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It was nearly 3AM. You were up late, as per usual. It was hard to get much sleep knowing that Hobie was out there in the streets of Camden putting his life at risk to protect the innocent. Worse yet, he rarely made it a habit to come home this late. He says it’s cause even spiders sleep, but you know deep down that your boyfriend is aware of how anxious you get without him here.
When you finally heard a knock on your bedroom window, you looked over to see Spider-Punk. He was sitting on the edge of your balcony trying his hardest to look tough whilst compressing his side, his mask a little torn up at the edges. Laceration on the left of the abdomen, potentially from a knife wound. You took a mental note of his condition knowing your boyfriend tended to play down his injuries.
“Alright, let’s get you patched up then.” You sighed, opening up the windows wide as he clambered inside and threw his ragged mask to the ground. You tried to remain nonchalant about the injury in an attempt to go down the path of least resistance. This routine was inevitable; the more you worried, the more he deflected. You now had it down to a science.
“I’m just peachy. Thanks for asking, you geezer.” His tone was sarcastic as he approached you and wrapped his strong arms around your waist, leaning down enough to brush your lips in a subtle kiss. A masterful avoidance tactic that you couldn’t help but give in to, offering your mouth up for more. He happily took advantage of your willingness by trying to deepen the kiss, but you were quick to pull away once you realised he was trying to avoid discussing his wounds. He frowned, caught.
“You’re practically indestructible, Hobie, I barely worry anymore.” You smiled into his mouth, trying to joke back and ease tensions despite neither of you being too convinced. The charade was short lived when you could no longer ignore the way his shirt was turning rouge-r by the second.
“Jesus, that’s a bad gash. Please let me help you disinfect it.” He grimaced as you mentioned it as though just remembering it was there. He looked as though he might resist, but Hobie was no match for your puppy-eyes. “Fine. Whatever helps you sleep at night.” He huffs, laying flat against your bedroom floor to allow you to get to work.
Hobbie watches you from his place on the ground, always observing as though he’s calculating his next move as you bustle around for your first aid kit. You try to act normally as though you don’t notice the feeling of his eyes lingering.
“If I was actually indestructible you wouldn’t feel the need to play nurse all the time, now would you?” He said, wincing when his attempt at a chuckle only worsened his condition. “Good one.” You acknowledged, “Lay down and be quiet.”
Hobie looked almost like a kicked puppy all beat up like this, so you try to make quick work of taking off his blood soaked shirt (“If you wanted me to strip you could’ve just asked darling,”) and pressing disinfectant into his wounds (“You truly are a little sadist.”) You finish wiping down his stomach and bandage it up with medical gauze before pinching his cheek playfully. “There, all better. So how was the fight?”
He makes a weak attempt at escaping from your grasp but is quick to give in, allowing you to pull and prod at his face. “Hey, watch those hands.” Hobie jokes, pretending to chomp at where your fingers were. You stifle a laugh as your brain conjures up a mental image of him as an angry dog at the groomers.
“It was fine, just one dumb crook. I could’ve finished the fight earlier but whatever...” The joking tone was gone from his voice, and Hobie sounded genuinely aggravated at the idea of having left you waiting. His bottom lip jutted out and his eyebrows furrowed in annoyance. You felt yourself melt a little at how much he cared despite his snark. The thought warmed you up from the inside out. You tried to not let the sappiness of your emotions filter into your voice, opting for the safe option of teasing him instead.
“How’d you end up this beat up? You might be losing your touch, Spider-Punk”
“You try fist fighting a drunk racist with a knife” he groaned, stretching out his sore neck. You giggle, watching as he props himself up on his elbows, leaning back onto your bed. It’s almost like your boyfriend is allergic to sitting on things normally.
You take the rare moment of silence to just… stare at him. You take in his beautiful features that are only complimented by his array of piercings, the masculinity in his strong facial structure, the beauty of his endless head of hair. It was just all so him. And you adored every part of him.
It was truly not fair how pretty Hobie was. And sexy, your brain helpfully adds. Yeah. That too.
”Like what you see?” His deep voices interrupts your mental undressing and you barely manage to stifle a squeak. His cocky smirk makes you roll your eyes, way too smug in having caught you in the act. “C’mere…” Hobie beckons for you, and as you approach he yanks suddenly on your arm to get you to sit down on his lap.
“Wah!” Hobie snorts at the noise you make as you land, peppering kisses to your burning cheeks. “Thanks for looking after me, love.” The affection and sincerity in his voice flusters you to no end.
Your first instinct is to bury your face into the warmth of his neck to avoid the loving way his eyes pierce into yours. “You’re welcome, Hobie…” Your voice comes out high and muffled.