,

❝𝐨𝐤𝐚𝐲, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞❞

hobart “hobie” brown x fem!reader

masterlist

summary: after not speaking for an extended period of time, you didn’t like the idea of ever seeing hobie again. when he shows up to your door unexpectedly, things take a turn for the better.

MINORS DNI 18+

characters: hobie brown, miguel o’hara (mentioned), gwen stacy (mentioned)

word count: 2.8k

notes: takes place around the beginning of spiderverse 2; hobie’s voice is hard to write for i tried my best; hobie is at least 18 they didnt specify in the movie but if hes not then hes aged up

warnings: established relationship (fwbs most likely but idk), reader is a spider of her own universe, hobie has a nickname for you “bug”, no use of y/n, make out, some bickering, vag fingering, hand size difference (tried to make reader as ambiguous as possible), praise, objectification (mention of being used, and being used like a toy), protected and explicit sex

You hadn’t seen him. For months you hadn’t seen him. There’s nothing you share in common anymore. Your career had taken a dramatic shift, and you’d been different ever since, exacerbating his distance. With the way things ended, you didn’t expect to see him again. 

Yet here he stands, outside your door, his hood up to protect himself from the rain. 

“Gonna let me in, bug? Or should I've brought a permission slip from the old man?” Hobie remarks, shrugging his hands in the pockets of his jean vest. Soundlessly, you step aside, and he invites himself in. He regards the entrance of your home, and that expression on his face always gives the impression he’s sizing up anything he lays his eyes on. Hobie is judgemental when it counts, but part of you is abashed that he’s about to spew nonsense condemning every artifact in your apartment. “Warm in here.” he muses, shrugging off his jacket to toss it over your coat hooks. “Smells good, what’s steamin’?” He gestures to the kitchen and after you lock your front door you return to your lunch in its pan. He checks out your ass in leggings as you pass him. 

“What are you doing here, Hobie?” you call over your shoulder from your position. Just outside of your field of vision, he slumps onto your couch. You hear every rustle of his layered clothes and mixed-media accessories. 

“Got some free time, figure I’d pop in.” he replies and you turn off the burner, having lost your appetite. “How’s it been since you got kicked?” 

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” 

“Fair ‘nough.” 

You exit, leaning against the doorway to the living room. Hobie looks over the back of the couch to gaze at you. His piercings glint in the soft lamp light and the rain outside picks up.  

An uncomfortable silence falls, and you avert your eyes to avoid how his bore into you. Quickly, you think up a question so you don’t suffocate. “So, what’s been going on with you? Anything new?” Is there a reason for your unannounced visit?

“Not much, to be honest,” he sighs, folding his leg to rest his ankle on his knee. He messes with the lace of his boot to fidget. “Gwendy’s got nowhere to go so she’s crashin’ at my place. Didn’t feel like goin’ ‘ome so I’m here.” 

You’d heard of Gwen back when Hobie’d first befriended her. Smart kid, tragic story. 

His charitable act softens you, and you round the couch. “That’s nice of you.” You relax, and sit at the armrest, as far from him as you can afford. 

“Why so far away? C’mon, I won’t bite,” he jokes, falling into that old familiarity that he's so susceptible to. His arm raises over his head, fanning out behind you, his fingers picking at your hoodie to capture your attention. 

You cock your head in his direction, a wry smile on your lips. “Don’t tell me you think everything’s fine after what happened.” 

In response, he’s taken aback, but his hand remains. “It’s been a while, bug, I know, it’s not like I meant to not see you. Got… swept up.” his tone of voice heightens with his excuses, “I’m not from around here, you get that, can’t show up just ‘cause I feel it.” You pivot your body towards him, tucking your legs to the side. 

“Yeah, but you operate that way with everything else.” you interject, “If you wanted to see me, you would’ve.” 

A knowing grin stretches onto his face, so handsome when he tries, hooking you with his surly attitude and reeling you in with his charm. “Ah, that’s not fair, love,” 

In an attempt to steel yourself, you cross your arms, and force the next words out. “I’m not trying to be.” 

Hobie purses his lips, and his eyes trail down your figure. “Yeah, I missed you, bug.” 

“Nicknames are reserved for friends.” 

He lulls his head to the side, a single finger strokes down your jawline. “Good thing we ain’t friends, huh?” A tap to your chin. 

A sharp inhale, and you press your lips into a thin line. Your anger and your frustration with him are at the forefront of your mind, but the passion he instills within you comes flooding in. All of those late night encounters, tangled in each other until well into the morning hours, hopping into each other’s universes just so you didn’t have to say goodbye for too long. 

You’d gotten kicked from the force— you couldn’t blame Miguel for his decision— but ever since, you and Hobie’s relationship had faded out. You missed him… terribly. It’s not like you’d promised yourself to each other, but you have yet to get over him. Maybe this is the way to do it? 

“No, no we’re not.” you concede, and you lean in. Your lips brush his, soft and slow, letting him accept you by meeting you. Mouths press together, parting each other to explore what was once so greedily devoured. This time it’s gentle, intimate, and careful. Tongues slide together, how he circles the tip of yours makes you shiver.

He speaks against you, “Knew you’d open right up to me, love,” You can hear his arrogance, and you fist his vest, drawing him back to you so you can shut him up. 

The energy shifts, desperation roots, and while you pull him to you, he maneuvers to hover over you. Successfully getting you on your back has never been a problem for him, and he uses his free hands to wander what he could not touch for so long. His thumbs graze the sides of your chest, and he handles your waist while he plunges his tongue deeper, eager to taste whatever he’s offered. A noise of surprise emits from you and he retracts to fix your legs for you. Your knees at his hips as he kneels in between them.

“Don’t be a jerk.” you breathe, and he scoffs. 

“Take your clothes off.” he tells you as he rips off his vest to throw it to the floor. 

“If you think this isn’t just a lucky, one-time only—“ you warn him while you do exactly as he’s asked: pulling your hoodie and shirt up and over, hooking your thumbs into the waistband of your yoga pants to tug them down. Hobie helps you by yanking them off, now shirtless and impatient. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he dismisses, collapsing onto you to bury his nose in your neck, nuzzling the skin to plant a trail of kisses. “You smell good… is that the perfume I bought you?” It’s emphasized with his teeth scraping against you, biting down onto your pulse point. You writhe underneath him. 

“So what if it is?” Your hands find their home on his shoulders, clawing him as he sucks onto you, and licks his marks. 

He hums, his hips pressing into yours until you feel the outline of his hardening length against your panties. “You’re mad at me, would’a figured you’d tossed it.” His hand traverses you, massaging your chest, rolling your nip between his fingers. He’d kept his cuffs on, and you rolled your eyes. 

The response you’re mustering died on your lips when Hobie latches his mouth onto your nipple, enveloping as much flesh as he can while his tongue reintroduces itself to your nub. Warm and wet, rolling it, and you whine. Your hips stutter, seeking out any friction as he works, both buds occupied by either his hand or his mouth, and he obliges you. His hand abandons you, only to shift for more room and palm your mound. The heel of his gloved hand grinds into your clit, granting you a fleeting sense of relief until you require more. 

“Already wet, huh? Can feel it through your thong,” his breath against his spit on your skin makes you shudder, and your patience wears thin. 

“Can you just do something already? Fuck,” You blindly reach for his studded belt, unbuckling it but Hobie’s deft fingers begin toying with your folds in a way that paralyzes you, halts you from any conquest because of how long it’s been since you’ve been touched. You exhale, and he holds your gaze as he draws your panties aside. A pinky finger swipes up your sex, collecting your arousal on the tip. 

“I’m doin’ it. Chill a second, yeah?” he tells you, and your cheeks burn red. “All this for a little kissing. Makes you wonder when’s the last time you got some.” He’s making fun of you, and your hips chase his touch instinctively. The pads of his fingers gather your essence to lube up your neglected clit, settling into a rhythm as he places sweet kisses wherever he can reach. Your tits, upper chest, and neck. He’s teasing you. 

“Are you trying to get me to beg?” you ask, exasperated and horny. 

He flashes a downturn of his lips, and dips down to lick the salty sweat off your skin. “Couldn’t hurt.” 

“Hobie,” 

“There it is. There’s my name out that pretty mouth,” 

“I told you not to be a jerk.”

