when it’s Deadpool and Peter (unaware of the Spidey connection)

actually @ every fanfiction writer whether you wrote something that got thousands of reblogs and comments and became a staple in your fandom, or you wrote one fic and deleted it, or you write mutilchaptered fics that never get a final update, or write short fics, or long fics, or used to write and now you don’t, or you deleted/orphaned your works, or you only share with friends:

thank you.

sharing your writing is hard. and sometimes it’s thankless. sometimes it’s such a negative experience that I wonder how anyone does it at all. but you are needed; you are wanted. whether or not we properly acknowledge it, you are a vital part of fandom culture. thanks for sharing.

I know theres a lot ot talk of Hobie's past and I love the idea of BigFamily!Hobie. But may I PLEASE add to the table:

StreetKid!Hobie -

It's not as happy or wholesome of a backstory as Hobie with a big family, and a big community - but there's still tenderness there I PROMISE.

Like - Maybe Hobie understood what Gwen was going through because he's been through it himself. He knows what it's like.

I like the headcanon that Hobie just...didn't have a family. No tragic backstory or anything. Just the sharp reality that the system lets some kids fall through the cracks.

Because it's a story or reality we hardly ever see, but it's one that exists - being a homeless street kid. We hardly see that story in it's entirety, rather than just the dramatic scenes.

But like STREETKID!HOBIE

He doesn't have anyone to take him to school or buy him uniforms - so he went to the library to teach himself. He doesn't have much money, but the men at the kebab shops know him, the kid that comes in asking for 'anything they've got' , with 2 pounds 50 pence. So they start feeding him, free of charge.

He helps run errands for the old ladies, and they make sure he has clothes for the winter. They'll knit him sweaters and scarves, and give them to him, telling him to run home and get inside, not knowing that might not be an option for him.

But even if they don't know the whole story, the know Hobie the streetkid, who looks tough but has a heart of gold and will help with anything - the kid who'll feed the stray cats before himself.

Most nights, he sleeps at F.E.A.S.T - because we always talk about how great F.E.A.S.T is but never what it's like to actually have to live there as a homeless person for an extended period of time.

The adults know his face, they worry if they don't see him in a bit. They set blankets aside for him, ask him if he's eaten, and for the first time in forever, maybe in his life, he has people who cares - people who want to help.

F.E.A.S.T makes Hobie wanna help people.

And THAT's where he finds his family.

He starts finding other kids too. Older Streetkids start helping him out. They let him squat with them, and show him how to do things like steal electronics, and which shops throw out a bunch of good food at night.

And he starts meeting people, and seeing the teens that'll make him person he is later.

He starts hanging out with them more and more - and they start calling him Hobie.

The take him under their wing. They looked out for him, made sure nobody messed with the youngest of the bunch.

Anywhere they sleep or squat - Hobie does too. And on the nights that it's the worse, that's it too much, or too scary - or the nights where he's just angry at the world,

They're there to remind him there's kindness in the world.

That kindness and joy and having a laugh with the mandem is RADICAL, it's an act of defiance, and a form of power. And that you don't need a big house with the picket fence and 2.5 kids to grow up 'right'.

One of the street kids give him his first patches. They snag him the leather vest he wears today, back when he was tiny and short and he had grow into it.

They taught him everything he knows - from laces code to how to stud a jacket. They start taking him to protests, starts explaining why things are the way they are, how the system is meant to keep people like them down.

They teach him what ACAB means and true anarchy

The first person he ever met wearing blue laces - was a Streetkid. An older kid that Hobie couldn't help but look up to, or even be a little jealous of. A cooler kid with tall leather boots and blue laces.

And when the kid smirked and told him what they meant, Hobie couldn't help but think 'That's SO kickass'.

One night, one of the kids brings a record they stole. They play it on the player - and it's Ramones. Hobie, maybe only 13, hearing rock for the first time.

And he's wide eyed and asking who that is, who's playing the guitar, what's the song name, and the older kids just smirk and chuckle cause they KNOW -

That's when Hobie falls in love with rock.

And Hobie spends his teens with these people, becoming the punk rock anarchist god he is. He learns how to help people like they help him.

Some of those kids are still around, some on their feet now, and some living free, sticking with the life of a Streetkid by choice. Some he sees often - they're the ones he has a laugh with at the pub.

