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noharaaa · 2 months

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𝒮𝓌𝒶𝓃𝙋𝙪𝙣𝙠: 𝘚𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘍𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 (sneak peek)

Pairing: Hobie Brown x Josephine Jameson! Fem!Spider-Ballerina OC!

Author’s Note: A glimpse of Jobie's first official meeting shown here. This is a draft version, so the actual material may alter from this but still have the same general idea once I release it.

This beautiful spider OC belongs to anon tagged below. Please check out their blog if you haven’t yet. They post a wonderful Jobie art.

⠀͓ ↷˚‧⁺ @qirarey123 ╰┄ི͙┈ 𖡼࿔

Enjoy Reading!

╰᭡⿴༘͜─𖧷̷۪۪᪇ ༘᪇𖧷̷۪۪⃟ꦽ⃟:: ᰰ۪۪꧇⿴༘⃕▦᰷᰷ᰰ

The constant flow of self-doubts and criticisms that surged through Josephine's mind was unrelenting, refusing to allow her to find fulfilment in anything she did.

Whenever she tried to accomplish something, there was always a voice there to remind her of her mistakes, her shortcomings, her inadequacies.

Failure. Never good enough.

And so, once again, Josephine found herself sinking in a hopeless spiral of self-sabotage, drowning in a sea of her own negativity...

Why can’t I be perfect? Why can’t I be enough? Why do I even try? Why can’t I just….-

“You got some jacked-up footwear, innit, little miss?“

The unexpected remark quickly jolted the poor dancer out of her self-pitying thoughts, catching her completely off guard. She whirls her head around to face whomever had spoken, her brain still fogged up from everything that had just happened. She wasn't even sure if she'd heard correctly,

“My footwear…what?”

There you go. She has no idea what he had just said.

Despite the gloomy atmosphere, her eyes are drawn towards the man's exceptional stature. He's leaning right next to the doorway, arms and legs crossed as he gazes at her from a distance. His height is added by the impressive volume of his hair, creating an overall imposing aura. However, his appearance is nothing compared to the weight of her own troubles, which continue to press down on her.

Josephine is taken aback from the sudden approach, still slightly confused until she spots him eyeing her shoes. She follows his gaze, looking down to the soles of her feet.

Her pointe shoes are completely worn out.

She sighs, acknowledging their horrible condition yet again before looking back up at him.

She is so done.

“What, you’re not gonna respond with any zingers? Come on, have a bit of backbone, I don’t bite.” He smirked, “Well, at least I don’t bite hard anyway.”

Her head tilts slightly in uncertainty as she raises an eyebrow. His speech is happening so quickly that she begins to notice it. It was hard for her to understand nearly everything he said just now considering his heavy accent.

“I’m sorry…what???”

“I said I don’t bite. Do I actually need to slow down for you? Or would that hurt that spider-pride of yours?”

As it only takes her a few lengthy seconds to absorb his response to her head, she narrows her gaze once more, “What is that supposed to mean? And what does pride have to do with hearing?”

Perhaps this man was right about her... She'd been so consumed in her own thoughts and issues that she hadn't even realized that her shoes were practically falling apart. Now, as she gazes down at them in humiliation, she can't help but be caught off-guard by his boldness.

He leans back against the wall, shifting his footing slightly to get more comfortable as he replies,

“The joke. It just whizzed right over… nevermind. Listen, I don’t wanna get your little spider-brain all twisted like those shoes of yours. But, it looks like you’ve been stomping through a forest of thorns, bruv.”

A few seconds would pass as Josephine ponders what to say. It is hard to get a good read on him. He appears to be messing with her. Judging by the tone of his voice, she can sense that he’s trying to get a rise out of her.

She narrowed her eyes, annoyed at him once again for bringing it up. After a few short seconds of silence she spoke,

“What is it with you and my shoes? Like, who even cares?”

“I cares, Frenchie. You can't be runnin' away from a stinker like this with them ratty clown shoes. What, you gonna be scuttling off in one direction while your shoes take off in the other? Bloody hell mate..."

Josephine is now visibly irritated by his persistence, despite the faint feeling of amusement seeping through the cracks of her frustrations, "And it's not that big of a deal, I can literally just get a new pair of shoes, okay? ….Merde.”

Il se prend pour qui, cet Anglais?-

"Well, I figured a ballerina like yourself would at least pay more attention to her footwork! But in all seriousness, your shoes are so worn out, they look less like pointe shoes and more like point...less...shoes..."

