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urdinosaurs · 7 months

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╰┈➤ ❝ 𝐍𝐎 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 ❞ | 𝐇𝐎𝐁𝐈𝐄 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍

PROMPT: being a part of the mary janes was nothing short of a dream come true. barely seventeen and taught by your friend; you’ve been the band's drummer for the past year and on tour for five months. tonight, however, was different. tonight was the band's big break. playing at your biggest venue yet in washington d.c, a night to remember turns into a memorable night for reasons you could have never expected.

WARNINGS: female reader, platonic relationship between all the characters, underage drinking (i do not condone drinking, smoking, or drugs of any kind, especially underage. pls drink responsibly guys), fist fight, injury, angst, insecurity, comfort, fluff, mentions of weed, 4.7k w.c

A/N: please read this before continuing. 1: this is not an x reader. even though i put it in the hobie x reader tags, it is strictly platonic. 2: this story takes place in the 80s, when punk took off, so some of the descriptions are a little dated for that reason, like the classic suburban house. ty sm for 500 followers ahhhh that's insane, and ily all. this turned out ok, though it will probably flop so... :(

the house lights dim, and hundreds of people scream at one volume in one voice as one being, filling the room with anticipation.

the first step you take on stage and your pulse is through the roof, being out of your chest in a thump thump thump. your chest twists into knots, nervous energy pulsing through you like a live wire dipped in water. sweat collects in beads on the back of your neck, ears ringing even with your earplugs snuggly secured.

thump thump thump.

you sit, taking the drumsticks in your hand and gripping them so hard your hands hurt. the rest of the band, hobie, calem, glen, ramone, and sid, find their places. you wonder what they're feeling, if they're half as nervous as you, or if the bit of pot they smoked in the dressing room has taken care of that.

thump thump thump.

this is your biggest venue. after being on tour for the past four months, you're at your largest gig with over a hundred people gathered in the same place. this is your chance. this is the band's big break. what you've been practicing for what felt like years all amounts to this moment. the screaming hasn't stopped, but the anxiousness from before is starting to morph into the familiar feeling of excitement about performing. your home on stage, you're safe, and most importantly, you're yourself.

the stage lights click on in an explosion of color and blinding light, and the heartbeat previously in your ear mellows out until there's nothing left but the shrieking speakers filling your veins with adrenaline. drumsticks in hand, positioned correctly over your kit, you take a deep breath in, honing in on the smell of stage, weed, and booze, focusing on your future holding its breath in anticipation.

then you play.

---

the mary jane's. a small underground punk rock band formed three years ago and played at any venue that would take them. you would eventually become their fifth drummer and the youngest so far, with limited skills, far and few experience, it's a wonder what they saw in you. having only had lessons from your friend, your lack of formal training was a deterrent when you jammed with other musicians in an audition for the role in their band, and by that point, you were sure your raw energy and intensely aggressive playing fueled by unrestrained passion wouldn't be enough to make up for your lack of skill.

so, like any aspiring musician, you were undeterred by your lack of success and kept attending shows (sneaking in when the situation called for it.) you remained ever vigilant of wanted drummer posters while going between whatever jobs that would pay for the skins you constantly broke. seventeen years old and with a passion for music your parents couldn't believe, you practiced anywhere you could and performed everywhere else in the hopes of somebody noticing your potential.

until the mary jane's.

that fateful night, you were smashed against people not much older than you (most notably groupies) when you first laid your ears on the static crunching, loud, and erratic music of the band's set list, and by god was your life changed.

the sound wasn't all that different from others of the same genre, but it's the feel, the connection of the members, the emotion each of them poured into their instruments, and the synchronicity in which they operated beheld the literal meaning of a band in every definition. all five members shared a bond that translated into their music so beautifully you couldn't help but feel a part of the fast-paced and disorderly function they lived by.