Hobie regards you with a tilt of his head. “Suit yourself.” He brings his hand up so he can undo the cuff, tugging off the fingerless glove. Your stomach flips at the sight, a forefront as to what’s to come. Once he returns, his tact disappears; out of spite he dives not one, but two fingers into your hole. A stretch that stings causes you to hiss. “S’what you wanted, right?” The devious curl of his lips let you know he’s not going to make this easy for you. They remain rooted inside you to the hilt, and you lick your own digits to massage your clit yourself, loosening yourself. “Oh, I get a show too,” he muses and you wish you could shove him off of you. The fact is, this is an opportunity you can’t pass up. No one can do it like Hobie. Your sex drools around him, and he thrusts his fingers in tandem with your rocking. His hand is big, which reaches spots inside you you’ve never been able to find on your own. “That’s it, girl, just like that,” he praises, watching your hole suck his fingers up so greedily. When it’s not enough, he adds another one of his, and flicks your limb off so he can taste your clit with his tongue. 

You cry out. Three fingers and your eyes are rolling into the back of your head, chasing your high as he sucks your clit into his mouth. That coil in your belly tightening with each rock, and your walls clench around him, signaling your impending release. 

Hobie doesn’t dare speak a word, opting to watch you as you go through the cycle of an orgasm. Your toes curling, legs shaking, tensing up as he maintains the pace for you, until it washes over you and he slows to a stop. 

You drop your head against the armrest of the couch, staring at the ceiling as euphoria simmers within you, breathing hard. “Fuck.” Gingerly, he expels his hand from you, coated in your finish, and promptly sucks it off while it’s still warm. Your taste is something he never gets tired of. 

“You think you’re ready for me, bug? I’m aching over here,” he speaks while you listen to the shuffle of his jeans. Undoing them to tug them down. A thrills jolts you, and you beat him to the waistband of his boxers, scraping him with your nails when you yank them down so readily. His cock, hard and long, springs free and greets you leaking with pre-cum. An endearing patch of dark pubic hair at the base, like he trimmed for you in anticipation for this visit. 

“Did you expect this?” you inquire playfully, and he gives you a look, following your eye line to answer his mental question. 

“Just in case. Trying to be polite, is all.” he justifies and you snicker as he undresses your panties from you for a better range of motion. “C’mere, darlin’, let me have a look at’cha,” Words emphasized by the way he manhandles you, directing your limbs for you until you’re bent over in front of him on all fours. “Fucking missed this,” 

Involuntarily, a whimper spills from you. You’re obsessed with his voice, enchanted with the way he talks about you even if it’s foul. “Are you gonna stare or are you gonna fuck me?”

“My, you’re cheeky tonight.” he replies while he fishes a condom out of his jeans pocket. You listen to the familiar crackling of the wrapper, and the latex as he rolls it onto him. He gives himself a few pumps, and guides his cock to your entrance, easing it inside ever so slightly. Inching himself in to let you adjust. “Fuck, almost forgot how good you feel,” 

You forgot how big he is, surging forward until your cheek meets the armrest of the couch. “Easy, Hobie, easy,” 

“I’m trying,” By the strain of his voice, he’s telling the truth. “You’re sucking me up, love, she knows what she wants.” Your sex did have a way of drawing him in, and he had a way of referring to it with a pronoun. It does the trick, slickening you up, and he sinks in until he can bottom out. 

Finally, you’re filled— to the brim. The two of you bask in it a second, and he rests his hand on your tailbone. He leans back until the lip of his head catches on you, and settles back in. He bites his bottom lip, the metal of his piercing against his teeth as he quickens his pace to set a steady rhythm. Every cell in his body is already screaming after being inside you once again. He’s fantasized about it nearly everyday. Pondering his desperation, how he craved you for those months, adds to his restlessness. His palm on your tailbone pushes you back onto his cock, making you meet his thrusts. 

You’re practically liquid, allowing him to do what he pleases with you just to hear those heavenly groans spill from his throat. Once you’re able, you rock back, the tip of his dick kissing your cervix each time. 

“You feel that? I’m right there… at the end of you. Oh, fuck,” he simpers, palming your hips so he can control your movements. “You have the most amazing ass,” he praises in awe, watching the way your flesh ripples each time you make contact with his thighs. 

“Hobie, fuck me,” you whine, and he can’t refuse you. He seeks out your arms, snatching up your wrists to stretch them out behind you, your back arches from the position. Impossibly faster, he rails you and your head bobs as he uses your own body as leverage. Your jaw drops, every unintelligible noise bubbling up from inside you as pleasure courses through you at being used like a toy. 

He keeps his concentration where it ought to be: fucking you senseless. Ramming into you over and over again, listening to the symphony of sounds your conjoined bodies make. The wet, squelching noises that come with fucking your hole still full of your own cum. It drips down your legs. 

Attentively, he puts one of your arms down so he can free his hand up, bending over you until your hot skins are pressed against each other. He winds an arm around you, finding your clit to play with while he screws you. You rest your cheek onto the couch cushion, relaxing under his touch, and that coil in your belly tightens again. “You gonna cum for me again, princess?” he says against your ear, nipping at the lobe. 

You can’t even speak, whining your affirmations and nodding your head into the fabric. 

“Go on, let me feel it,” 

His permission opens the gates, and your walls flutter around him as you release. How you constrict makes his movements stutter, squeezing him in all the right places as your essence accumulates at the base of his cock. He twitches inside you, thick ropes of his cum spurts and paints his condom; a powerful shudder courses through him. Stammering to a halt, he rests his forehead against your shoulder as he basks in the feeling. For a second, you two just catch your breath together, until he unsheathes. “Can’t believe how much I love shagging you.” 

You wish you could do it more often. All the time, in fact, but it’s not something you can admit to him. So you hum in confirmation as he takes off his condom, and ties it off. 

“I’ll make it a point to visit.” Hobie promises, his hands tucked into his vest pockets. 

“Don’t push it, Brown, you were lucky this time.” 

He scoffs and glances away before wrapping you with an arm, drawing you into him to peck your forehead. “Yeah, well, I’m sure I’ll get lucky next time.” His cockiness makes you push him off playfully. His other hand pulls out the thong you were wearing earlier from his pocket. “So, I’ll keep these, then?” 

making out with hobie brown

warnings: just a tiny bit suggestive, reader's gender is not specified.

hobie brown (spider-punk) x reader

that's just his favorite activity to pass the time when you two are chilling.

after a show, after a shower, after a spider mission. any time you're within his reach, really.

you are cuddled up to hobie on his bed, listening to music and distractedly playing with the bracelets on his wrist. your eyes move from the various posters on the walls to hobie's closed eyes, his breathing calm and controlled.

the arm that was holding you tightens around your waist, feeling your gaze on him.

"do you enjoy admiring me, love?" hobie says with a tinge of humor in his voice and opens his eyes slowly, scanning your flustered face. you smile, nodding your head that was resting on his chest.

"give me a kiss to prove it then." hobie lets his teeth show in an amused smile, his plump lips pouting until you come closer.

your lips hovered over his, touching lightly without any real contact. you always did this until hobie got impatient and put his hand on the nape of your neck, the icy chill of the rings bringing goosebumps to your skin.

at first, it's always a tender kiss, enjoying the sensation of your lips on his. his lip piercing presses against your skin in a pleasurable way, the short nails marking you enough to make you reciprocate by holding hobie's arm.

one peck turns into several, his mouth leaving yours to kiss your cheeks and behind your ears in light smacks, the hand on your nape going to your neck in a natural transition.

his lips meet yours again, and the hand that was on your waist manhandles you until you are sitting on his lap. your hands take place on his chest to seek balance as his tongue seeks yours, a sigh leaving hobie's lips as you reciprocate, moving your mouth in a lazy rhythm.

the fingers on your neck apply pressure as the kiss quickens, you whine and press your body into his, hobie could feel you warm on top of him.

hobie moves to your thighs, feeling and squeezing where he can, wet noises mix with the background music and your head starts to spin with the sensations. you have to grab hobie's shirt under your fingers so you don't get lost.

you break the kiss for a few seconds to recover, hobie's eyes immediately meet yours in a reaction you already know, he wanted to know if everything was okay. you run your tongue over your lips to clean the trace of saliva that kept the two of you connected, smiling.

"didn't you say it was just one kiss?" a breathless giggle leaves your lips, he laughs with you and kisses your cheek, stroking your knee teasingly.

"what do you mean, baby? we're not doing anything, I haven't even kissed you yet." he joked, stealing another kiss from you, not resisting your flushed face and swollen lips.

"oh, really? you haven't even touched me, have you?" you played along. hobie moves his hand down from your neck and caresses your back, playing with the piercing in his lip with his teeth.