Others, have moved on, or passed away.

And one day Hobie looks around and realizes he's the oldest one now. He looks around and realizes he's the older street kid now. He's the big bro - and he loves it.

Gwen wasn't the only one staying there when she lived with him. She's not the first Society recruit either.

Because of the streetkids that gave him a family, Hobie is who he is - he has a houseboat that always has at least one or two kids staying there, just looking for a place to stay or a meal to eat.

No matter what - Hobie will help.

At to all the StreetKids that came before, Hobie remembers them all - all the help they gave him and all the times they saved him. He hopes that one day, there are people to remember him too, the same way.

Because that's what he wants to be remembered for.

Because he's not a hero - SpiderPunk isn't the hero. Those streetkids were the heroes.

They way they helped him - is the way he helped Gwen.

I need more StreetKid!Hobie SO BAD S OBADDDDLLY

What if Hobie's brown ideology and fashion and beliefs and his love for everyone around him is a reflection of the very teens who raised him and kept him safe and they're the reason why he does any of this to begin with for the streetkids MY GOODDDDDD

HOBIE BROWN - THE PATRON SAINT OF WARWARD TEENS

We should normalize Oc x Cannon art. This is so much fun i actually cant. It’s an addiction.

REEELLLEAASSEEEE MMMMEEEEE

God im hoping they’ll be better than that 😕

There’s only 3 things that’ll make me like btsv

1. Miles not accepting anyone’s apologies

2. Tiana Toomes introduction

3. FlowerByte canon canon canon confirmed

Spanish affectionate names (because we can do better than using “mi amor” a hundred times)

Author’s note: Spanish uses gendered nouns. Masculine nouns often end in -o (example: “guapo”) and feminine nouns often end in -a (example: “princesa”). There are also gender neutral names! I’ll list those too for my people that are non-binary! This list is not exhaustive, so feel free to reblog and add more! Also, some words may have different translations depending on the country!!!!!

For him (names to use towards someone who identifies as a man)

Guapo : handsome

Rey : king

Príncipe: prince

Chulo / Lindo : cute, cutie

Bichito : little bug (disclaimer: in Puerto Rico, “Bicho” means “d*ck, so “Bichito” would mean “little d*ck”. )

For her (names to use towards someone who identifies as a woman)

Princesa: Princess

Guapa : beautiful

Muñeca : doll

Reina : queen

For everyone (he/him, she/her, they/them)

Mi corazón : my heart

Mi alma : my soul

Mi vida : my life

Mi cielo : my sky/heaven

Mi tesoro : my treasure

Mi luz : my light

There are tons more out there. Do a quick search!

Happy writing!

Mabel would love Ford's six fingers because she could fit all six colors of the rainbow on one hand when painting his nails

at last! it is over. the billford ghost au is finally complete. read the final chapter here.

Rip stanley you would have loved Avon

i think one of my favourite parts of gravity falls is just. soos in general. a different show would probably have a character like that- y’know, a fat guy who’s in that early-20s age where nobody wants to acknowledge that nobody knows what they’re doing but they’re not a kid anymore so they’re no longer part of the “marketable demographic” for kids, i think a lot of other shows would make him the punching bag or the butt of jokes or portray him as weird or creepy or a failiure. but no, soos is genuinely a big part of the heart of the show. he’s allowed to be a bit of a dork, and have a non-standard path in life- it’s treated as part of the quirks that make him lovable! the twins think he’s super cool, he’s smart, funny, genuine, kind- and when he gets his own episode in soos and the real girl, his issues with talking to people are just treated as so much more HUMAN than i’m used to for characters in his demographic. it’s really sweet. and i’m glad they do that. i really like soos.

