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Calc should count as cruel and unusual punishment, you think, tapping your pencil against your notebook. And while they're at it, homework shouldn't be necessary. It might as well be unconstitutional at this point. I'll take it up with Congress if I pass this quiz.
tap.
You lift your head, the sound cutting through your music just barely. You were alone in your room, sitting at your desk. You glanced around in a quick survey. Nothing fell, nothing was out of order. Must've been the song. So you go back to your homework, albeit begrudgingly.
tap tap.
Again, you lift your head, your confusion doubling as you look around you. *What is tapping? Is it the pipes?* You stand, going over to the wall, pressing your palm to it, then your ear. Absolute silence. Feeling foolish, you went back to your desk.
tap tap tap!
“I am not crazy!” You exclaim, spinning around, searching for the source of the sound. Bed, chair, laundry, knick knacks, fake plants, window, man in the window- man in the window!?
Before you could scream, a palm presses against the glass and a face appears beside the hand, just barely lit by the light of your room. Your eyes widen and you rush over, throwing the window open. “Hobie!?” You hiss. “‘Ey beautiful. Why'd you listen to the wall?” He asks, leaning on the window screen. His face was concealed by his mask. “Thought it was the pipes tapping,” you say, folding your arms. “Interestin’. Mind letting me in?” He leans on the screen more, the material creaking. “You're gonna break it,” you whisper, jamming the screen up into the window frame, stepping back to allow him inside.
“Oh, apologies,” he murmurs, climbing inside with a grace that was unnatural for his tall and lanky frame. He takes a few steps, his walking uneven but you don't catch it yet. Hobie pulls off his mask, his hair spilling out like a cloud.
“Yeah, you- is that all you have to say? For scaring the ever-loving shit out of me and nearly breaking my screen?” You scoff, closing the window firmly.
He turns to face you and all your anger melts as you take in his state. Bruised, bleeding, his smile wavering slightly. “Hobie,” you whisper. He just shrugs. “Mind if I crash ‘ere?”
Before you could answer him, he collides with your bed, burying his face in your pillow. You rush over, lifting his head. “You look like shit,” you murmur, taking in his face. He just smiles. “Oh, thank you.” “Do not get blood on my pillow. I will be right back. Do not go to sleep.” He doesn't answer you.
You dart across the hall to the bathroom, grabbing bandaids and antiseptic, praying your parents' movie was too loud to hear him. When you come back, his breathing has evened, his eyes closed as he lounges. You sit beside him on the bed, rolling him over to see his face. He looked so peaceful when he slept, almost pretty without that smirk. As you took in the extent of his injuries, you poured antiseptic onto a cotton pad, pressing it to his cheek. He didn't open his eyes, but he flinched. “What, no warning, luv?” “You got blood on my pillow, so no, no warning. Sit up.”
He watches you intently as you clean his wounds, gently wiping away blood, applying bandaids liberally. “Okay,” you mumble once you finish. “All better…”
“Your music is shit,” he mutters, the first thing he'd said in nearly ten minutes. You shove him, standing up. “Fuck you so much actually.” “Not too much, I hope,” he snickers, getting comfortable on your bed. “Hello, did I say you could sleep here?” “Oh, but you didn't say I couldn't,” he retorts, pulling your stuffed animal into his arms. “Let ‘im stay,” he says in a horrible falsetto, wiggling your plushie's arms. You snatch the plushie from his hands, putting it on your desk. “Leave Puddles out of this.”
“Puddles!?” He sits up quickly. “It's a duck!” “Puddles?” He repeats, grinning widely, his eyes practically sparkling. “Ducks like puddles!” “Didn’t I win you ‘Puddles’ at the fair?” “You know what, that's not important right now-” “And what is?” “Who hurt you?” For the first time in a while, it's almost as if you'd rendered him speechless. He goes silent, laying back down in your bed. “Hobie,” you say softly.
“Change the song,” he orders, turning away from you. “No, it's Kesha.” “I said change it.” “And I said fuck you, who did this!?” “Just a robber. Got in a tussel.” You sigh, pleased to finally be getting answers, even if they were small.
“Your dimension or mine?” “Mine.” “Ah, a wanker then?” You ask, trying out a shitty British accent. He scoffs. “Yeah. Proper Muppet, he was.” “Kermit?” “Nah, definitely that bloke Gonzo.” “Don't you dare bring my boy Gonzo into this, he is an upright citizen!”
Hobie glances at you, amused by your defense of Gonzo. “Fozzie then.” “I can deal with a bit of Fozzie slander.” “Good… Stupid dog.” “Okay, that's where I draw the line, he is a bear.” “I didn't know the Fonz came out.” “You're thinking of someone else-... He might be gay though.” “Is the Muppet gay?” “How should I know!?... He wears a bowtie.” “Gay.” “Lovely… Did you win?” “Being gay isn't a competition,” he tells you, seemingly with genuine confusion.
