Astv Spidersona - Blog Posts

Sure, Next Time.

Summary: Hobie only comes to you after trouble Characters/Pairing: Hobie x GN!Reader Word Count: 1.4k Warnings: Blood, injuries, dislocated finger, hurt/comfort A/N: Pls bear with me as I attempt his accent lmao

It didn't necessarily surprise you when Hobie accidentally let it slip that he was Spider-Punk. You could recognize the sticker abused guitar and stressed leather jacket anywhere. What did surprise you was the number of injuries he sustained and how easily he could hide them from you. If he had a limp his excuse was, "Tripped in my boots, luv." Any other injuries he used the excuse of having started a fight with some capitalist douchebag. And you believed it. It was only until he came back for you to patch him up after every battle that you began to truly let your anxiety feed into it.

Hobie had climbed through your window at 2am. The sun was nowhere to be seen, and the moon was shrouded in clouds. You had become a light sleeper as of late, the rise in crime getting on your nerves and preventing that precious rest you craved.

You woke up at the sound of those familiar heavy boots against your tiled floor. Squinting, you recognized the familiar shadow of a certain spider-man, or at least the shadow of the spikes on his head. "Hobie?" You reached to turn on your bedside lamp. Tired eyes squinted as the warm light enveloped the room. Your voice was scratchy from having been woken up at an ungodly hour. Your hair was all over the place, strands in front of your eyes and sticking out in ways that you didn't know it could. You thought this was a dream with how Hobie had frozen like a deer in headlights at the end of your bed.

Hobie thought he could just slip in and out, weaving his way to your bathroom and taking a couple of bandages for his trip home. He was wrong and now look at him. He had barely made it to your house in one place and there was no doubt that he was not making it back to his own. All his weight was on his left leg, he was using a web connected to your roof as leverage to keep him upright. You could see a dark stain seeping through his mask just above where you assumed his left eyebrow to be. You suspected there to be more than what you could see through his mask but would have to wait until you finally got him to the bathroom sink to find out.

The corners of his lips turned up as he watched you struggle to untangle your legs from the bedsheets. "Need some help, luv?" A shit eating grin adorned his face, but you couldn't see it. Even when he was injured, he still managed to make your cheeks flush in embarrassment.

You rolled your eyes. "I'm just fine." You huffed, finally finding the floor against your feet and taking steady steps towards the injured man. You didn't see him using your roof as leverage and silently cursed yourself for taking so long. "You better not pull out my roof with that web. Otherwise, you'll be the one dealing with my landlord." You huffed only half-joking. Humour seemed to be your coping mechanism. "Don't get all funny on me now, luv." He chuckled, sounding worn out and in pain. You helped him through your mediocre apartment, having draped his arm over your shoulders and letting him rest his weight against you as you walked (stumbled) to the bathroom.

With a slight huff through your nose and grunt that you wished was silent, Hobie was now sitting on your toilet, the lid shut. He was too tall when he sat on the sink (you found that out the first time he came over) and well, you didn't have much room up there to begin with. You crouched to the cupboard below your sink. In a Spider-Punk themed box (made by you to tease Hobie) was a consistent supply of bandages, disinfectant wipes, alcohol wipes, splints, etc. There was everything you could think of that someone would need when injured. You made this box not long after the first time Hobie came back with blood dripping from his forehead, and you didn't have anything to help. That night was filled with gentle apologies and worried glances.

"Can you take the mask off, Hobes?" You mumbled, having pulled the box onto the sink. You turned to watch him, tired eyes noticing just how he flinched when he moved his arms to push the mask over his head and tossing it to the floor. His hands were trembling, one of his fingers looking to be the slightest bit out of place. The cut above his eyebrow was bleeding profusely and it looked as if part of his piercing had been pulled on.

"'s not as bad as it looks." His hands gently moved to rest on your hips, eyes glancing towards the worried look on your face before moving to the roof. "Not as bad as it looks. Baby, you've probably got a concussion... No, you've definitely got a concussion." You mumbled, hands already digging into that spider-punk themed medicine box. You managed to pull out some baby wipes and a few alcohol wipes. Adrenaline was coursing through your veins, heart thumping in your ears. Your hands came up to caress his face, taking a baby wipe to gently wipe the blood dripping down his face. There was a visible wince and a hiss of pain that came from the touch. Hobie's long fingers gripped the fabric of your pyjamas.

"I'm sorry, Hobie..." you muttered, trying to be as gentle and careful as possible. Once the cut was cleaned and a bandage was placed over it, it was time to move to his finger. "I'm even more sorry about this. We're gonna need to put it back in place, okay?" You were kind of glad you took that health course in high school now.

Hobie let out a groan, too tired to respond with words, but it was clear he was not looking forward to it. His hands released their grip on your hips and instead were placed in your palms. "Okay, we're gonna count to three and I'll put it back in. That good, baby?" You asked.

The suspense was killing Hobie, he was already in pain as it was. He's had dislocated digits before, so he understood the importance of getting the limb back in its socket as soon as possible, but that didn't mean he was going to enjoy it. He nodded. "Yeah, okay." He hummed in response. Except you didn't even count. You waited until he spoke up and quickly pushed the digit back into its socket, earning a muffled (still loud) groan of indescribable pain. "I'm sorry! Fuck, I'm sorry. It's over now." You apologized, wrapping his swollen wrist in a compression bandage. The tears brimming in his eyes and the sick pop of his finger had you feeling queasy. You felt your stomach flip and not in the usual happy way it did when Hobie was around. However, you pushed the feeling aside, hands resting on his cheeks as you leaned in to press a small kiss just to the left of his bandage.

"Let's get you to bed..."

After finally fixing up his injuries the two of you had found yourselves lying in bed. Hobie was next to you, one arm drapes over your stomach, the other resting under his head. His lips brushed against your cheek.

"I worry about you. About what you're doing." You spoke quietly, glancing back into his eyes for a moment. "I know it's for the greater good, but seeing you come home in the middle of the night half dead every day is- It's not nice." You rambled quietly before finally going silent.

He huffed through his nose, although it wasn't angry. "I know, luv. Gonna give you a heart attack one day." he joked, pressing his lips to your temple. "I love you." The words came out quiet, barely leaving his lips before you turned to face him.

"I love you too, Hobes. But next time you get a dislocated finger just go to a doctor. I literally felt sick from that." You mentioned, earning a small nod and a deep chuckle.

"Sure... next time." He mumbled in response, closing his eyes and wrapping his arm around you securely. There was no need to worry about the outside world as long as you were in his arms.