Painting of an abandoned garfield phone on a beach in France

"I once considered him the center of my life, the sun in my galaxy, when all along he was a black hole sucking everything bright into his bottomless ego"

Ok Ford, weird way to say ur gay... But go off ig

I wanted to make a full body illustration of them, so here u go, them in the happy days

her with the violet eyes

The neon purple hands of (dimension 42) Aaron Davis’ analog clock signaled to Miles that it was nearing the twelve o’clock hour. He layed freshly showered, in borrowed fleece pajamas that he swore he had a pair of back home. The red leather loveseat/futon in Aaron’s condo was identical to the one his father sold over a year ago and despite the comfortable plushness of the mattress, Miles knew he was getting no shut eye tonight. Given the fact his body was in four different dimensions in a singular day, Miles should’ve been knocked out by now; however he was wide awake. It wasn’t because of the rattling sound of Aaron’s running refrigerator or the fact that his alternate self was in fetal position right beside him. What kept him awake and alert was his mind replaying the past 16 hours on a 4X speed loop. As if…if he stopped thinking about it for one second, he’d forget everything. Miles scoffed when soft snores began to emit from his Earth 42 counterpart, indicating he was now sound asleep. Contrarily, the prowler swore on his late abuelitos grave that he would be posted up all night to make sure Miles didn’t try anything funny. Miles thought it to be likely that his other self trusted him more than he was willing to admit; there was no way he would’ve dozed off if he didn’t. Either way, the jaded teen had nothing to worry about. Miles knew his best shot at finding a collider and getting home was with his and his Uncle's assistance; running away would push him farther from his goal. The young Spiderman decided hours ago that he couldn’t afford to be impulsive at the moment, his father was running on borrowed time. The random pieces of advanced tech in Aaron’s apartment caused his thoughts to drift to the utopia that was Nueva York. Of course the famous Spider Society would be based in such an advanced dimension; with their high speed trams, self-driving cars, opulent glass skyscrapers, AI assistants, avatars…

...Cute avatar girls to be more specific…

Even if he wanted to, Miles couldn’t stop his train of thought from heading in that direction. Getting acquainted with her was definitely one of the highlights of this tumultuous day. He was in a facility full of spider people- more spider people than he ever could've imagined, but there was something about her. The pleasant, invigorating zing! that tickled his brain when he first registered her being. He never thought a Spider sense could feel so amazing. His attraction to her wasn't subconscious for long because he quickly found her to be witty, intelligent, assured. How could he not give her all his attention? If it were up to Miles, he would've followed her around headquarters for the rest of that day; asking about the function of every machine in the place- just to hear her talk. For a total of five minutes, he didn't give a damn about meeting Miguel O'Hara. Miles wasn't afraid of Miguel in the slightest, but the knowledge that she'd likely face hefty repercussions for aiding his escape made his stomach harden. She didn't have to help him, she barely even knew him and vice versa. And yet under her violet gaze, he felt seen... for the first time in a while.

'I'll never see her again.'

The thought made him miserable, but he had to face the facts. She was dimensions away and was probably regretting her noble act towards him...as well as meeting him in the first place. He couldn't even properly thank her- or at least protect her from Miguel's brutish wrath. His talons ripping through the barrier, fangs bared, red eyes bulging through it’s sockets- Miles thought he was done for, but then he turned and looked at her. She was a wreck and it was obvious to Miles that she had much to lose if she didn’t abide by Miguel’s orders. Brilliantly, she overrode his tampering and Miles was prepared for her to deactivate the machine. But then she met his pleading gaze and fixed him with a look of her own- not the look of pity he’d grown used to seeing on others- no, it was a look if recognition. Her affirming nod. It was a relief that at least someone in that big fancy place understood his actions. The stubborn part of Miles' mind kicked in quickly. Even if they would never cross paths again, Miles was determined to remember her. The way her pixilated hair perfectly mimicked a tight curl pattern, her upturned feline eyes, and not to forget her endearing tooth gap. If he were home, he'd utilize his sketchbook. Draw her to the last detail while she was still fresh in his mind. For now, his memory would have to do. Miles remembered her lilting voice as she teased him, her naturally beguiling aura. He forgot his own name because he was too keen on learning hers. No one ever made him feel the way she did and Miles knew at that moment that it'd be impossible to forget her. In fact it was more likely than not that he would fall into the same old pattern he was in this past year. Fantasizing about a spider girl from a different dimension. Only this time, Miles was sure this girl wouldn't randomly apparate to his house a year later. And maybe that was a blessing in disguise, maybe it's best that she remained a beautiful fantasy. One that could never pose a threat to his emotional well-being. Far a way and untouchable, only appearing in his dreams at night and making her way to the back of his mind during his busy days. He should only be so lucky if- "Gah!" Miles was torn out of his bout of angst when a bony knee dug into the right side of his abdomen. He looked over to his dimensional equivalent who had the audacity to sneer at him in his sleep. The young prowler maneuvered his body to a more comfortable position on his stomach and grumbled as if to say...