"of course not," he whispers, his smile fading only to reattach his lips to yours.

only you, my girl 🗯️ hobie brown x fem reader

★CW nsfw, possessiveness, virginity loss, obsessive tendencies, attachment issues, smut, breeding if you like it so, slight daddy kink if you SQUINT, mad jealousy ★NOTES hey guys take this 6k+ hobie fic. embarrassing i know. coping with the brainrot AHEM if u like it pls tell me bc silly jae spent days on this and and and 🥹 im still tryna figure out hobie’s characterization! all comments, reblogs and notes r so so appreciated, thank ya 🩵 tell me if u want more hobie and/or miguel!!

you get in fights sometimes.

some guy at the pub tries to cop a feel of your ass when hobie grudgingly agrees to bring you ‘round in those tight, black jeans, and then he gets angry and snaps and drags you back home and you refuse to face him for a day or two.

not ‘cause you’re angry. you’re too smitten with him and delicate for feelings like that;

‘cause you’re worried. confused.

hobie’s your first ever boyfriend, and you never knew relationships were like this, so it’s taking you some time to navigate. time that he’s tried to allow you, but it’s come as a surprise to him how deeply involved with you he’s become;

it’s hard to just… step away.

obsessive, you call him, lashes weighing uneasy over those pretty, artful eyes, i’m worried you get too riled up, hobes.

and he leaves a lot. out of nowhere, always- in the middle of unconventional, no less charming dates or profound chitchats over tea. he wants to stay, he tells you, and badly, but that just never seems to be a valid option.

(although, when both of your foreheads are pressed together during heated makeout sessions and you shyly accept his hands that grow bold enough to start manhandling you into his lap, it’s a really difficult decision- especially hard, if you catch his fly- to bounce…)

checking the window or his phone and muttering a quick, soured work before he peppers a kiss to the tip of your nose and bolts.

and you don’t ask, because he always seems to tiptoe around the word occupation and the jokes he lists off right after always inevitably distract you anyway.

…but when you wanna leave? whew. now that’s a whole different story.

going out with your girlfriends? can’t hobie tag along, too? he promises he’ll keep a healthy distance, won’t drape himself all over your shoulder like he has the odd penchant to, and when meg brings her boyfriend to boot and he starts asking how you’ve been, he swears he won’t interfere.

it’s just friendly words, is all- hobie knows that. or it’s what he tells you at least, but hobie’s been around and he’s seen enough to know how to read between the lines, thin as they sometimes are, so much so that he’s something of a pro at it now. (‘course, he don’t like dubbing himself an expert.)

and he knows damn well that lil fuckin’ twat wants to know more than just what you’ve been up to lately.

going shopping? don’t be long on the way home, now- else hobie will pop up around the block, seamlessly falling in step with you, tucking you close to his side and his hand in your back pocket. whispering a word into your ear, calling you sweetheart, calling you dove, calling you everything sugary-sounding that he hopes scratches at the surface of you.

slipping you the prettiest, faintest of grins- all under the illusion that you’ll forget how he even appeared in the first place. (it’s not an especially flawed vein of thinking. you do forget, a lot.)

he’s subtle with it, you know. possessive. barely there, barely a sound or touch or feel, but the warmth of his body pulling you in trumps all else, amplifies it all.

the little things get bigger. the nicks in his jeans stretch to holes. day by day, your resolute crumbles just a tad bit more- maybe you’re overthinking, you do that a lot, after all, hobie reminds you with a soft squeeze to your hip.

so… yeah. you get in fights sometimes.

well, if hobie had to label it at all he’d prefer lover’s quarrels, but that’s neither here nor there. they always pass over, though, like rainy, grey clouds drifting by, and sometimes they pour thicker but the rainbow always shines its face at the end.

it always turns out okay. it’s… supposed to.

but he and your daddy- the only other man in the universe who can compete for your affections- fight sometimes, too, and those bump-ins are always worser.

…dangerous, a little.

your pops calls him a real piece of work whenever he swings by, scowls at the lanky body hung between this doorway or that, engrafting himself on the sofa by his naive little daughter, hickory brown eyes trailing inscrutibly over your side profile as you talk about your day and that cute puppy by the park who yapped at you.

there, carving himself into you, always. it’s honestly quite ridiculous, how close he is at any given time.

would a bomb fucking explode otherwise?

he’s less of a boyfriend and more of a parasite, your dad mutters not long after he’s left, throwing on his jacket and adjusting the shimmering, captain’s badge over his chest.

but he’s never hurt hobie, no, because though your daddy may sooner give him the end of his boot before accepting his presence as a permanent one- accepting you as his- he wouldn’t go as far as doing anything unseemly.

when your boyfriend’s rallies get a bit out of hand in the streets, when lethal fumes thicken the air from fire crackers and other makeshift contraptions, and the crowd’s protests get a bit too rowdy- dangerous, even- and your papa’s men gotta lasso them all back in, he never quite… deals with him. not fully. hobie’s not guiltless, and he’s aware that he’s made some trespasses that warrant further action than just a light slap on the wrist, but even then, your daddy always withholds the cuffs, sending him off with a disapproving glare and a deep, sighing lecture for you later on.

that boy, he sits you down and tells you one evening, is signing you up for trouble, honey. he’s hiding something, he says with a sage shake of his head, and whatever it is- i’m afraid i won’t be able to pull you out in time.

there’s been slight mishaps here and there, yeah, and it’d be a lie to say that hobie doesn’t sometimes enjoy giving your old man a hard time, but… still….

he thinks what happened last week- the vulgar joke he quipped out over the somewhat tense family dinner you so graciously prepared (the humor was admittedly in poor taste, something about the many meanings of daddy or-…), and the enraged mess of your dad that briskly followed after, was a bit much.

over the top or not, though, hobie spared your teary-eyed, overwrought expression one owlish look as you corralled your daddy’s arm, and stepped out.

the next morning, after all the dust had settled and your boyfriend was long out the door, you’d learn that your father’s outburst was partly out of genuine, simmering anger finally pulled taut, sure, but primarily out of exhaustion.

his body’s not like it used to be. being a captain is heavy work, and an even weightier responsibility.

and he tries to be good and tolerable and reason with the two of you, you’re young and you think you’re in love, and perhaps you really are- but-

he’s just worried sick for his baby girl.

and that tired confession alone, paired with the imploring, slightly dejected yet no less loving look he sends you, cupping your hand in his as you hover beside the couch, is ultimately what spurs on the

i’m sorry, hobie

and hobie’s heard that before, sometimes. like when you accidentally tripped over the cord connecting his amp to the wall and interrupted the sick solo he was strumming, or when- in a desperate, heady sigh of your name- he curiously tried reaching for your panties, all of his attempts being shyly swatted away-

but oddly, it had never felt so final.

★

the two of you weren’t meant to be divergent.

hobie hates the am.

doesn’t stop him from swinging by yours at around seven in the morning though, sleep still in his eyes, wicks heavier on one end than the other.

rough night. (and soon, he’ll find, you’ll relate.)

he expects you to be curled up in your bed in a pair of undies, maybe one of your legs hanging off the mattress in a quintessential display of it’s hot but not enough to lay bare- slightly prepares himself for the bout of disdain he’ll experience at the baggy, not his t-shirt wrinkled over your middle- but every assumption of his is for naught.

he was only on the mark for a single thing: your whinging daddy’s gone to work, and the place is otherwise empty.

it’s hobie’s turn to be the man of your house.

his senses, always rippling and searching for the whispers of you, lead him to your kitchen, a bit small but cozy in its own right, and as if you’d half expected this, the sound of his footsteps padding in through the threshold don’t rouse you in the slightest.

hobie finds you propped behind the counter, hunched over a bowl of- what’s that, oatmeal, maybe (explains the smell of banana and maple that whacked him in the face upon entrance)?- wordlessly spooning lumps of it into your mouth.

blinking mildly concerned, he waits for you to meet his gaze.

when you do, you look sleepy, hair charmingly askew, shimmery eyes a little puffy from a fitful slumber- a fraction duller than they were last week- regarding him with a shuddering, long inhale.

preparing yourself, are you? or perhaps him? he’s never known that pretty face to sneer or that pink little tongue he taught how to swirl with his to roll words that cut, but you are ripe with surprises, and taking into account his last visit, he might just deserve it.

you share an intense, almost equally exasperated stare, and for a moment there’s an echo of a perhaps misplaced joke on the tip of his tongue, yet when the silence drops and you numbly glance away, he’s glad he bit it down.

maybe… he overdid it?

“hobie,” is all you manage in lieu of a greeting, cheeks hollowing before puffing out a forlorn sigh.

you prod around the porcelain bowl, spoon snaking through the by-now soggy clusters of your breakfast.

“that bad, eh?” he relies on the trace of auxiliary amusement curling in his chest, swatting a proverbial hand at the mingled, vaguely wounded feelings swarming there. and yeah, for your shared convenience, he overlooks his usual case of oh, she’s completely adorable, and swallows down that niggling wedge of ownership.

“for your sake, dove,” he says, “not mine- i’ll make this cute drop-by quick.”

one measured, brazen step forward with a long leg of his onto the crumby, ceramic kitchen tile and you lift your head.