you bought their albums after the show and put them on your player at record speed. the rest fell into place after that. you started attending more of their shows, dreaming of the moment that finally came to fruition when the "drummer for hire" poster appeared on a bulletin board. a single piece of paper was left dangling from the sign with the front man's number written on it, and right there, it felt like fate. this was it, your chance, and you weren't about to let it go to waste.

racing home, you dialed the number in a blur, your heart in your throat, until you heard a click and a smooth, cockney voice answered. the same one you've listened to singing through your record player a hundred times was on the other end of the line, and it's then that you knew you would do anything for the spot. you wouldn’t let this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity slip from your fingers, and so, easily lied about your age and experience, setting up a time to meet at the end of the call. afterward, you learned every song on their records, front and back.

really, it's a wonder you ended up being accepted by the coolest-looking people you've ever seen when you looked like you crawled out of an old thrift store. sid, the singer you had talked on the phone with and the band leader, seemed pleased with how fluidly you meshed with the existing energy instilled by the members.

yet, you were still so skittish and enthusiastic that it took him telling you to realize you didn't blow your opportunity. still, you counted your blessings and started practicing in abandoned houses, garages, and basements with them in earnest.

regardless, it didn't take them long to figure out the truth to the lies you spun, and while they weren't disappointed, you could see them rethinking their decision. literally, you could see regret in their eyes! not one of your proudest days, coming clean to a bunch of twenty-year-olds that you're the worst drummer they've had and, if it could get any worse, not even legal. but, by some miracle, they let you stay, making sure you knew the hoops you would have to jump through to play and travel, but you took it in stride and could tell that you agreed too quickly for their liking.

a bond began to form between you and the mary jane's that day onwards. they were just as energetic and humorous as they were on stage, kinder and more patient than anyone would assume when dealing with a kid, and most of all, driven by the desire to make music. each of them was the same as you, and that fact alone was greater comfort than any words as you navigated life in your first-ever band.

life was exciting and every bit as unpredictable as you had hoped. away was your life of monotony and mindless indulgence. you were free from the white picket fence suburbs those you grew up with settled for like their parents. you were finally around people who understood, who didn't fit into societal expectations, didn't accept the materialistic culture you were surrounded by, and lived a life they sought on their own.

for the first time, you were free, and you could never go back.

it didn't mean that your newfound life came without its challenges. living on couches, playing odd shows for extra cash, and rationing enough money to eat all took its toll on you, but you didn't let it discourage you. no, while it was difficult, you adjusted to the new lifestyle and managed to record a new album on an independent label for your upcoming tour.

which is how living in a van those past five months, sleeping on the floor in the houses of friends of your bandmates, fifteen-hour drives, drinking or smoking away the discomfort ended you up at your biggest venue. the place was fancy by the dive bars you were accustomed to playing at standards, a roomy stage with speakers you considered the finest quality, and endless drinks flowing from the bar (which hobie helped you sneak). you were practically bouncing off the walls with jittery exuberance.

of course, they noticed it, and hobie stopped you with a severe countenance after soundcheck. "'ey, you'll do just fine tonight, li''le bird, nothing we 'aven't practiced a hundred times, yeah?"

you knew logically that he was right; hobie almost always was, but that didn't stop the fear you learned from your years in high school of public shame and embarrassment from putting the thought of messing up in your head. after all, these guys took you in when you were desperate. the least you could do was not fuck this up.

so you nodded and tried to convince him with a smile (keyword: tried) and shoved it down. it worked until you were backstage, but once you began the ritual you did before going out (smoking a bit of pot and taking shots), reality began to settle in with a nausea-inducing wave.

how could you do this? hundreds of people waited outside those doors. you were just a little kid trying to make it to the big times. there was no way you wouldn't blow this–

"you're be''er than ya think." ramone had said before you went out, the smoke doing nothing to settle your nerves. "trust us."

his advice, in a rare moment ramone put aside his playful demeanor and was upfront, was precisely what you needed when the house lights dimmed.

you could do this.