'Can you stop thinkin' so damn loud? I'm tryna sleep here.'

The two were complete opposites- that much was clear to him, but Miles wondered if his other self was also prone to getting attached to girls he just met. If only they were on better terms; Miles could talk to him and not have to internalize the anguish of knowing he'll never cross paths with her again. He let out a heavy sigh and attempted to clear his mind of all the uncertainty of what was to come the next day. Instead, he focused on the neon purple hands of the clock. Soon enough, repose began to take over his being and he could've sworn the neon purple looked violet.

crazy how fanfic authors drop the most beautiful and gorgeous pieces of work ever, leaving you speechless and sobbing at three in the morning as you quietly contemplate the masterpiece you just read

and they don’t get paid for it they just do it because they’re having fun and they want to share their joy with you

like I would literally die for all of you fanfic authors out there reblog to swear your allegiance to fanfic authors

Yes, I am a straight man. Yes, getting the shit beat out of me in an all-male mosh pit is an erotic experience for me. We exist

'Blue Ribbons' - DiscoPunk -Hobie Brown x OC

Octobie Week 1 - Comfort

Synopsis - When Diane is faced with a horrific canon event and blood on her hands that only Hobie can understand, he offers her comfort - and a way to just be.

DiscoPunk - Hobie Brown x Diane Pastors - Hurt/Comfort Word Count: 3.8k

TW : Violence, (brief mentions of) Gore, Murder, Racism, Racial Slurs a.n: Thanks to @the-kr8tor for inspiring me to finally finish a fic lol! I proofread this like a speedrun so excuse any typos thxs <3

___________________________________________

Diane had never been like Hobie. Some could argue they were more different than they were alike.

It seemed like Hobie was rough in all the places she was soft. Like Diane was tender in all the places he was tough. Just like there was order in his anarchy, there was chaos in her order.

It was rare that people so different found themselves in the same place at once. When before, they had been universes apart.

They had a few things in common, though.

For one, they were artists. They were radicals. Musicians. Creators who turned rage and chords into melodies and hooks.

They were many things. But if there was anything they wasn’t - it was heroes. If it was one thing they could agree on, it was that;

Hobie and Diane weren’t heroes.

They didn’t want to be. That was the thing though - No one had ever stopped to ask them what they wanted.

They had never asked to be the foot-soldiers of their own freedom. They had never wanted to keep fighting, no matter how futile and hopeless it felt. Broken bones exchanged for a chance to fix a broken system; waking up the morning after to piece together a broken spirit, then continuing on like nothing had happened.

No one would ask for that. 

Yet when did canon ever care?

Hobie didn’t believe any of it, ‘Bollocks, the lot of it.’ if you asked him. But for Diane, the writing on the wall wasn’t so clear, not yet. That he could tell. Even if he couldn’t do much to help.

In the face of it all, it was easier to feign normalcy. Easier to be rockstars and delinquents than the people the universe wanted them to be. 

Easier to record record after record. Easier to sell out venues, swimming through afterparty after afterparty, waking up just to put on the suit, and go swinging hungover. Easier to crash on each other's couches, and pretend they were just two musicians who had met drunk at a bar. 

Like tonight. It was simpler that way.

It was usually simpler that way.

Hobie was dead asleep on Diane’s couch.

It was a pink and plush number, covered in velvet, and dwarfed by her overwhelming throw-pillow collection. The place smelled like vanilla, pecan pie, and good ‘skunk’ - Diane’s word for weed. No matter how many times Diane spontaneously redecorated, that one thing had always seemed to stay the same. It had been that way since the night he had met her.

In a way, Diane was like that too.

No matter what, she was always new - a new lip gloss, a new fragrance, a new fashion trend to try. Every day there was a new lingo to learn, and a new song to write. She was always so ‘new’, even if the two of them were living 50 years in what everyone considered ‘the past’.

But at the end of the day, she was always her. At the end of the day, she would always be Diane.