“y-you should go, hobie- my dad-“

“isn’t ‘round to nag me, is he?” he interrupts, gesturing the lack thereof with a lazy jerk of his head that has you shutting your mouth.

“no, s’what i thought. just me n’ you,” your sort-of boyfriend assures, his lips curling playfully at one end, “and that bloody ugly vase your old man insists on keepin’, ought to throw it out sometime, yeah?”

you pout, and hobie’s inclined to believe it’s purely unintentional.

“…that’s a family heirloom, hobie.”

his stomach lurches a little before he realizes there’s no real consequence here, not now at least. and then he sniffles, languidly shrugs one broad, pointed shoulder forward and blinks.

“could always buy you a new one.”

that’s not really how it works, you contemplate saying- hobie anticipates that clearly- before apparently thinking better of it.

he otherwise ignores the limp, enervated little shake of your head you send him, instead choosing to close the gap all the way and prop himself against the marble plane beside you, palms flattening behind him on the counter.

he watches you cooly as you eat, back hunched as you nibble and stall on polishing off the remnants of cinnamon banana oatmeal.

“y’don’t even like that stuff, do you-?” he observes flatly, a slight raise to his voice when you don’t acknowledge him right away. “no point forcin’ it,” he shrugs with a purse of his lip, ”bet it tastes like rubbish, mm?”

you inhale starkly, spoon clattering dramatically when you slam it on the counter and face him.

“here we go.”

“hobie, you’re not supposed to be here!”

“and why’s ‘at?” he quips seamlessly, having the nerve to raise a single, bold brow.

you screw your eyes shut for one fleeting, quiet moment, birds chittering in the backdrop of the cars vrooming past the cityscape below, and he can tell you’re getting worked up.

not in a mean way, nah, you’re just nervous. dealing with the tsunami of all these relatively foreign, confusing, frightening feelings- you think everything is ten times worser than it really is.

hobie knows better.

learned to stop giving a solid fuck a while ago. ‘cept for you- he can leave room for any matter relating to you, big or small or so tremendous it sometimes feels like he might shatter under the weight of it.

because hobie needs a space for you. with you. and he’s sort of tired pretending like he doesn’t.

you capture your bottom lip between your teeth, glittering in the morning light filtering in through the kitchen. and when you will your eyes to open again, hobie’s surprised to see they blink a little clearer.

there’s an odd, inexplicable, almost panicked pang in his chest—

before he realizes your tiny fists are still balled at your side.

“hobie,” you try softly, giving him this imploring, dollish look that tugs at his heartstrings. he hums almost absently, smoothing his fingertips over the cool marble of the countertop.

your own reach for his jacket, hesitantly planting themselves there in his spiked vest. and something stirs inside of him when you say

“my dad- he doesn’t like us together. i can’t keep going around him with you like i do. i… i don’t wanna hurt him.”

the steely ring looped around hobie’s nose seems to flip in the light when his face- otherwise deadpan- twitches.

“what’s it gotta do with him- you and i? think that nosey old geezer needs to weasel his way out of our bloody business... probably doesn’t got much left now anyway.”

“hobie!” you shriek, your warmth whisking away as you tug on the peels of hair framing your face. and- as if deciding better of whatever you wished to say, or perhaps knowing your not-boyfriend would’ve likely enjoyed a mini tantrum- you turn on your heel and start scurrying off down the hall.

“what?” he snips, swiftly following behind you.

ducking under a too low doorway, trailing you like an oversized, parasitic lost puppy- harshly palming at the chipped paint of your bedroom wall when he’s inevitably got you pinned against it.

“just what is it with your pops, eh? i get it, if he’s worried sick you’re lounging ‘round with a dirty bloke or he’s got to watch his li’l girl go-“ he scowls, raising his palms up for dramatic effect, “but i’m not gonna lay a bloody finger on you,” he promises, gaze narrowing by a fraction.

“…n’ last time i checked, your home is right here.”

you’re experiencing your own respective whirlwind of emotions, trapped between hobie and the wall: confusion, doubt, a little bit of frustration mingled with growing, shy insecurity- but the unusually heated quaver to his tone paired with the almost wounded look he regards you with, has you second guessing it all.

and, yeah, that little spark of guilt kicks in, spreading like pitiful wildfire and next thing you know you’re shooting your eyes to the floor. watching your sock-clad feet twiddle over the hardwood.

“i-i’m sorry, hobie,” you murmur sweetly. it claws its way into his belly, too, cloying and sincere.

you muster a deer-like glance up, shimmery, sad eyes meeting his own pair of syrupy, almost insouciant ones, and suddenly the roof of his mouth aches like he’s spooned frosting into it.

“but i-“ you swallow the tail of those words down, giving your head a turbulent little shake. and, surprising perhaps you both, you lean in on your tippy toes and press a soft kiss to his lips, grazing the piercing there.

he debates deepening it; like sand you slip through his fingers, and you’re gone already.

“you hate my dad a little too much. and i just… don’t hate him enough to do this to him.”

a large, almost overeager palm clasps around your hip, then, a shallow breath loosing from his chest as he hunches over, his shadow sucking you in.

his nose scrunches, ever so slightly, and it’s almost hard to meet your eye.

“i don’t-… i don’t hate your old man, dove,” he represses a mildly amused huff, “i just don’t like him gettin’ in the way of us... nothin’ personal, really.”

you quirk a deliberate, questioning brow, and the frown etched over his plump lips deepens some.

“maybe you’re his daughter, but you’re my girl, n’ i reckon he’ll warm up to that fact soon enough,” he elaborates. “so let’s squash this pointless quarrel, hop into your bed, and ruff eachother ‘round a li’l bit, yeah?”

your face goes red.

and that bastard- a trace of a grin meets one end of his auburn lips, raising an expectant, cheeky brow.

you avert your gaze, crossing your arms over your chest. “you’re on thin ice, mister,” you tell him, shimmying out of his grasp and trudging to your bed, plopping on it face-first.

hobie joins you, preferring to land on his back instead, resting his head on his laced elbows, craning his neck your way.

“cracking all these jokes when we’re supposed to be done with each other…”

the guitarist offers a soft, musing hum. “so it was a joke to you, huh? and oi,” he doesn’t even bother fighting off the victorious smirk that pinches into his cheeks, rolling over on his side and propping his head up, his free hand reaching out to poke at your hair.

“we’re pretty far from over, sweetheart, don’t y’think?”

you huff with what he suspects to be sheepish mirth.

the faint muscles in your back jump with a soundless little giggle in the next second, and hobie knows he’s right.

“hobie?” you say. “yup,” he goes. his gaze trails over you still, dark lashes weighing you up carefully.

“please go easy on my dad.”

he takes a pause.

and, “sure,” is his simple reply, sharply inhaling as he maneuvers closer and rolls you over so you’re on your side, too, facing him.

your cheeks are a little flushed, he observes, absently caressing them with his knuckles and feeling the heat rise, and your lips are so tantalizing, so close, that hobie’s next words come very unreasonably, headily, slow.

“jus’ since we’ve got something in common, anyway,” he breathes carefully, steadily closing the gap between you.

his eyes flicker between yours, and he briskly spots a few different things there- patience, the genuine love you harbor for him that seems to glow and something else a little bit shyly eager- but when his nose bumps with yours and his tongue curiously darts out, he finds no unwillingness there whatsoever.

“…both’d do anythin’ for our pretty girl.”

you offer a soft sigh into the kiss, his mouth capturing yours as he thumbs idly at the fat of your hip. your teeth clink together when he starts growing eager, tongue looping around yours and sucking.

“oh, hobes,” you breathe, screwing your eyes shut as your small fingers find the tattered ends of his vest and clutch.

your skin is so hot beneath his, broiling and crying out for his touch when he slides his palm over the bare expanse of your thigh and kneads.

“‘at’s right,” he murmurs, hitching your leg over his hip, leaning into you and seeking those swollen, glossy lips out.

something prods at you, then, a tent in his jeans straining unbearably hard, his free hand snatching at your jaw to pull you into him.

you gasp when his index and middle get ballsy and travel further, teasing where the apex of your thighs sits. he lassoes you back in before you can retreat, tutting numbly- though his tongue feels like sand at this point- and regarding you with this smoky, slow, hungry glance between your eyes.

“suck on my tongue, love,” he whispers, “kiss me jus’ like i taught you to. ‘member?”

you shudder, yielding to him when he saddles himself over you- searching your eyes for a signal to stop (a signal that never comes)- the silvery collection of piercings scattered over his brow pinching together when he furrows it.