—

you hit the stick's head against the skin, the slight rebound felt for only a millisecond before the song guided you to the hi-hat, and the perfect clash with the guitars lit a fire inside you.

you were addicted to the inexplicable feeling of being on stage, your whole life seemingly falling into place on that very stool. the crowd moshed to the beat of your drums, screamed and cheered, drank, and sang like you were the best talent to ever walk through those doors.

if you didn't know any better, you would have thought just that, but no amount of cleaning could erase the marks of legends like black flag, the stooges, bad brains, scream, and others that had shredded and screamed in the microphone that sid is now in all their glory on this same stage, on a north america tour just like yours.

it's a fickle thought, one that passes by with your foot jammed on the pedal, but it makes you smile just the same. you're here, you made it, and right now, you're on top of the fucking world.

you played in what most considered an out-of-control, violent rage on stage, but to the hundreds of punk rock fans there, you had a passion for your instrument that rivaled any mainstream artist. it was a disorderly chaos of chords and vocals, but it was yours, and it was true. the rest of the band was doing the same, hobie, glen, and ramone abusing the strings until their callouses opened, sid and calem singing turned shouting until their voices were raw and nearly gone.

none of you felt more complete until these qualities came together in a song blaring through the speakers and into the audience of uncontrolled movement and singing. the room grew hotter with every distorted chord, every inch of skin drenched in the condensation of strangers.

the mary jane's played for two hours, blowing through song after song with little reprieve, except when sid would address the crowd, hyping up the audience (as if they needed it) to give the rest of you a well-deserved water break before continuing with the same vengeance.

reaching the last song, your body ached, your hands were cramping, and you were soaked in your labor, but all it took was one look at the crowd. the faces of those staring back at you with varying expressions of elation you mirrored in a dazzling grin.

when the final note ended and earth-smattering applause followed, you were trembling. standing with the rest of your band and thanking everyone for coming out tonight, you threw your drumsticks in the air as opposed to the smashing of instruments that usually takes place.

the guitarists toss their picks and watch them soar before being quickly snatched by a multitude of grabbing hands. grinning, you throw the other stick and exit with the others in a blaze of glory.

chatter erupted as soon as the doors closed to your dressing room, ear-to-ear smiles curling on your lips while speaking over each other loudly.

"that was the best fucking show we've ever played," calem gushes, and you hurriedly nod, ramone, adding his input in a flurry of syllables. hobie, however, reaches over and tugs you to his chest, ruffling your scalp.

"you were downright amazing, li''le bug. fuckin wicked playing." laughing, you duck under his arm playfully, shoving him back.

"not as good as you! i mean, you all killed it!” you clamor, and there are a couple chuckles of laughter as the high of performing starts to wear off and exhaustion takes its place.

“that drummin' was insane, kid. don’t sell yourself short,” glen pats your shoulder as he passes by, flopping on the sofa in an exhausted heap. you hum, and everyone else settles down, giving you a few minutes before you have to pack your instruments away.

“'m gonna get a drink. i'll be back,” you turn and head for the door, earning a teasing call of “good luck!” over your shoulder from calem. exiting backstage, you politely excuse yourself around people hanging around for the next show in an attempt to make it to the bar where you would find your next drink.

you intended to move around a guy but his shoulder slams into your collarbone, and you stumble, his sheer strength and height throwing you off balance. when you regain your stance, he glances down at you, and a second later, his eyes widen in recognition.

"you're that drummer, aren't ya?" his distinctly american accent mixed with a drunken slur grating on your ears. now in your time as a drummer, you've learned lessons no school could teach you, one of them being when to speak and when to shut the fuck up. from being harassed by skinheads to getting into fights, you learn when to be invisible, especially being a drummer. so when a dude well over six feet asks that question, it's a guarantee nothing good will come from the answer, whether it's a yes or no. nonetheless, you nod slowly, flexing your fist with a suspicious expression.

he huffs, shaking his head. "i'd expected they would pick better than a whore."

your jaw drops at lightning speed, and your body instinctively takes a defensive position. "excuse me?"