“What?-... Moron! I meant the robber!” “Ohhh… Of course I did, who do you take me for, Ben Reilly, that twat?” “Ooh, tell me how you really feel.” “I hate him.” “I know you do.”
Again, the room falls silent, but this time it isn't as tense. Slowly, you make your way over to the bed, kneeling beside it. Hobie rolls over to face you, a smile touching his lips as his gaze meets yours. “Hi,” you whisper. “Hey,” he whispers back. “I missed you.” His eyes warm at your confession. “I missed you too, luv.”
You stick out your lips exaggeratedly. Hobie snickers, mimicking your face. “C'mere,” you mutter. “No, you.” “I did it first.” “I'm injured.” You scoff, but lean in, gently kissing him, careful of the cut on his lip. He exhales a soft breath against your mouth, a hand coming up behind your head to hold you. His fingers knot themselves in your hair, trapping you in his embrace- which you did not mind at all.
His piercing was cold and a little jarring compared to his lips. With a soft smile, you poke your tongue out, gently tracing the piercing. Hobie's eyes open a peek and a lazy grin finds its way to his face. He moves before you even notice, his teeth catching the tip of your tongue, making you squeak.
Hobie's eyes are warm as he looks at you, playful and sweet. After a moment, he lets go and you pull away from him, scowling softly. “Aw, what's that pout for?” “You bit me.” “And you liked it,” he retorts, leaning closer to you. “Consent is a thing, you know.” “Ah, y’want me to ask first?” “Yes, I do.” “Well, then…”
He brings your hand to his lips. He presses soft kisses across your palm, not meeting your gaze. “May I kiss you?” He mumbles against the creases of your hand.
For a long moment, you forget how to even breathe, let alone answer. Hobie waits patiently for your response, his lips stilling. “Yeah,” you finally whisper, your voice choked slightly due to your heart in your throat.
Hobie sits up again, gently catching your face in his hand, bringing you to meet him halfway. You melt into the kiss, pleased by his respectful turn of behavior. “Didn't know you could be so sweet, Spider Punk,” you tease gently, your words spilling between his lips. “I can be a lot of things if I want to.”
The kiss continues for a long while, gentle and slow with a few breaks for air. Somewhere along the way, you found your way into his lap. He lays down, pulling you to lay on his chest as he continues to kiss you, his lips becoming lazy, drawing out the moment.
“My parents are home,” you whisper as his hands trail up your sides, slipping under your shirt. “I know, I saw their car,” he mumbles back. “They're downstairs.” “Watching Tenet. They won't hear us.” “How can you be so sure?” He looks at you, smiling, proud of himself. “Tenet is one of the loudest movies ever.”
You scoff. “What, did you take a film class?” “I did. Didn't you, too?” “We didn't cover fun fact shit like that.” Both of you go silent for a few long moments.
“Are you just making excuses for your embarrassment?” Hobie finally asks. “What, are you a psychologist now?” “Of course I am. If Kendrick got a degree in English, Spider Punk can have a degree in Psychology.” “You didn't even go to college!” You exclaim, barking out a laugh. “I took an online course,” he says proudly.
“I thought you didn't have Kendrick Lamar in your universe yet.” “I don't, but when I'm here, I get different reels.” “Reels? Like Instagram?” “Yeah, what else?” When did you get a phone!?” You exclaim, realizing you didn't even have his number. “A few weeks ago, with Pav.” You pause, oddly hurt by the fact that he didn't give you his number or even his Instagram.
“Okay, how did you take an online course if the Internet isn't even a thing in your universe?” “I crashed at Pav's a few nights a week for a few months to take the classes.” “You could've come here,” you murmur, sitting up. He sits up too, resting a hand on your hip. “I knew you were busy with finals, luv.” “Still, I would've helped.”
He gently pokes your pouting bottom lip. “Are you jealous?” “Of course not! Don't flatter yourself,” you mutter, moving off of his lap. You go over to your desk, picking up your pencil to finish your homework.
For a long moment, Hobie just looks at you. He knew you were upset. Did he feel bad that he'd upset you? A little. But he also was pleased that you cared so much.
You scribbled an equation, simplifying it, then erasing it as you realize you did it wrong. You start it again, feeling like you were on the right track this time, but as you go to put it in your calculator, you realize it's still wrong. Two hands rest on your shoulders, bringing you out of your math-induced rage.