Hobie felt Diane before he saw her.

Even in his sleep, he could always tell it was her.

The feeling was unlike any other - something innate like their Spider Sense, something sweeter like affection. There was a time Hobie could never understand it, the spark at the edge of his perception, the unignorable energy that let him know she was there.

He felt it behind his eyes before they opened.

Outside her window, the ever-burning neon signs left stains of color across the carpets on her floor, hyper-saturated paint strokes in the darkness of Earth 1294.

Hobie didn’t want to be right - but felt like something was terribly wrong.

The window in the kitchen slammed open, filling the apartment with the sounds of traffic and city chaos if only for a moment. But he could only hear her. Diane’s footsteps were heavy and uneven, like she wasn’t wearing her skates. Without a doubt, he could tell she was crying.

The window slammed shut.

“Di.” Hobie called, climbing over the back of the couch to stand. “Fucking hell, you alright-”

What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks. 

Hobie had never seen her this way.

Diane stood in the doorway - Hair, hands, body, and face, covered in blood. Her eyes were wide, trained on Hobie, but looking straight through him. The image of it all was enough to make his mind go blank.

“Is that your blood?” Hobie asked.

Diane shook her head.

“Hobie, I just killed someone.”

There was terror in her voice.

Diane whispered it - fearing the ground would split and swallow her whole for simply admitting it. Her voice was raspy with the first words she’d spoken since. She was shaking, running bloodied hands through her hair as she tried to smooth out the curls - over and over again.

When Hobie wrapped his arms around her, Diane fell into his embrace. With her chest against his, he could feel the stutter of her breath - the way her lungs tried to fight through the hyperventilation.

There were only two options here, only two true explanations - ones all Spider people knew. Either she had failed to save someone, or something far, far worse. 

It was only then he realized that she wasn’t wearing her mask. Hobie couldn’t ignore the way his stomach dropped. 

“You hurt?”

Diane shook her head. “No.” she said, breathless.

Her hands shook so hard she could barely steady herself. And even through the blood and mess, Hobie laced his fingers in hers, clasping her hands tight to stop the shake. Guitar-calloused fingers ran against the back of her hand, the blood of her crime spreading to him. It did little good, they still shook.

 “That’s all that matters then.” Hobie told her, taking steps towards the sink. “Ain’t no use in you staying like this.” 

He turned the water in the sink on. He dampened a paper towel, raising it to wipe the blood from her face. “We gotta get you cleaned up, yea-”

Diane swatted at his hand, the first time she’d ever rejected his touch. And suddenly - she was looking directly at him, eyes wide, piercing, and urgent.

“No! No, I can’t - That’s not what matters right now.” she said, pulling away from his touch.

Diane had never drowned in her life, until that moment.

That’s what it felt like.

She could feel herself gasping for air, her heart beating so hard she could feel it in every muscle.

She felt like she was underwater, suffocating in her living room - like any second it would all be too much and if she was lucky, her heart might stop. Her mind moved slow, thoughts distorted through seasalt, memories, and fear. The only words she could think to say - “We can’t be here”.

Over and over through the sobs. “We can’t be here.” 

Diane moved through the living room like a hurricane, grabbing anything she could think to grab - her multi-verse watch, a photo of Aunt May, her songbook, things Hobie had made.

Hobie came to her, trying to still her if only for a moment. But she was falling apart at the seams, and he was at a loss.

“Hobie, we have to leave. Now.” she said. “We can’t be here when they get here.”

And just like that, Hobie knew.

Diane could see it. He didn’t show it, yet somehow she knew.

Diane knew the answer before she asked.

The universe tilted with the realization, the neon signs outside slipping into shades of suffocating blue. Like a  glowing tide flowing in, threatening to swallow her whole. Now, all at once she realized - this was a wave she couldn’t stop.

“This is a canon event, isn’t it?”

Hobie’s response was enough of an answer. “Diane,” he said, “You have to tell me what happened.”

“I just killed a cop. Someone saw.”

Diane had never wanted to be a hero.

She had never wanted great power; She’d never asked for great responsibility either.

She never had asked to give up her body to the universe, for it to change into something just barely un-human. Or risk her life for a people - for a city of people - who just didn’t seem to care.