“bet you forgot after this week, though,” he murmurs, yet despite the content of his words, there’s a very blatant trace of fondness there: “ignorin’ all my calls, puttin’ me in bloody torture for a li’l joke that probably went right over your pretty head anyway.”

your lips purse together, jutting out in a pathetic display of simmering, latent arousal, and hobie gives you a small nod that goes unfinished.

“s’fine, though,” he says, folding your bodies together, his pinky tucking under the band of your rosy polkadot panties. “can teach you all over again. and this time ‘round…”

hobie’s thigh wedges between yours and nudges them apart, the front of his knee rutting against your clothed cunt- the place where you need him most, and he knows. yet it’s a motion you shy away at all the same, lashes splayed over the shimmery points of your cheekbones as you bite back a shuddering breath.

“i’ll throw in something new, yeah…?”

he knows you’re antsy about this sort of thing.

that you were raised to be good and modest, and before you hit a second growth spurt in high school and ‘glew up’ that you were tossed about the halls and picked on relentlessly by the girls deemed prettier. teasing words hurled your way by cruel teenage boys and their twat fuckin’ friends.

so hobie’s fully aware you’re a virgin for this reason or that, and he’s respected that simple fact for all these months you’ve been together. never tried to take it any further when you started squirming in his grasp, biting on your lip and confessing that you didn’t know what you were doing and wouldn’t be able to anyway.

‘cause you just can’t, you’d frown, untouched and yet wholly humiliated.

and though it thoroughly stings an inner part of the guitarist to unearth each and every insecurity lashed into you over the course of your life, it hits a spot very near and dear to his heart, knowing you’re so vulnerable and fragile beneath him.

genuine.

it’s hard to come across anything real these days. you’re something of a miracle, then, to hobie brown; he’s found a glimmering thing amidst the grimy, stone rubble and refuses to let it go.

he’s your first boyfriend, your first peck on the lips and hand to hold yours (beside your father’s) when you cross the street. he’s your stop sign, he’s your green light, sometimes he’s even the roadblock and the blinking yellow lights that tell you to slow down before you get hurt.

you blink when his bronze knuckles smear away an errant tear that teems over your lashline.

“oi, why you cryin’…?” he whispers, deep brown, heedful eyes coated in a soft sheen.

his hands dote on you, gently caressing your skin, thumbing over the plush dip of your parted lips- and you make a pleasant sound at that, but even when his slacks tighten in response, his gaze doesn’t sway from yours.

a dulcet, bashful smile carves into your cheeks, smaller palm enclosing over the wide back of his.

“‘cause i just love you so much.”

hobie blinks. and he knows that the temperature of his forehead is rivaling that of a fever.

as if that wasn’t cruel enough, his mind short-circuits when a tentative hand snakes down, clasping his other one that rests numbly over the frilly hem of your panties.

“so…” your eyes- bless your anxious soul- swiftly tap away from his, cloudy as you arch your tummy (that baggy shirt of yours is draping off your exposed midsection) into his lower abdomen.

“y-you can have your way,” you murmur, adding almost as a diffident afterthought-

“only if you want to, ‘course-”

his lips find yours in an instant, tongue prodding insistently before ultimately slipping inside your mouth with a muffled groan. and that ever patient pinky laced around your undies jitters, tugging ‘em down your soft thighs and helping them around your knees.

his kiss only relents when you’re gasping for breath, a delightful mix of your saliva dribbling down your chin- which you wipe away at with belated horror- your eyes colored with what he blissfully realizes to be want.

gorgeous, raw, want.

his own are tinted like that, too. just a bit more saturated, louder and unashamed. that’s okay, though, hobie can fill those selfish gaps for you.

you want him, that’s more than enough. (doesn’t ever stop a dreamer from dreaming, though.)

“are you-?” he scoffs breathlessly, “‘course i want to,” he confesses, trying his very hardest to not spin a heady gaze down to your nakedness below, brain fizzing with the blipping idea of swinging your calves over his shoulder and feasting.

then again, hobie really doesn’t think he can wait any longer- not now, not when you’ve just drove a hammer through the very last layer of ice.

“you’re not pullin’ my leg, are you?” (his words are slurring, his throat is fire, his body wants to cave and melt into yours and he realizes with silent dismay that he may look like a complete buffoon.)

“you’re not-…” hobie swallows thickly. carefully considering his next words, although reason comes very blotted.

“cause if you get me up then you won’t ever be able to get me back down, love, n’ the last thing i wanna do is make a sobbing mess outta you.”

well. maybe… depends…

a determined, adorable little pout crosses you. your fingers tug at his vest- not nearly enough to rock or even faze him, but you’re mindful still to not treat him rough when you give him a little shake.

hobie blows a shallow, quavery breath through his nostrils. and grapples at his ebbing composure-

but he needs to keep it, just for now, just until you tell him it’s okay to completely and utterly rebrand you. (and oh, fuck, he’s just getting himself more worked up. maybe you’re right, maybe hobie needs to edify his self control and his sometimes unreasonable imagination. it just gets so out of hand with you.)

“oh, aren’t you cute?” he rasps, “but i need big words, yeah? so look me in my eyes- hey,” he jerks his chin when your eyes loll away again- “hey, look me in the eyes- dead serious-… and tell me what you want o’ me.”

you gnaw on your bottom lip, and hobie can tell you’re fighting tooth and nail to keep your watery eyes trained to his hooded, burning ones.

his chest heaves an airy, desperate sigh, “i’m not teasin’ you, love, i swear it,” he promises, one hand tracing the gentle slope of your tummy while the other balances valiantly over your inner, naked thigh, his face hardly keeping a cool, apathetic glaze. “jus’ gotta help me out here.”

so you nod, meek and mild, chirping out a stammering yes, i really want you hobie, that widens his eyes ever so slightly, an unwitting, very pleased hum loosing from his chest.

he puffs out a low, wordlessly relieved breath.

“…easy, yeah?” he whispers sagely, eyes finally flitting down.

and his dick jumps in his trousers at the pretty cunt he sees resting between the legs speared either side of his knee, squirming and dripping wet when your definitely-boyfriend nudges at it and spots a stain on his jeans.

“oh, fuck,” he hisses, brows furrowing and he can’t help the curious, lustful wiggle of his knee against your bare cunt before he grudgingly meets your eye again.

and this time, his are far less rational, exponentially devoid of his usual, composed wit, and instead drenched in thick, unbridled yearning.

you understand perfectly well, then, that hobie meant what he said when he told you dissuading his made-up mind would be fruitless.

he intakes a sharp breath through his teeth, and the ring in his lip suddenly shines a little meaner.

“see? …jus’ needed a quick answer ‘fore i completely and utterly abolished that sweet, sweet pussy.”

and with that, he unbinds his chains.

his middle digit snakes down, dipping between your folds and basking in the hot slick he discovers with a heavy huff. chuckling softly at the near-insubstantial whine you make.

he ministers a good, tantalizing few rubs there to work you up while also to get a nice feel of you- by no means a thorough one, no, that’ll be for when he undoes his zipper, but it’s enough to sate an ounce of his demanding appetite- before withdrawing his hand with a squelch.

“listen to you,” he says, pearly teeth glinting in the soft light of early morning peeking through the curtains. “making a sobbing mess of your own, mm? that cunt of yours sure knows how to cry.”

“hobie!” a humiliated whine of his name coupled with an unwitting, desperate buck of your hips has hobie throwing cold water over himself.

“…don’t be mean,” you whisper delicately, and he offers a belated, tenuous nod.

that doesn’t stop him from popping his sticky fingers into his mouth, though, sucking on the bittersweet, feminine juices webbed between them- steadying his eyes on yours the whole time, even when they roll back a bit from the taste and he has to stifle a moan.

“sorry, dove,” he at least has the shame to apologize, settling himself between your thighs entirely, sitting up to start peeling off his holey shirt and vest.

“just somethin’ ‘bout you that makes me wanna riot, yeah? …throw everything and everyone who tries to tussle you into a fleapit.”

you sigh at the disorderly glimpse of his mindset he shows you, yet your cheeks burn and your fingers entwine with his when one hand curls into yours, pressing it beside your head.

“my bit of advice?” he raises a shrewd brow, “you don’t need any of ‘em,” he not so subtly assures, briefly leaning down to press a kiss to the tip of your nose.

leveling himself. quelling his lust.

“…too lovely for all those rotten, demeaning fuckin’ pigs.”

and his free hand untucks himself from his boxers, giving his hard, aching length a few cursory pumps- an action you dutifully look away from- and smearing the pre over it. his breath hitches as he lines himself up, mustering just enough rational thought to spare you one last steamy, imploring look.

“you good w’this?”

“yes,” you confirm again, a little antsy as he slots himself up.

a trace of a languid, hazy grin teases his lips.