“What?” You mutter, your voice sharp. “It's 1 over 4y squared,” he explains softly, pointing to the problem you were stuck on. You sigh loudly, writing the answer, but scowling still. “I'm supposed to figure it out myself.” “Why, so you ‘learn’?” “Yes, that's exactly it. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you might've graduated high school.” “Why are you so mad?” He asks, his voice smooth, nearly making you believe it was just a regular question instead of something so loaded. “I'm not,” you whisper. “You don't sound like you're not,” he murmurs, “Well I'm not,” you scoff, rolling your eyes.
He turns your chair to face him, frowning. “Hey!” “Look at me,” he says firmly. “What, Hobie?” “Why are you jealous that I spent a few nights at Pav's?” “Because I have a perfectly good dimension with perfectly good wifi and… a perfectly good me,” you admit softly. “You wanted to spend time with me?” He asks, stifling a pleased smirk. You nod once. “Oh, sweetheart, you could've called me.”
“I don't have your phone number,” you remind him gently. “Yeah, you do. I put it in your phone.” “What!? When!?” “When I first got my phone. I swung by and put my number in your phone while you were in the shower.” “What's it saved under!?” You exclaim, grabbing your phone. “Dashing,” he says, grinning. “Dashing?” You echo, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah… Like handsome.” “I know what it means, it's just stupid.” “Oh, you wound me.” You bring up the contact, finding a picture of a guitar as the profile photo. You call the number and a moment later, Blitzkrieg Bop begins to play from Hobie's pocket. He declines the call, still staring at you.
“Better, now?” “No, I'm still mad.” He sighs, leaning against your desk. “How can I make it up to you?” You roll your eyes, looking away. “It's not something you can just ‘make up to me’, Hobie. It's not even a big deal.” “You're upset,” he says softly. “So it is to me, luv, a big deal… I'm sorry I didn't get my psychology degree in your dimension.” You look at him with a wince, realizing just how silly it was that you were upset about that. “...I'm sorry too. I was being stupid. You shouldn't have to apologize for that.”
“Nah, I thought it was cute that you were jealous of Pav,” he says, brushing your nose with his knuckle. You smile softly, glad he wasn't upset with you. “So… What are you gonna do with that psych degree?” “Diagnose criminals on the job,” he says, his expression completely serious. You couldn't help but laugh. “Oh, God. Wouldn't that be something? Getting told by Spiderman that you're bipolar while he beats you nearly unconscious.”
Another silence falls over the both of you, but it's more comfortable this time. “So… Now that we're both on the same page…,” you start softly. Before you could continue, Hobie tilts your head up. With a smile that makes your knees weak, he bends, gently kissing you. This is why we're so good together, you think, sitting up so he didn't have to bend down so far. We know what we want without needing to say it.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
You'd known one another for a little while, even before he joined the Society. You were sent to his dimension about two years ago to keep the Canon from getting disrupted and with orders from Miguel to try and recruit him. He declined your offer and, once everything was taken care of, you left. About six months later, you were sent back to extend another offer after he beat a big-time villain. Hobie once again declined, but this time, he asked you out.
You declined, but the two of you kept in touch, with a little help from Margot. She modified a watch so he couldn't travel across dimensions, but could still contact you. You visited him as often as you could with finals and college entrance exams and your own dimension’s problems.
Six months after that, you managed to get him a watch that fully worked so he could visit you too and the other Spider People. You bribed Lila and Margot to keep it under wraps from Miguel, since Hobie didn't want to be in the Society yet. It wasn't until just three months ago that he finally accepted your offer and became a real member with clearances.
To say the two of you were close would be an understatement. But to say you were dating was a stretch. Your relationship existed in this gray area of kisses and cuddles without labels. You were more than friends, that was sure, but Hobie never expressed wanting to date in general, let alone date you. You didn't mind it. You liked the affection.
And since he technically wasn't your boyfriend, you didn't have to introduce him to your parents, which also meant you could dodge explaining why he looked like that (newspaper clipping-esque, on an entirely different frame rate, the TSA agent heart attack inducing number of piercings, et cetera, et cetera).
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
“What's goin’ on in that pretty little head?” He mumbles, pulling away just enough to speak coherently. You open your eyes slightly to look at him. He's already smiling, as if he can read your thoughts. “I'm thinking about how difficult it would be to introduce you to my parents if you were my boyfriend,” you whisper. Your eyes are low, taking in the features of his face with a loving stare. His smile softens as he senses that this is a genuine worry for you, albeit a small one since you knew Hobie didn't like labels, but a worry nonetheless.
“Ah… And how difficult would it be?” “Well, I'd either have to lie directly to their faces or tell them you're from another dimension, so… pretty difficult.” “Oh, then I'll tell them,” he whispers, gently tilting your chin up.