"you heard what i said." he snarls. "the band was better off without a groupie joining to whore herself out."

"i'm not a fucking groupie asshole. fuck off." think. think. think. grinding your teeth, you force yourself to keep your emotions in check, knowing the repercussions of initiating a fight you can't finish. anyway you slice it, you'll be pummeled by him, that's it, end of story. there's no outcome where you and your band don't suffer because of it.

the man crudely peers at you up and down. "i can see why. no one wants a little girl like you."

your fist flies before you can make sense of it, colliding with his nose in a sickening, gut-wrenching crunch. time stands still for a millisecond too long, and your head is thrown to the side by a punch thrown your way. yells break out at your newfound fight, people already gathering around with their drinks to get a better view. eager stances and drama-hungry patrons surround you, eliminating the option of escape.

the metallic taste of blood fills your mouth, pooling with your spit, but the pain remains dormant besides a slight stinging in your knuckles. his fist soars again, and this time, you're ready for it, stepping to the side and letting a jab of your own collide with his jaw.

“bitch!” he roars like a wild animal, driven by primal instinct, crimson liquid dripping from his split lip before he pounces.

you can’t tell how long it's been. it feels like hours have passed by even though you know it can't be more than a minute, but it doesn't change the fact that you're not doing well.

while the epinephrine combined with anger and determination keeps you from feeling the full extent of your injuries, the man uses his height and weight to his advantage and hits like he fucking means it. his blows carry power, especially his next one that distorts your vision, stars obscuring your surroundings in a colorful haze.

there's a collective “ooo” from the spectators who have gotten even rowdier since it started, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you wonder where security is.

"piece of shit!" you’ve got a couple of good licks in there, but it doesn't nearly compensate for all the defensive measures you have to take, and the crowd you played for not even five minutes ago is egging on the increasingly apparent one-sided fight. anger, however, drives you forward and keeps your bloody fists from uncurling. the barrage of bloodstained punches rings through the air like music, brutal and unrestrained, accompanied by the sound of on-lookers.

"useless, no good cunt—"

your arm swings, but before it can come near him, someone hooks their arms under yours and pulls you back into their chest. kicking and shouting, you attempt to break free from their clutches, tunnel vision keeping you deadly focused on your opponent.

"hey, hey, it's me, it's me!" calem yells, pulling you farther away from the man.

"let me go!" you scream, squirming, and at that moment, the rest of your friends break through the crowd, joining you.

seconds later, security rushes in to hold the man back while hurrying to put people between you and him. spitting a gory mixture of blood and saliva, he attempts to go for you but is stopped by another guard who holds each of you back.

"break it up!" security shouts and the sound left over from his call is uneven panting and tense postures. "what's going on?"

"she hit me! i was only defending myself!" the man rushes to his own defense, pointing an accusing hand at you, still being held back.

"you started it when you called me a whore!" you scream, squirming in calem's iron grip. over the noise in your head and the ringing in your ears, there's a sharp breath behind you, and you can almost visualize their reactions. surprise maybe? anger? shock? you're not sure how they're reacting, but it can't be good.

“you don’t belong here if you can't handle an honest opinion,” he snarls. "it's not like any punk wants a little girl here.”

a yell rises from the depths of your throat, and you twist hard in a flurry of limbs to break free. you have to, you have to deliver some form of pain to make him feel a fraction of what you're experiencing, torture him the way his words thudding against your skull are for the sake of the self-doubt you've been harboring for longer than you can remember eating away at your soul.

your movements are fast, and you attempt to lunge at him, only to be thwarted by glen pulling you back. the security guard scowls at you and gives the older man a warning tug, his disapproving stare saying it all.