“…w’me all up inside you…?”

in one moment, you’re pouting his name with chagrin and in the next, he’s sliding the angry tip through your folds. he regards your expression carefully, pausing maybe not even an inch in when your chest freezes and you paw at his forearm.

he sucks on his teeth, and realizes a beat later that he’s not breathing, either.

the punk sighs shallowly, a hint of amusement there. “y’gotta breathe, love. too tight like this- how else’ll i get through?”

so you try.

for his sake, because you love him, and he’s made it abundantly clear- what with all his patient kisses and countless drop-ins at your place or cute cafe job- that he’s head over heels for you, too.

you exhale deeply, lashes screwing shut and fanning frenetically over your dazzling cheekbones when hobie presses in closer, rucking up your shirt with an absent twitch of his nose to reveal your breast.

he murmurs something you don’t quite catch, and nuzzles his face between them after you wind your fingers over his hair- careful not to disrupt it- and nod.

“sorry,” you stammer quietly. but he kisses that away, too, lips peppering over your chest before moving to your neck- and it takes everything in him to not shove the rest of his cock in you right then.

“s’alright, sweetheart, no reason for ‘at,” he consoles, “it’ll hurt a bit-… you want me to go slow, yeah? can do that for you.”

you hum, so pretty, in response. it’s what inevitably spurs on the unwittingly sharp buck of his hips into yours- snuffing out the whine you make with a lingering, messy kiss, muting a feral groan on his end into the juncture of your neck.

he hisses, cautiously bullying another three inches in and managing to placate your latent cries with a babbling string of i love you’s and hey, eyes on me, jus’ keep ‘em on me.

“see?” he huffs, tossing a weighty look down to where the two of you connect beautifully.

there’s a glittering red ring of blood gathering around the base of his cock, one that his chest swells deliciously at, and a mix of your shared arousal that wets his pelvis and the smattering of hair there.

“we’re almost in. only hard part ‘bout it was me, mm?”

you belatedly nod, still gnawing away on your bottom lip, and bite back an unrestrained giggle.

“j-just hurry, hobie,” you suddenly say, lashes hazily fluttering open, pretty eyes flitting between the sharp lines of his face and then the lewd scene playing below.

his hands steady your hips, reminding him to take it slow, that you’re not ready for it all in one blinding, heavy blow.

“what’d you mean, dove? any more hurrying and i’ll jus’ put you in gorgeous li’l shambles. you’ll be beautiful, still, but…” he blinks. “don’t wanna hurt you- told you that, di’n i?”

“i know,” you squeak out, “i just wanna get it over with… i-it’ll start feeling better soon… right?”

hobie takes a moment to think, albeit his thoughts are all scrabbled and dotty.

a hesitant, slight smile crosses his face, his thumb rubbing circles into the fat below your hip.

not that the idea of ramming it all into your sweet, virgin cunt doesn’t sound fucking perfect- because it does- just that he means what he said about not wanting to hurt you, and he’s not so sure he wants to completely speedrun this romantic, memorable event anyway.

you’re something treasured to him. he doesn’t want to ruin you or muck up the wholly sincere, soft way you look at him in passing. hobie doesn’t want to scare you away.

“you sure? …over a hundred percent- you’d really want me to shove it all inside you in one painful, quick go?”

you bite on your lip, a bit teary though you try to hold it back, and nod.

so hobie takes a heavy second to lean over and indulge in a saccharine, sloppy kiss, consoling you as best as he can before wrapping his hands tight under your thighs and-

“mmph, fuck-“

ramming himself completely inside with one swift thrust.

your eyes go wide, a soundless shriek getting caught somewhere in your throat, and hobie heaves a shivering breath when he realizes he’s truly, fully, finally to the hilt within you.

your velvety walls, tight as they are, suck him right in. squeezing and suffocating and so fucking hot and gooey that he vaguely wonders if he’s deliquescing inside you.

melting, fusing together like one. losing all his little nuances to yours- trading beings, overtaking you.

it’s a beautiful surrender to which he succumbs.

“mm, hobie-“ you mewl, looping your arms ‘round his lean torso and clawing at his back. his skin is hot, broiling to the touch much like yours, and your nails dig unintentional scratches there that have his belly flipping.

he grunts, “that’s my girl, hold onto me jus’ like that. gonna pound y’into tomorrow. make you feel me even then- won’t even know what hit you, love.”

you yelp when his hips retreat some, only to smash back against yours with a heavy pap, something newfound and brilliant burning in his core.

“make you love me-” oh, fuck, he’s babbling, he thinks, making an utter fool of himself probably, but he can’t stop now, not when your cunt is so warm and gripping him like a vice, unwilling to release him.

he doesn’t want you to.

“jus’ me and you and nobody fuckin’ else, yeah?” a violent groan rumbles in his chest, his eyes scraping over every inch of you for something- some blinking green light to tell him to keep going, that you want him, that you fucking breathe him like he does you.

“not your friends or pops or those bastards on the outside tryna get a peek in at us- dead to us, all o’ em.”

and he drinks you up like that, bouncing and crying sweetly on his big cock, that tingling pain starting to forge into tiny, growing jolts of pleasure that have your walls clamping around him.

“so bloody tight f’me,” he muses, brows furrowed into lurid shadows. “makin’ it so difficult to push on through- you wanna kick me out or keep me in, love? y’gotta make the choice- shit.”

“oi,” he snips when your mouth parts open and you bury your watery gaze with a trembling wrist. “look at me while i love you, while i pull you apart like this-” and adding almost as an afterthought, a bit softer, a bit more depraved,

“please.”

you reluctantly shift your arm, eyes meeting his,

“obedient thing.”

-and time slows.

he sucks in a deep, shuddering breath. you’re beautiful beneath him, all his, only his. he can’t mind the way you utterly and irreparably devastate him.

your pussy envelopes him so tight and with one choked, lovely moan of his name, he can tell you’re really warming up to his services- you want more, even.

“so perfect,” hobie observes, stuffing himself into your clenching, needy hole like a man possessed, weaving his fingers with yours either side of your head.

“pleasurable, innit? she’s startin’ to like this cock, mm? enjoying the way i stretch and open her?”

he huffs, “to think she didn’t want me for a time- givin’ me a bloody warm welcoming gift now, don’t ya think?” he flashes you a half grin, gritting his teeth when he hits that spongey, soft spot inside you and you loose a wanton, whorish moan.

you’re embarrassed of it- and his vulgar words- scrambling to lower your head, taking your bottom lip between your pearly teeth.

“no need to hide, pretty. there’s no going back- you and i.”

he delivers a particularly harsh thrust, with full intention to drag another one of those gorgeous sounds from you, and your hands squeeze his tight, your back arching into him like a crescent moon.

“h-hobie-“ you gasp- “i’m- feel- i feel so-“

“full?” he smirks breathlessly, dropping his forehead to yours. your skin simmers, so does his. you manage a feeble nod. “good,” he says.

and with every pump of his hips he gets a little bit closer, and with every keening plea that falls from your shiny, swollen lips you inch towards a delightful precipice of your own.

yet there’s still an ounce of hesitance there- niggling and doubtful and so uneasy it might swiftly snowball into something ugly-

hobie’s the one to push you off.

babbling almost drunkenly against your lips, slamming into you like the world would collapse if he went any slower, breaths rippling with animalistic, heady infatuation.

“you’re my girl,” his words, rumbling, drip with something starkly possessive, “not my ex or anything else beside it, you get it? and what,-“

his grasp darts from your loosened, restless fingers and settles hotly over the curve of your waist.

“you thinking you could boot me aside-?” he forces out a delighted, mildly worrisome sound, a laugh mingled with a moan, fisting at your hips and burying himself deep in your cunt. so fucking deep you think you might split, like hobie really might break you, his cock bullying into your greedy, wet walls with such ignited, unbridled purpose that your head spins with pink and blue stars.

“’at’s all hogwash, pretty girl- and i’ll give you a proper good fuck so you never forget it.”

and with that, hobie ruts into you harder, and he feels every unique, bubbling sensation in exceptional quality. his balls, heavy and so unbearably ready, slap against your ass, tightening with need. his fingers twitch into your hips, his lips blowing out a strained, incoherent mess of passionate vows.

“-put my seed in your tummy, fill y’up with me, yeah? get you so fuckin’ full and sappy you’ll never want nothin’ else— jus’ me n’ you. bloody hell.”

and with one final violent, sloppy thrust, hobie stills inside you and moans.

loud, partly lost to your lips when he roughly captures them and digs into the meat of your hips- so tight he anticipates admiring the colorful bruises left there come tomorrow.

you come, too, lovely cunt squeezing his cock so tight a wild shiver rolls down his spine and he shakes, basking in the shameless cry of his name that washes over him.

he manages a few more spent, lingering thrusts into your abused, fluttering hole before collapsing atop you.

his whole weight envelopes you, lean, strong arms circling your middle as he shifts and presses you against him. you curl into him with a shaken, delicate heave, his chin resting over the crown of your head when you burrow into his naked chest.

he peppers a long, sentimental kiss there, hickory eyes finally finding the nerve to fall shut as he holds you against him, still buried deep inside your cunny.

the golden-grey light of early morning laves over you both, but hobie, after sparing you a cautious glance, shoots a small web and tapes shut that slivered curtain.