Wow.

Her own laugh surprises her a little.

It happened so suddenly, he caught her off guard.

She looks down at them again and notices a few more details he hadn't mentioned. As it was, her shoes looked more like something you'd see at a dumpster dive than in a ballet studio. After a quick glance back up at the man. She was still kind of mad though, only because he made her laugh this time.

Her sudden reaction makes him smirk even more.

"You're supposed to be pissed, not laughing at my dumb jokes, Twinkle Toes."

She flashes a tiny grin, locking eyes with him once more as she states, “Well maybe your jokes are stupid enough that I cant get mad.”

"Good. I don't want you to get all upset. You’ve already got enough on your plate with those nasty shoes of yours."

Maybe she should focus on not stepping on anymore thorns.

╰᭡⿴༘͜─𖧷̷۪۪᪇ ༘᪇𖧷̷۪۪⃟ꦽ⃟:: ᰰ۪۪꧇⿴༘⃕▦᰷᰷ᰰ

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#across the spiderverse #hobie brown #atsv #oc x canon #spider ballerina #atsv fanfiction #spidersona #Hobie brown x black!oc #hobie brown x oc #hobie x oc #spider punk #fanfiction #hobie brown x black!reader #hobie brown x reader #hobie x reader

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eyesxxyou · 9 months

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Strawberries & Cigarettes

★🍓 {} .. hobie brown x ballerina!reader

rating. mature

word count. 3.4k

synopsis. no one believes that someone like you and someone like Hobie belong together. Your love is messy, chaotic, and painful, but it's caring, honest, and beautiful as well.

🚬・．❕ warning. y/n is a mess, self-harm, eating disorder, but of a toxic relationship, y/n has some problems up there 🧠, fighting, a LOT of angst

Anyone looking at you and Hobie would tell you that the two of you don’t belong together, that your puzzle pieces don’t slot in together just perfectly like they’re supposed to. You’re two pieces from entirely different puzzles. You world is filled with grace, with pink satin and pearl earrings, pink lip tints, and delicate tutus. You dance to the classics, from a tour en l’air to a royale and everything between and beyond.

Hobie rocks out. He’s covered spikes and he isn’t just the bark, he’s the bite as well. He’s the tear in the satin you adored so much, he kissed the tint off your lips, and was the one to get you those pearl earrings through nefarious means you’d rather not ask about. He stomped his feet to Black Flag and would force you to listen to the Sex Pistons for the rest of time if you didn’t make so much of a fuss about it.

Yes, you two were pieces from different puzzles who had no reason to be anywhere near each other. But your pieces somehow managed to snuggle in nicely with each other and create a whole new picture despite your differences because you aren’t all soft and full of innocent delicacies. You’re feet are often bruised and bloody, your hands tremble from all the cigarettes you burn to keep your appetite down, there are deep bags under your eyes that you cover with concealer before you leave the house, and there’s a deep melancholy about the way you go through the world. You dance until you physically can’t anymore, until your body screams at you to stop, until your feet leave streaks of blood across the waxed floor of the studio. You need to be slim, small— shoulders down, chin up, chest out, perfect.

And Hobie— though rough around his edges— can be soft in his own way.

Those at the studio know him vaguely. They know he’s your boyfriend, knows he comes to the studio about 2 hours after your class ends because you always stay later than everyone else and work on the choreography over and over until you physically can’t anymore. They know he’s the only reason you’re still alive. They know that he loves you to hell and back and simply can’t understand why.

So when they seem him, 6’5” with wildly beautiful hair, littered in spikes and piercings, and a unapproachable look to him (the only thing about the two of you that match), they don’t pay him any mind as he makes his way to the studio you’re usually in.

The music’s so loud you don’t hear the door open and you’re so focused on your own reflection in the mirror, making sure you hit every move with the precision and sharpness of a knife without losing any of the grace of the performance, that you don’t see Hobie standing there, watching you in all your beauty.

At least you’re not trembling this time. The last time, Hobie was caught up with something and couldn’t come check on you until much later. He found you here, in a ball on the floor, shaking and half-passed out. It could have been a number of things but did didn’t matter much which on of them it was. He had to pick you up, take you home because you refused to go to the hospital, and nurse you back to health.