There was a time when she was younger, when she thought she could be anything she wanted. Now none of that mattered.

Canon was what mattered.

Canon had made her what she is. Canon had made her a hero, and a killer too.

All she wanted was to be Diane.

Diane let him clean her up.

Her breath had quieted, and for a bit the look in her eyes were lidded, and far, far away. Yet the tears still came, silent streams on her face as she fought off the sniffles. Hobie planted her on the couch and knelt on the shag carpet on her floor - long fingers wiping away the mess of tears and cleaning the blood on her cheeks.

It felt like she was sitting someplace between a nightmare and a horrible, horrible reality.

The cold dampness of the tissue was a shock to her system, pulling her out of a place where time seemed to move so slow. Her eyes locked with Hobie’s, and in that moment, he could tell she was truly there, ready to talk.

“Who saw?”

Conjuring the memory to mind made Diane’s stomach drop.

“His partner.”

“The partner see your face?”

“No. I don’t think so.” she said, but she wasn't sure, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Was it an accident?”

“No.” Diane said again. “I don’t think so.”

That hadn’t been the answer Hobie expected. Not from Diane.

By the look on his face, Diane felt the need to explain.

“We were fighting. The bastard was using a little girl as a shield, gun to her head. So I went at him from behind.” Diane said, pointing a finger gun to her temple. “I didn’t touch it - It just fired, I don’t know how. He ended up taking the bullet to the side. The little girl got away.”

“Then you did the right thing, Di.”

Diane shook her head.

Again, the feeling was there again. Drowning.

“The thing is - He’d gotten my mask off.” She said, voice trembling. “He’d seen my face. He was there bleeding on the sidewalk, looking me dead in the eye. And you know what the bastard did?” she asked. “He laughed at me.”

For a second, Hobie thought that maybe he had heard her wrong. For a second, a part of him didn’t want to believe it. But he could hear it - in the way the memory and the rage left her voice shaking, the way her eyes squeezed shut, trying to erase the images.

“He didn’t think I would do it. He started saying horrible things.” Diane said. “Called me a n!***r-bitch. Told me they’d lynch me for it - all of that. He’d thought that because my mask was off, that he’d won.

“I should’ve ran. He thought I was going to, but I didn’t. I didn’t know his partner was there waiting to ambush me. I just remember feeling so cold, all over. I just - I wanted to make him feel like, how cops have made me feel all my life. I wanted him to feel that fear. I wasn’t thinking - I just figured, if I hurt him this one time, he couldn’t hurt us ever again.”

Hobie understood.

He wished he didn’t. Hobie wished that Diane would never know the feeling he knew all too well, would never have to make the choice he’d made years ago. But canon was cruel like that.

“Daiquiri,” 

“The gun was by my feet. I just remember picking it up and aiming it at him. And he got real quiet. I almost ain’t do it. I just wanted to scare him. Then he spat at me, so I - I just pulled the trigger.”

The sobs seemed to break her, and Diane turned her face from Hobie, even as he leaned forward to embrace her.

It was like being there.

The words alone made her stomach sour, the shining signs outside slipping from shades of aquamarine to a shamrock green. The images behind her eyes seemed to play silently, vividly, more distorted and revolting each way around.

She really wished she had looked away.

It was the first time in her life that she’d ever seen brains.

Diane stood suddenly, tripping over her own feet as she stumbled her way to the bathroom. Her knees hit the tiles hard, and she knelt on all fours before the toilet, vomited up everything she had in her.

Hobie was at her heels for every step.

When they made it to the bathroom, he brushed her hair over her shoulders, keeping it all out the way and rubbed her back as it rumbled with sobs.

He didn’t know how long they laid there, in the darkness of her bathroom, yet it seemed like an eternity before her breathing slowed and her sobs subsided. Diane hung onto Hobie as if she’d slid off the edge of the Earth otherwise, and he held her, sandwiched in the cool place between her tub and her toilet. 

When it was just the two of them like this, there was no such thing as time. With the two of them, there were no boundaries in the cosmos - the two of them in their own little universe.

It was easier that way.

Hobie wondered where they’d be, if not together. If they let canon write their stories for them - would that be a life worth living at all?

“I’m so tired of this shit.” Diane whispered.

“So am I.” Hobie said.