"both of you are in the wrong, but you–" he points at your chest. "--started this, missy."

disbelief carves a cavern in your chest so wide you want to crawl into it and cry as your eyes widen and your jaw slackens at him. the audacity of such a bold statement and the blatant lie chern your stomach uncomfortably.

"she just said–!" ramone starts but is silenced by security's hand.

"i heard what she said. she assaulted this poor man right here, and he defended himself." he states, his tone inciting a challenge and practically begging ramone to take the bait and escalate the situation. he wisely keeps his mouth shut, knowing full well the consequences if he doesn’t, glaring daggers all the while.

"that's what i thought. now, do you know who this man is, young lady?" gritting your teeth, you shake your head, the patronizing and false kindness grating on your nerves. "this is the sponsor of this here bar. without him, you wouldn’t be here tonight.”

bloody as he is, the sponsor's expression twists into something smug and proud, too confident for someone with a black eye.

your stomach drops with the news, and you're sure by his gleaming irises that horror is written clearly on your face as well as your skyrocketing pulse. with your body burning as the adrenaline wears off, it's getting increasingly more challenging to think, the couple hits to the head you took finally settling in.

“so either you guys leave the premises right now and never come back, or we’ll call the police, and they can handle it.”

“don’t worry, we’ll leave,” sid snidely remarks, making sure the malice in his voice is audible over the loud chitchat of people while calem guides you backstage. your friends make their hatred clear, the injustice on all of your minds as you resign to your fate, heads hanging low. hobie even is so brave as to mutter within earshot, "fuckin' pigs.”

your body sags with defeat, the consequences sitting heavily on your shoulders as the door opens to your dressing room. not only did you get into a fight they had to break up, but you're now banned entirely from this place. a legendary venue, characterized by those before it, only to never return because you couldn't control yourself.

sinking into the chair, you wait for the lecture, the inevitable speech that declares you're no longer the drummer of the only band you’ve ever fit into. you destroyed your entire future, and for what, to prove a point?

battling tears is easy when your head is spinning too fast to make sense of anything.

“are you ok?”

well, fuck that wasn’t what you were expecting, though you're not sure what you were. maybe to be thrown out by the scruff of your neck, abandoned in the states with foreign people, screamed at, and told how worthless you were? the latter seems more likely, but this? kindness? empathy? has hobie lost his mind?

“i-uh-fine, i guess.” you attempt to play off your injuries, littering your body in freckled blue and purple paint, yet your wince throws the idea out the window before it fully develops. hobie sighs, shaking his head and reaching for the first aid kit on the wall, sitting in front of you with the bright red box. opening the thing, he treats your face first, and the dried blood caked up on different corners of your swelling bones. you suck in a sharp breath at the pain, quiet settling across the room like a lumpy blanket.

the tension pulling taut in the air allows you to spill the first words on your mind. “i'm sorry.” whispering feels appropriate, like it will convey the shame thickening your throat.

you knew it was stupid, that the difference between you and your opponent would not guarantee a chance at winning, but his words had struck a chord in you. a side of yourself profoundly self-conscious and desperate for recognition was brought to the surface with the verbal acknowledgment of those fears, and the old rage of being insulted and degraded like you weren’t even a person provoked a reaction you had never seen before. you weren't a violent person by nature. this was something else.

“don't," is all hobie says as he pulls out an antiseptic wipe, the sterile smell causing your nose to wrinkle. "don't be sorry."

"but–"

"no. you defended yourself, and that's all that matters." hobie meets your eyes with a firm expression, expressing his sincerity in those dark brown pupils you often find solace in, riddled with warmth. regret prickles at the base of your spine, thickening your throat to the point where words feel heavy on your tongue.

"yeah, and i got us banned from here in the process," you explain softly, shrinking further into yourself.