Once the music came to an end and you closed your dance in a pose filled with poise and beauty, Hobie began to clap for you, startling you off the boxes of your slippers. You had the reflexes of a cat, swift and agile. You got startled just like one too. “You asshole,” you murmur as he comes over, his boots making a horrible squealing sound against the floor as he does so.

Hobie wrapped his arms around your waist and made eye contact with you through the reflection in the wall-length mirror. His lips pepper soft kisses against your exposed collarbones. “Didn’ mean t’ scare ya, doll.” He loves the way you lean into him but hates the way he isn’t sure if it’s because you want to be closer to him or if your body simply doesn’t have the energy to hold itself up. “Checkin’ in a lil’ early today. You weren’ answerin’ ya phone so I had to come ‘n make sure you weren’ dead.” He plays it off as a joke but you both know he’s more than serious. Your habits will kill you one day and you both know it.

You turn around in his arms, your fingers locked together behind his neck before they stroke the skin under his collar. “Sorry– forgot to take it off of silent after class.” You stand on your toes, feet arching because your scuffed slippers force you to as you stand on the box again. Hobie leans in to kiss you as you pull him in and press your lips against his. You taste like strawberries and cigarettes as always, a mixture of your lipgloss and what you had for breakfast today. Your body arches into his as he holds you tight and kisses you deeply.

“What ‘ave you eat’n t’day?” Hobie asks you, hoping the kiss will lighten the sour mood that question always puts you in. “Coffee ‘n a cigarette don’ count by the way. I mean somethin’ you put in ya mouth, chewed, and swallowed.” He adds on quickly before you get the chance to say what he knows you will and with him eliminating 80% of your entire diet, you remain silent and pull away from him.

Hobie grabs your hand before you can fully retract from him. “Come on, le’s go eat, luv.” And you pull your hand from his. You know better than to fight him on this because it will lead to an argument about your diet in which he’ll say what he always says, “A diet still requires that you eat somethin!” His accent becoming all the thicker.

“Just lemme go one more time first.” You request him to grant you just one more go at the choreography. You feel that you were so close, so so close to perfection though anyone in the building will tell you that you have nothing more to improve on. That’s the thing about you. You nitpick the smallest things and when there’s absolutely nothing wrong about your performance, you’ll make something up. And with a recital just days away, all your worst habits were double as bad. Hobie knew your cycle well. Dance yourself to the edge of death before a recital, usually fall into a depressive episode immediately after the recital because you feel like you somehow fucked up in front of hundreds of people when you were perfect by all standard, and then once he finally convinced you that there was nothing wrong with your performance, the was the grace period in which Hobie could convine you to eat at least a meal a day and to give your brutalized feet a rest. Until it was time for another recital. Then it starts all over again.

He knew your process like he knew his own face and he knew exactly how to disrupt it.

“No– No more t’day, luv. Get ya tings so we can go.” He isn’t particularly gentle in his tone. As said before, a bit rough around the edges. “Don’ fight me on this one. No’ t’day.” His eyes are firm as he looks at you, tells you he’s not going to give this up, even if it starts some shit between the two of you which it undoubtedly always does. He knows you, maybe better than you know yourself. It’s always “one more” until you’re on the floor with bruised, blistered, and bleeding feet, blackened knees from falling, and scraped palms from your delicate hands hitting the ground. And he’s always there to clean you up because that’s just what love is.

You scoff and roll your eyes at him. “Whatever.” But you comply, you brush past him as you make your way to your bag. You sit on the floor and Hobie follows suit with you, grabbing your ankle delicately and pulling it towards him as his long, slender fingers pull the ribbons you had tied so tightly around your ankles. He sees the bandages he's wrapped around your feet began to let a few dapples of blood through. He could see your grimace, the way you tried to hide it like you weren't in pain. He made a mental note to get some more bandages for you.

You pulled on your leg warmers, then your flats to give your poor feet a break. The whole time, you made it clear you weren't happy with Hobie, but you knew he couldn't care in the least if you pretended to hate him because he knew that it wouldn't last. It never lasts, these little fits of yours. As long as you were healthy.

You wrapped your chiffon skirt around your hips and pulled on your shrug sweater, pulling your feet away as Hobie tries to get the full extent of the damage. "I'm fine. You wanted to go so let's go." You grab your shoes, and slip them up before standing uneasily and grabbing your duffle bag.