Hobie turned on the shower, lifted Diane, and took her back to the couch.

That was the only thing he could think to do - clean her up and get her comfortable.

He didn’t know how long they had before the city was in a frenzy - how long they had before Disco-Spider would be identified and outed, her face shown to all of New York. Soon cops all over the city would no her as a cop-killer, the NYPD’s enemy #1. And there was only so much he could do to shield her. But he’d try.

Diane laid on the couch, her energy gone, her body grounded by exhaustion and crushing dread. Silently, she watched the TV play reruns of The Brady Bunch on mute. A family of smiling faces casting dancing lights across her blank face.

“You know,” Diane said, after a long time. “I’m afraid I won’t ever see my aunt again.”

It took Hobie a second to understand what she meant. Her head was sat in his lap, but she turned her eyes toward him, looking up at him.

“Never took you to be religious,” he said. 

Up until that moment, Diane had never spoken much about religion, or death. She simply wasn’t the type, too full of life to ever think about death. Not even when Diane’s Auntie May had died less than a year earlier - another canon event that was still a fresh wound.

“I didn’t either.” Diane said. “That’s what she use to say though. That I’d see my mama and dad in heaven. They went missing, and we ain’t ever find them. But Auntie used to say, even if we can’t find them here, if we were good - we’d find them there. Then we’d all be together. Now that I say it like that.. It sounds naive. But I still feel scared.”

It was crushing, that feeling. The fear that she was too far gone. Diane had never been religious. She’d sang at church when she was young, gotten all prettied up on Sundays. But she had been a child then.

Now, she couldn’t recognize herself. Back then, she could be her. Now, she had to be Disco.

Hobie ran his fingers along the side of Diane’s face, brushing her hair aside. Diane closed her eyes, trying to imagine that his touch was the only thing left in the world.

“If it makes you feel any better, wherever you end up. I’ll be there too.” he said.

For a second, Diane didn’t say anything, holding herself in that moment with his touch, the lights outside tangerine and crimson red.

When she opened her eyes, she said “It does make me feel a little better.”

After all this, a place with just the two of them did seem like heaven.

Diane got in the shower, running the water hot, as if she were trying to wash the trauma out.

Hobie stayed in the living room, in a silent argument with himself.

How long could they stay here? How long did she have?

Hours? Minutes? Moments?

How much would she have to endure, before canon decided she’d ‘had enough’? Why did it have to happen at all?

The image on the TV changed drastically. The mirage of a happy white family of sitcom smiles seemingly disappeared in an instant. Now there was breaking news, and the screen before him showed nothing but chaos.

Rioters forming a mod, a gathering on the steps of the NYPD Headquarters, the people’s faces contorted in anger and hatred. The headline accompanied the scene: ‘Rioters search for Disco-Spider in defense of Shoot-&-Slain Captain Stacy’.

Fellow officers stood amongst the crowd in support, armed with their assault rifles and riot gear. The ones that didn’t have that, had white hoods.

This was the reality of Diane’s universe.

This was why the Black Panthers fought as hard as they did, what her parents had fought all their lives for. A universe divided by racial injustice, homophobic extremism, and hatred. He could see it in their faces, both giddy and enraged. When he unmuted the TV, he could hear it in their voices, when they chanted ‘Kill the N!***r!’ with glee.

Diane had sacrificed her life to be Disco, when she had only wanted to be herself. Diane had given up dreams to be Disco, to defend those that simply wanted to be themselves too.

But could she die for Disco too? The question made Hobie sick.

Hobie had his answer. They didn’t have long.

Diane couldn’t tell how long she’d laid there, sitting in darkness at the bottom of her tub. Knees to her chest, she held herself there in a ball, under the cool running water. 

She knew she didn’t have much time.

The walls seemed like they were closing in, tighter and tighter. Like if she let go for only a second, canon would crush and kill her right there and then.

She had never wanted any of this.

There was nothing she wanted more than to take Hobie by the hand, to curl up with him in bed, and let the world implode around them - like nothing else mattered. Like there was no one else in the universe but them.

What she wouldn’t give, to be anyone else. To be a footnote in someone else's story, to live - and just live, with Hobie. She’d give anything.