"'s not like it matters. the big leagues are full of bastards like him anyway." he dismisses it with a flick of his hand, nimble fingers continuing to clean the cuts littering your face. pausing, you stare at him in disbelief. did he really not care about growing the band's audience, or was he trying to make you feel better? was this blatant frankness or pity? wincing at a particularly deep laceration, hobie hesitates, inches from your skin. “i’m proud of you.”

your head jerks up in surprise, eyes searching his for a long moment to decipher the truth behind his statement. “what?”

“ya ‘eard me. the wanker deserved every bit of it. you stood your ground and didn’t let him step all over you. that takes some serious fucking guts, kid.”

blinking, it takes a moment to settle in, and when they do, your features soften, your voice cracking with emotion. “so you're not mad?”

“how could i be mad at my favorite drummer, aye?” he teases, almost like an older brother would, a lopsided grin pulling his facial piercings tight. his features soften with the raw hope bleeding from your words, empathy embedded into the care he finishes bestowing upon your injuries. you're sure your face is a sight, from swollen and bloody to bandaged and bruised. although it would be a miracle if it didn't scare and leave a forever reminder of your vulnerability.

“i was alright,” you shrug, and your lips curl into an involuntary frown, picking at the skin of your nail while recalling your playing in your mind. it wasn’t that good, right? compared to other drummers the mary janes have had, you certainly didn’t stand out or have the same technical skills.

“hey, you did bloody amazing.” hobie finishes wrapping your fists in gauze, holding your hand in his in an effort for you to understand. “no one has killed it on a kit like you before. you're 'he best drummer we’ve ever ‘ad.”

a wad of spit forms in your throat, the unexpected bit of praise twisting your chest into uncomfortable knots before you shake your head. “you don’t have to lie to make me feel better.”

“he’s not,” glen pipes in. the man of such little words but honest to fault gazes at you with an intensity hard to rival.

“oh,” your voice falls flat. the doubt lingers like a fog on a winter morning, dark and foreboding, but slowly, it becomes less dense and less consuming. you don’t think you can ever get rid of that fear. too many years of it instilling the insecurity deeper into your bones than you can carve away. but this counter, the affirmation that you're not what you’ve believed yourself to be for so many years of bandaging your fractured consciousness, slowly puts together a confidence you've never had.

“ok?” he asks, and his search for your understanding is not lost on you, so you relent, nodding your head with a deep breath as the light-hearted expression you're so used to seeing returns seamlessly like it was never gone.

"so c'mon. we already packed up, so let's get outta here." he helps you to your feet, steadying you when your pounding head throws you off balance. he's patient, much more than anyone would ever expect, and waits without a hint of annoyance for you.

“at least we get to california earlier tomorrow,” glen, the designated driver, adds, stretching his arms over his head as you approach the van. chatter breaks out among the rest, and for a second, you take in your surroundings. even though you messed up, you are still here with people you can call family, and silently, you thank whatever divine intervention up there for this home you will always be welcome to.

“you coming, li’’le bug?” hobie pauses, having noticed that you stopped walking. you're grateful, more than you could put into words, for this life and those in it.

breaking into a jog, you join up with your band. hobie throws his arm over your shoulder and includes you in their latest debate, switching to bad impressions of them as he does.

this is where you belong, and you'll be damned if you let anyone tell you otherwise ever again.

TAGLIST: @alicefallsintotherabbithole

#for the people who missed it #hobie brown x reader #hobie x reader #hobie spiderverse #hobie brown fluff #hobie brown #atsv hobie #hobart brown #spiderpunk #hobie brown fic #hobie x you

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urdinosaurs · 7 months

Text

╰┈➤ ❝ 𝐍𝐎 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 ❞ | 𝐇𝐎𝐁𝐈𝐄 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍

WARNINGS: female reader, underage drinking (i do not condone drinking, smoking, or drugs of any kind, especially underage. pls drink responsibly guys), fist fight, injury, angst, insecurity, comfort, fluff, mentions of weed, 4.7k w.c