“We’re goin’ home. I’ll make you sometin’ when we get there.” He didn’t want you on your feet more than you needed to be. Hobie tried to appeal to you, an offer to make you something he knew you’d like. When you don’t respond, he tries again. “I’ll order sushi from tha’ place ya like.” He follows you outside, watching the way you tense a little as the cold air seized your muscles. You were nowhere near dressed enough for the weather. That’s exactly why Hobie brought an extra jacket.

You had a cigarette in the car, your legging-clad legs crossed and your body physically turned away. The window was down to air out the smoke and the wind tossed the tight curls of your hair as you gazed out at nothing in particular. Neither of you spoke. Hobie had nothing to say and you wouldn’t respond to him even if he did say anything.

He did end up getting you sushi. Your favorite. Something small and non-threatening food-wise, something you could eat if you weren’t so goddamn stubborn.

Getting home was a quiet affair as well. Your shared apartment was cluttered with things belonging to both of you. New pointe slippers were sitting on top of the breakfast bar of your studio flat, waiting to be destroyed an broken in the same way your body was. You tossed down your bag with an exhausted sigh. “I’m going to bed.” You hope Hobie will just let it go tonight. You’re in no mood to eat, thought you were fucking starving, much less to fight. But he’s not willing to let it go. “No– come eat. You need to eat before you go to sleep.” You were already removing your shoes as you fell into bed, simply too exhausted to remove any of your other clothing.

You can hear Hobie sigh in frustration. He doesn’t want to be rough with you in any capacity of the word. He just wants you to eat something— anything at all. “Get up, Y/N.” You can hear the way his voice warns you but you don’t want to move so you don’t. “I’m not hungry.” You lie right through your teeth. You’re so hungry you could eat the whole world in one bite and still want more. You were so hungry it felt like your stomach was beginning to cave in and digest itself out of desperation for something with some sort of substance.

“I don’ care if ya not hungry. You’ve gotta eat.” There’s a beat of silence, a chance for you to get up and end this here before it gets out of hand. But you’re both too stubborn for you’re own good. You don’t move, your fingers curling into the sheets as Hobie barks at you. “Y/N, get the fuck up! You’re makin’ this so much harder than it needs to be.”

Today has been log, your temper is short, and for a second, you feel like you’re losing it. You’re so hungry, so so hungry you feel your might not wake up from your sleep. But the recital is so close and you can’t afford to gain anymore weight. In a sudden burst of energy, despite your crippling hunger and the stinging, aching pain in your feet, you stand abruptly and march over to Hobie.

“I said–” you snatch the sushi from his hands and throw it to the ground, “I’m not fuckin’ hungry! Get off my fuckin’ back. I don’t need you up my ass right now!” You grab a dingy pack of cigarettes you had lying around and stormed off into the bathroom, with Hobie right in tow. You close and lock the door before he can follow you inside, his hand slamming on the thin wood that separated you from him. “Well, ‘m fuckin’ sorry that I give a single fuck ‘bout you when you seem so damn helbent on destoyin’ yaself. I’ll jus’ go piss off since ‘m such a fuckin’ nusance to you!” He hit the the door once more before going out to have a cig for himself. He’s not usually one to smoke, but in moments like this, he can’t help but take after your bad habits.

You both needed a moment to cool off. Pent up frustrations coming out in ways they shouldn’t meant that the two of you needed a break before begin near each other again. Hobie snatched his jacket and a stray cigarette with a nighter before heading out the front door to leave the building. He made sure to slam the door, let you know he was leaving, let you fear that he might not come back because you knew you weren’t acting like a reasonable person.

It’s the things the two of you do that destroy each other. But that’s love, isn’t it? It’s the good and the bad? You trying to teach Hobie how to dance like a ballerina like your tiny apartment had any real room for a body like his to move like that, the smokey giggles as you discard the dangers of smoking in bed and simply lie with him under the dim, LED lights and talk about nothing and everything all at the same time. It’s him cleaning your wounds after dancing for so long, you cleaning the cuts on his knuckles after a bar fight. It’s waking up early and watching the sunrise from your bed as he peppered kisses across your neck and worshiped you in the early morning light.

But it was also yelling at each other into the late nights, you throwing his clothes out the front door, him calling you an ungrateful bitch, both saying words you don’t mean. Love is aching. It can be painful, scarring, brutalizing on the soul. But the thing about true love is that it always mends itself despite it all.