The universe wouldn’t allow it. Canon needed a character worthy of tragedy. But if she closed her eyes, when she thought about it hard enough, she could see a life with him that felt all too real.

Backstage at shitty venues, stolen kisses in alleyways. Weed smoke and lipstick stains, morning after morning on a canal boat. No universes to keep them apart and not ever having to say goodbye.

A life where she was just Diane. And he was just Hobie. And they could just be together.

What she wouldn’t give for a life like that.

When Diane got out of the shower, the tile floor felt ice cold.

Whatever was at the top of the hamper was what she put on, something faded and worn - a bandtee of Hobie’s band ‘Wicked Webs’ - and she left her hair as is, kinky coils still wet from the water.

On the other side of the door, the apartment seemed dark and cold.

“Hobie?”

No response.

She could hear the sounds of chaos - sirens and shrieks from the streets. Blue and red lights flickered across the city, dozens of patrol cars to start the search. Soon, the whole city would be in lockdown.

There was no time left to run, there had never been any other place to go. And the thought terrified her to her core.

Diane could feel the panic setting in again. She could tell in the way her chest tightened and heaved.

Diane felt Hobie before she saw him, lean arms wrapping around her middle to pull her close. Diane turned into his embrace, pressing her face into his shoulder, taking him in if only for a moment. 

It was a second before she asked “Where’d you go?”

“Had to grab something,” he said.

Hobie held something between them. An item, wrapped in his signature scrap-wrapping-paper - a gift. Diane hesitated, trying to even her breathing and soothe the shake in her hands. She took the box from him, turning it over to undo the tape.

“Was gonna wait til your birthday for this one, but I figured I’d give it to you a bit Liz Hurley*. Just this one time.” (rs: ‘early’)

Diane opened the box.

Inside was a watch.

Diane froze, the shock of it enough to wipe her mind clear.

It was sparkly and holographic, rigged with a neon pink screen, and girly keychains. It was a multiverse watch - but it wasn’t Miguel’s.

It was his.

And now, it was hers.

 “Hobie, I-” Diane shook her head in disbelief, trying to find her words. All she could say was “You’re amazing.”

Hobie pressed a kiss to her forehead, pulling her closer when he said “I want you to come with me, Di.”

“What?”

“Miguel and Jess won’t tell you this - but you don’t have to live like this. If this ain’t what you want, if you aren’t happy, then fuck canon.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Could be.” Hobie said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I made this watch so Miguel couldn’t track us whenever you came over. But if you want to leave, actually leave - Diane, you don’t have to be Disco if you don’t want to. You could be just Diane. Screw Miguel and screw canon. I’d love you the same.”

Diane looked down at the watch in her hands. The key to escaping, to leaving, to just being. Being with Hobie, being just Diane.

What more could she ask for? What did she have left to lose?

It only took twenty minutes to pack her bags, two duffels she’d gotten on their last tour.

Diane slipped on the watch. When it clicked into place, it was a perfect fit. She’d left her blood-stained suit in the hamper. She figured she wouldn’t need it.

The portal in front of them was entirely Hobie, rough on its edges and loud in its colors. When she passed through it, she left to Disco behind.

She left to be Just Diane.

_________________________________________________

:) I HAVE NOTHING TO ADD. I'm happy to be done and I'm happt with how this came out but atp I'm not even sure if its enough comfort to count lol

If you made it this far, thank you SO SO SO much for reading. I love you!! Here's Hobie.

BYE.

I was cooking on twitter today

does anyone else have the headcanon that the level of control we see stan having over his mindscape (stan being able to talk to dipper in a memory, stan being able to make his memories into a giant labyrinth and seemingly able to perfectly hide most of the ford memories from everyone else) is, like, exclusive to him?

of course ford would know how to control and shape his own mindscape thanks to previous coaching from his Muse, but, like, stan has had to live a billion lives as fake identities. i headcanon that the mental discipline required to keep his story straight that many times allowed him to build a really thorough and hard-to-navigate mindscape, as well as suppress it all near-instantly in weirdmageddon 3 in order to trick bill

all this to say. i think if you went in soos or wendy’s mindscape and tried to do the same thing dipper did by talking to their memories, their memories would probably start screaming hysterically about being told they’re a memory and the gang would realize that stan is an outlier.