“did so well for me, love.”

you offer a sleepy, mumbling whine in return. and something unbelievably warm unfurls in his chest as you gently fall asleep against him, little hands clutching him like he was the red lifering thrown to you amidst thrashing waves.

“-n’ what’s your daddy gonna do now, eh?” he whispers eventually, nuzzling his nose against your slumbering head.

and, dark lashes splayed over his sharp cheekbones, hobie doesn’t fight back the smug, deeply satisfied smirk that takes over half of his face.

“…my dna’s swimmin’ in you, too.”

i need hobie brown smut i can’t find any 😭🙏 hes a rockstar so i’m pretty sure those fingers are …. 😍😍

oh plsss they are tho…like have you seen how long they are??? not to mention the fact that since he plays guitar he has trained quick moving fingers… 18+ smut brief mention of overstimulation; fingering (all for “practice”)

he’d be sitting on a comfy chair or couch, legs spread (of course), and he’d be ushering you over by a slight backwards tilt to his head.

thinking all is innocent you walk over, bouncing onto the couch beside him. hobie immediately grabs your legs which had bent slightly together, as he straightens them over his lap, his large hands practically wrapping around both calfs (they are big enough, yes).

“how’d practice go?” you ask, shifting to get slightly more comfortable. “I could practically hear your guitar from a million rooms down—“

but your words drift off upon feeling his hands glide up your leg, coming to a stop by your bare thighs (you being in a skirt). you intake air as hobie yanks you closer to him by your thighs, slightly spreading them in the process.

you’re now practically draped over him having to push up slightly on your elbows as you stare at him from lower on the couch. “it was alrigh’…” his hand began to lead under your skirt all while keeping eye contact with your fluttering eyes. “if ya heard it that far away, then mission accomplished.”

your breathing hitches as hobie’s ringed fingers disappear under your skirt, away from your vision, as he slowly brushes over your covered pussy, making your hips jolt. “but apparently I need practice…” he hums, beginning to draw patterns over your clit as your chest begins to heave.

“my fingers need to be quicker to get a certain tempo…” now he’s moving your panties aside as he slides the tips of his fingers through your wetness. “thanks, babe…ya all prepared for me.”

and then he’s thrusting two long fingers into your cunt making your breathing hitch as your hips shift. “hobie…”

“mm…” he watches as his fingers go in and out your pretty hole. “ya can help me get better…righ’?” his thrusts are moving quicker now, as his other hand keeps your thighs spread apart.

“let me know if my speed is improving.”

you’re now a whimpering mess as your head knocks back, his thrusts now at an ungodly pace as his thumb moves to rub circles on your clit. “no no…I need to you to see. to let me know how i’m doing…” his free hand moved to pull your chin back. “watch.”

your pussy is clenching around his fingers, as the speed makes your entire body hum, his thumb somehow flicking your clit perfectly.

and as your orgasm crashes over you, hobie hums to himself, slowing the pace a fraction, but not pulling out. “see…i’m already getting better…you really are helping me improve…” his thrusts quicken up again, making you whine in overstimulation.

“shh…this technique is working…I can’t stop my practice now…”

Hobie Brown's concept art has me in a chokehold

amp 🗯️ hobie brown x reader

★CW pretty fluffy actually, suggestive themes, slight nsfw, reader is a singer for hobie’s band & hinted to be virgin, hobie’s in it so deep for u but he’s hobie so he expresses it weird ♡ ★NOTES guys this was supposed to be a cute little drabble. this is 2k. help i love hobie but this is my FIRST time writing him so go easy on me!! do tell me tho if u liked it/the characterization! still tryna navigate but hobie is so beautiful im. ☹️🩵

hobie’s teaching you how to play the guitar.

clutched on his lap as he sits crosslegged, you listen intently as he instructs you where to put your fingers-

“hey, you see that right there?” he says, “called a fret, yeah. odd word for it, innit? you’ll feel none when you actually get to playing.”

the amp’s on the carpet just to the side, plugged into the wall, screeching to life with every tenuous flicker of your fingers.

it doesn’t sound pleasant, whatever you’re doing, but you trust hobie’s judgement. he’s your best friend, really like your whole world at this point- and he’d told you before that good things take time. rome wasn’t built in a day, and the strongest troops aren’t rallied overnight, are they?

it’s a process. beautiful and agonizing.

his left knee makes an odd shift beneath your underside as you crane your neck into the instrument, squinting in an attempt to better see the strings- hobie tells you that that’s not typically what you’re supposed to do, but he says he’ll let it slide this time considering you’re a starter and still getting used to the ropes. and he’s never been inclined to go hard on you anyway- sort of sours his spirit; he’d rather approach it gentle and receptive when it comes to your waters, much like the way you treat this impromptu little lesson now.

hobie’s breathing starts getting a little heavier as you play- and you’re not so good at it, but you’re eager to learn something else after one of the bandmates joked that the microphone you grip every show wasn’t really an instrument, and you’re getting frustrated that your hands can’t sow the same melodious, rock tunes that hobie’s can- because you want to be able to, and badly.

hobie is just way too cool. it’s not fair.

you wanna do what he can, maybe make him proud in the process- show him you’re not as useless as everyone else likes to peg you…

so although the idea is somewhat tempting, and despite thirty minutes of his dutiful ministry paying off very little, you refuse to quit.

and really, that in itself-…

well, that makes hobie’s chest swell behind you, but you wouldn’t know that, and he keeps otherwise quiet.

my girl, a prideful little half grin curls at his lips, the steely rungs there raising under the dim, busted lamplight.

(and you are.)

you refuse to give up, sure— but you are getting undeniably frustrated, so you start wiggling around more, shifting and rocking in his lap, spinning him this sad little pout that steadily loses its determined arch.

“ey, love, you’re not callin’ it quits already, are you? reckon you ought to give it a bit more.” he murmurs, and although it pulls a fragile whine from you that does absolutely nothing beneficial to the foreign, growing ache in his tummy, he means it as an encouragement.

“but hobie- i don’t want them to laugh at me,” you counter almost helplessly, because the crew had a penchant to pick on you relentlessly whenever hobie wasn’t right there at your side to scare them off- and that really managed to piss him off every time he found you curled up in a corner, alone or battling off tears.

the way you lit up, though, after he slipped you the first mildly-vulgar joke and flipped the rude bunch the bird, never failed to reassure him that you- and maybe him in extension, too- would be alright.

“laugh at you?” he scoffs, one of his shoulder blades jumping behind yours. “that sad lot is severely lacking in the comedy department, don’t ya think?”

you giggle, and a good chunk of that festering uneasiness within him fades.

sometimes it’s like all he can think about is abolishing things and slamming the flat underbelly of his guitar over someone’s stupid fuckin’ head- but you’re good at assuaging that niggling ache, somehow.

he likes that, the way you make him feel. and he doesn’t tell you enough, but-

“hey, don’t worry ‘bout any of ‘at, a’right? what they think doesn’t matter- just sit with me, yeah? just me and you.”

it takes a few moments for what he said to kick in. and really, what he said is only a fraction of what he pines to say at the top of his lungs.

maybe another time.

no, maybe- maybe if he could find the proper nerve-

hobie’s never been one to blanche at the call of danger or even the uproar of a crowd, but there’s just something about you that makes him wish he could plug himself into the wall and amplify his courage.

because he can’t do it on his own, and that bugs him. he should be able to, shouldn’t lean on you like he has been, that’s never been his style—

you murmur a soft assent, head tipping to place a brief, thankful kiss to his cheek, and hobie thinks he doesn’t mind.

no, not one bit.

he never believed in consistency anyway. there’s nothing wrong with having you, coveting you like he does…

his cheeks broil.

butterflies dance in his belly, bronze skin burgeoning with tiny little goosebumps that tell him even his material being reacts fondly, vividly, to you.

you’re his girl, he’s convinced, because he couldn’t stand it any other way.

the smell of you, lingering wafts of shea butter and something sweeter, too, like marshmallows, drags him in like waves lapping at a beach.

everything about you attracts him, he honestly thinks, like a moth to a flame- distantly he recalls one of miguel’s speeches (bless his soul, but he’s a bit lost) and the word canon comes to mind- fuck, that’s gotta be the word for you. the two of you were destined, supposed to happen from the very start. he usually would hate something like that, so preassigned and restrictive and claustrophobic.

and yet… labels never sounded so nice.

and everything about him glues itself to you and refuses to let go. you’ve never tried shrugging him off, though. so maybe he’s doing something right.

maybe.