A 20 minute smoke break and a few muttering curses later, Hobie felt he was finally calm enough to go back in and talk to you. He’s been sitting out on the cold on the front steps of your complex with nothing but his thoughts and the burning cig to keep himself warm. You were going through shit, he got that, but someone had to make sure you were okay. Someone had to be your self-preservation because you didn’t have any.

You hadn’t come out of the bathroom by the time he returned. Hobie tossed his jacket onto the bed as he made his way back to the bathroom door. He picked up the container of sushi on the way and tossed it into the garbage. He’d just make you something later.

“Y/N…baby.” He spoke as softly as he could through the door. “Can I please come in, luv?” He didn’t want to come in and get a bottle of lotion thrown at his head. You tended to be dramatic when angry. The silent but deadly type.

You were silent for a moment, a small sloshing of water told him you were in the bath. “The door’s unlocked,” he could just hardly hear you mutter beyond the door. Wasn’t exactly the invitation he was looking for, the bottle of lotion could still very well be a risk but it was one he was decidedly willing to take.

He opened the door slowly and peaked his head into the bathroom. You were in the tub with bubbles up to those pretty collarbones of yours. You had a cigarette perched between your dainty, trembling fingers, undoubtedly to suppress your hunger. Your eyes were red and puffy, mascara running down your cheeks in half-dried streaks, your legs pulled up to your chest just barely peeking up over the bubbles. Your favorite glass, heart-shaped ashtray was sitting on the ledge of the tub, already dusty with fresh ashes. Hobie got it for you, saw it and immediately knew you'd adore it. You did.

Hobie came and sat down on the ledge of the tub. You didn't look at him, just took another shaky drag and let the smoke pass by your lips. You looked like a mess and you were but you were his mess. His beautiful mess.

"You know I love you, righ?" He didn't expect you to reply and that was okay. You were tired, stressed, hungry, and probably in an incredible amount of pain. "You're my fuckin' everythin', doll. I'd do absolutely anythin' for you. Anythin'." You still didn't respond but he could see that you were listening, that you wanted to fall into him, kiss him. You turned away further but tapped the end of your cigarette against the edge of your ashtray.

Hobie slid off the tub and got down on his knees beside it to be at your level. "Do you wan' me to die? Is that it. You wan' me to drop fuckin' dead? 'Cause that's what'll happen if I gotta keep seein' you kill yaself like this." Killing yourself if such a proper term for how to treat yourself. You keep going on like this and you won't last much longer. You're so thin, unhealthily so, and you're always praised for it. But you won't eat for days, let yourself get so hungry you need to be hospitalized.

Tears prick your eyes as Hobie continues, resting his head against the tub ledge. "I can'' live in a world where you're not here, baby. I jus' can't. And it kills me to see you die a lil' more every single day." He sees the tears roll down your cheeks in fresh, salty streaks.

"But would you still love me?"

It catches him off guard. His pierced lips twist in dismay. "What?" You take a drag. "You fell in love with this version of me. As bad as I am. How do I know you won't stop loving me?" You knew you didn't sound rational in any way, shape, or form but you feared being left. You feared that for some reason— any reason— he'd leave you. He'd leave you if you weren't perfect, if you weren't thin enough, if you weren't pretty enough. Everyone told you how lucky he was to have you, such a nice, pretty girl on his arm to show off. A ballerina, the epitome of everything graceful, delicate, elegant, and beautiful.

Hobie reaches out, grabs your chin between the tips of his fingers to make you look at him. You can't bring yourself to meet his gaze. "Look a' me." When you don't, he leans in a way that puts him in line of your gaze. "If I stopped lovin' you because you got healthy, I don't deserve you. I could never stop loving' you. When we fight, I love you. When you scream and curse and throw things a' me, I still love you. When you cry all ugly 'n have ya makeup runnin' down ya face like you do right now, I think I fall in love with ya a lil' more."

You cry a little harder, sobbing as your cigarette falls into the water and sinks to the bottom of the tub. You lean into him as he holds you, not caring for the way you got him wet with the bath water and your tears.

"Don't cry, my pretty girl. It's okay." And he kisses you, your lips still tasking like strawberries and cigarettes.

#across the spiderverse #spiderman atsv #hobie brown #hobie brown fic #spider punk smut #ballerina #coquette #eating disoder trigger warning #trigger warning

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