His lips catch yours once again and you melt instantly, all your worries blinking from your head like an LED sign that got unplugged. It was one of his many superpowers, making your mind go blank. Be it a kiss, a smirk, a gaze, a touch, a curl of his fingers, a warm stretch between your legs, a growled swear in your ear, whispered afterglow promises, Hobie could always make you weak by barely even trying.
“Breathe,” he reminds you gently, his lips curling into another smirk against yours. You struggle to inhale, pulling away slightly. Hobie lets you go an inch or two before stopping you with a hand on the back of your neck. It wasn't meant to choke or to threaten, simply to hold you close to him still even while you struggled.
Hobie liked all of you. And he wanted all of you. Every inch. Every nook and cranny of your body, mind and soul. Every peak and valley, curve and edge, triumph and downfall. So of course it didn't take a rocket scientist to realize that he liked to be near you as well. Like, physically near to you: holding hands, linking pinkies, an arm around your shoulders or waist, legs touching, anything that can get him a bit of skin to skin.
The neck holding thing wasn't new. He did that often, whenever you tried to pull away and he wasn't ready to let you go yet.
“Hobie,” you pant breathlessly, forcing your eyes open to see him. “Yes, luv?” He murmurs, gently brushing kisses across your cheek, feather-light and tantalizing. For a moment, you struggle to find your words, which makes him laugh. “Mind gone blank?” He teases, gently biting the plush of your cheek. “Oh, fuck off,” you whisper, rolling your eyes.
You make no move to push him off, but he lets go anyway, softly kissing the spot he bit. “There we go,” he sighs, slowly finding your lips again. This kiss is a bit faster, hungrier with more desire present. He wasn't hiding it now. Slowly, his true intentions were becoming clearer and clearer, but you weren't mad at all. In fact, you reveled in it. It was such a wonderful feeling to be wanted. And to be wanted by easily the prettiest Spiderman across thousands of dimensions felt almost as good as sex with him. Almost…
Finally, he begins to let himself explore. “Explore” might not be the right word here. To explore is to venture into the unknown with the intent to familiarize oneself with it. But Hobie already knew your body, very well in fact. Nearly as well as his own.
Regardless, his hands snake under your shirt, finding your waist with a gentle squeeze. “My parents,” you whisper, the sound swallowed by him immediately. “Are watching Tenet,” he finishes for you. “We talked about this earlier, luv, you're repeatin’ yourself." “I don't wanna get caught with a boy who I'm not even dating,” you whisper, pulling away to speak clearly. He sighs softly, holding your face in his hands. “Would you prefer getting caught with a boy you were dating?” For a moment, you're confused.
Is it a genuine question? Is he leaving you? Is he asking you out?
He waits as you struggle to find words. “Um…,” you barely manage to hum. “Would you prefer to be caught with a boyfriend instead of a boy friend?” “Hobie, you're more than a friend and you know it,” you whisper. “You're not answering my question,” he sighs, gently rubbing his thumbs into your cheekbones. “I don't understand what you're asking…”
“I'm askin’… if you're tired of not ‘aving a label on this…” For a long moment, you just look at him, unsure of if the truth or a lie would hurt less. He waits patiently, watching you with those big, warm eyes- dark chocolate brown and as deep as the ocean with lashes longer than yours framing them sweetly.
“...Maybe,” you admit softly. “Maybe?” He echoes, smiling softly. He was glad to be getting somewhere, even if it was taking a little while. “Yeah, maybe,” you repeat softly. Hobie nods, resuming his gentle rubbing on your cheeks. “Do you want me to be your boyfriend?”
You nod shyly, ducking your head slightly. Hobie didn't like labels. He didn't like consistency. He wasn't a fan of predictability. Why was he asking you this?
He murmurs your name, tapping your cheek gently to get you to look at him. “Can I be your boyfriend?” He asks you, with a small smirk. You scoff. “Really? I-I mean… Sure… If you want,” you say, trying to stifle the excitement in your stomach. Hobie tips his head back and laughs. “C'mon, give me a yes or no.” “I did!” You protest. “No, you're actin’ like you couldn't give any less of a shit. It's a yes or no, luv.” “Fine!... Yes,” you say, your defensive posture deflating.
“There, now was that so hard?” He asks, his smirk softening as he leans in again. You nod quickly. “Yeah, it was very scary.” “Oh, you poor thing,” he coos teasingly. “You know what, fuck you so much.” “Not too much,” he chuckles, kissing your nose. “So, girlfriend, what do you want to do now?” “Well, boyfriend, I suppose we could… continue where we left off?”
“If you wanna make out with me, you could just say that.” “Oh, just shut up and kiss me!”
❤︎❤︎❤︎