“aight, see then?” (he has this way of jumping into things so suddenly, yet making it sound natural- even though to his own ears he’s blurting and fumbling.) “you got to cradle it, hold it right there, yeah? …just like ‘at.”

you hum thoughtfully, and there’s some inner part of him that finds your attentiveness completely adorable, shoving his nose in the ridge of your shoulder to hide the sheepish little grin that’s starting to form there.

and hickory brown eyes survey you just like that, peering down at your handiwork and- maybe the glorious bit of cleavage he can see from this angle through your tank top, too, but- c’mon, that’s completely besides the point.

(hey, what was the point again?)

you’re gorgeous, he finally admits, yet even then, he realizes with slow disappointment that that word doesn’t do you near enough justice.

that bugs him, too.

most things do, actually. s’why he schemes against them all.

“like this?” you timidly breathe, shifting in his lap once more- and he knows you’re not doing it on purpose, but—

your thighs catch and chafe against the unbidden bulge pitching in his trousers and—

“ffffff- blooody hell, fingers on the fretboard, love, oi- and quit movin, yeah? you want to prove them all wrong, don’t you?” he reminds, to which you resolutely nod, muttering a quick apology.

he hums lowly, willing himself to settle- or at least trying, “yeah. ‘cause i do. we can show ‘em both. here, remember to hold it right- just like-… see? you’re gettin’ the hang of it! my girl!”

…he’s never said it aloud before.

(…should he have kept it that way?)

he observes you carefully, then, his lashes fluttering against the smooth blade of your shoulder as he watches, waits, for something you do to tell him that he’s only on cloud nine- that you aren’t something that can be won or fought for, that can be only his. that no petition he signs could beckon you closer, that no totalitarian district he razes down to the earth could be enough to deserve you.

and hobie stares, at you, harder than he has any real right to.

and that blow never comes.

instead, the softest of smiles graces your lips, and you lean your back into him. melting like wax on candles into one another.

and it’s warm at your neck suddenly, his shallow breaths beating against the juncture of your collar, glittering piercings brushing into the pliant skin there.

unscathed, pure…

and he likes that, too… more than he should, probably. but he doesn’t want to stop.

“…feels nice, innit?” he can’t hide the small smile that carves into his cheeks when you finally play the first set of chords right, head hazy with the bubbly laugh you spout out (and maybe the way your ass digs into him in response, too).

“it looks even better on stage. you’ll rock their worlds, doll. spit in their autocratic faces like ’at. i’d like a front row seat to that show…”

you keen into hobie’s praise, sighing fondly as you briefly lean out of him- startling at the big hands that instinctually enclose around your hips- and gently set his guitar down, timidly pressing back into him.

“i did it, hobie,” you realize with a mild smile, your palms (so much tinier than his, he notes) leveling over his knees that support you.

his voice, unaffected per usual, rings pleasantly at your ear. “that you did, love,” and unexpectedly- you register the warmth of his lips dusting over your collar.

“proud of you,” he murmurs, and you can’t repress the violent shudder that rolls down your spine when his teeth join that sudden dance, mouth peppering appreciative kisses into your neck that convince you that he sincerely means what he says.

that shiver racks through the guitarist, too, brown eyes tipping back into his skull when he tries, persists, and inevitably elicits a whimsy moan from you.

“h-hobie,” you whimper, and it’s an effort for him to not toss his hips up against you, then, or even to shimmy you out of your panties and poke around for your most precious, untouched parts.

“wh- what’re we-?”

“sharing,” he says, and then he’s lunging into you, mashing his lips with yours- his bestest friend in the whole wide world- in a needy, entirely codependent kiss.

it goes by in a blur, after that.

not really because it’s fast, exactly, or even because you’re growingly tired and it’s approaching eleven pm, but because his lips feel so good against your skin, and his pointed words soften so naturally towards you that you can’t help but cave to them.

you sigh into his touch, hobie shifting you off his lap just to seamlessly lie you on your back.

he’s gentle, still, even when his now-unbearable boner nudges at your mid thigh, his eyes glinting a smoky brown. the only unpleasant thing, really, was the scratchy carpet beneath you, digging at your back- but you shortly end up arching it for him anyway, so you suppose it doesn’t really matter.

nothing does, now. just hobie brown, your boy, and the way he looks at you.

fuck, the way he looks at you—

you pant, lolling your head to the side as he tries for your lips- swiftly realizes you’re out of breath- and dejectedly darts for your top.

his hands pinch at the thin, skimpy bands there and tug just hard enough to unravel them from your shoulders, your breasts quickly popping free. it makes him happy, to know you’re comfortable enough to forego a bra whenever you crash at his place (which is more often than anyone would assume from you- as just really good, mildly tactile, very much clingy friends).

his cock, stirring in his trousers, relishes in that simple reality as well.

“oh, look at you, pretty,” he marvels, eyebrows knitting together unevenly when his fingers tentatively, receptively, roam to your cleavage.

“…yeah, i like that look.” he notes the slight flush to your cheeks and your adamance to avoid his eye. “but,” he knuckles away an errant lock of hair from your face, fondly contemplating the heat emanating there, “no need to be embarrassed now- not w’me, no.”

after sending you a weighty, searching look between your eyes, hobie ventures down a bit, wasting no time in taking a pert nipple into his mouth and thoughtfully swirling the nub with his tongue, a large hand massaging your other breast.

you sigh and mewl deliciously, and hobie’s eyes develop a heavy lid as they skim over you, dark lashes tickling supple, smooth, malleable flesh. he breathes a heady groan, screwing his eyes shut.

hobie’s nerves go haywire. his brain rippling with a million incoherent thoughts loosely translated to make love to her, his limbs feeling leaden and lazy- but it’s a pleasant feeling, his gut bubbling with arousal.

he unlatches from you with a quiet pop, hands rucking your top up your tummy so he can roam there, admiring and feeling and experiencing you.

“work of fuckin’ art, aren’t you,” he breathes, slowly dipping down down down, never breaking his eyes from yours as—

“h-hobie, i can’t play the guitar.”

hobie pauses abruptly.

almost like he’s been struck— half of his lower face moves as he sniffs, regarding you carefully. looking… waiting…

internalizing.

a soft, amused scoff looses from his chest. “and why’s ‘at? sounded just fine to me. you get your ears checked?”

watery hues finally muster up enough courage to meet his. and his are so much sharper than yours, dark and prominent and so fucking reverent as they sweep over you that it actually sort of stuns you.

you don’t deserve him, you think, he’s out of your league. and by a long, long shot.

beautiful, unshackled, artfully wild.

and yet… the striking clarity that he’s feeling the exact same for you is revolutionary.

your hand, quivering with the effects he laid upon you, finds his cheek. it’s simmering, too, bronze lit up with his blossoming desire, need branching out in so many layers- hunger on multiple, innate levels.

one level intakes and assimilates the masterpiece of you, wanting to dissect it and worship it, amplify it to the max.

…another, undoubtedly his more materialistic, humanly selfish one, sees the bountiful feast you bare him, and wants to devour until there’s nothing left.

your bottom lip wobbles; gets thwarted by the teeth you harshly take it in.

“they’ll laugh at us.”

hobie stares, stills completely. blinks two or three fast, fluttering blinks more than necessary.

ah, there it is.

his grin softens, or maybe deepens into one of a slightly different, sweeter sentiment. he doesn’t fully know. he’s not thinking about himself, honestly. just you. always you.

the sound of skin sliding over skin permeates the silent, dim room once more.

“oi,” he quips, and if there’s any part of you that wasn’t paying attention, it is now. “but no point worryin’ ‘bout whether you can play the guitar or not, yeah? …and fuck ‘em if they laugh- just twats in the hivemind. repeat after me-“

he punctuates, “fuck, ‘em, all.”

you heave a breathy giggle, hobie cracking a soundless little chuckle when you refuse to parrot his dirty language.

“yeeeeah,” he drawls, more to himself now than to you. “…too sweet for that, aren’t you..”

and when he purposefully settles into you again and places a single lingering kiss over your belly- pupils blown wide and swallowing up the syrupy pool below his lashes- what he’s really been wanting to tell you finally speaks for itself.

“it’s a’right, though,” hobie reassures again, insinuating his lanky body between your thighs. patiently prying them apart before sending you this half-smiling, utterly adoring look that steals the very breath from your lungs.

two of his long, slender fingers hook into your cotton panties,

“i can make you sing just fine.”