Wstcoastcoll3ctive - Caye

hobie brown x photographer!reader

this is almost entirely self indulgent, because i’m a huge camera nerd, sorry everyone!

warnings: gets verryyy suggestive towards the end, that’s all, sorry folks :P

just thinking about hobie in love with a reader who's obsessed with cameras & photography. maybe you studied it at school/college, or freelance, or maybe just a bit of a camera nerd. bedroom shelves housing all types of cameras, cheap or expensive, film or digital, any and every type.

maybe reader isn't too confident in front of the lens, and hobie is just so goddamn photogenic, even when he doesn't mean to be. "wait, hobie, can you do that again?" whilst bringing the camera to your eye, waiting for hobie to move back into the position he'd been in on the couch, "lookin' pretty, love?" and you hum in response, "mhmm", the camera clicks.

polaroids of him in the back of your phone case, prints of you in his. he'd caught you off guard once, laying on top of him in your bed, slipping in and out of slumber as his large, calloused hand rubs circles along your spine. looking down at you through his eyelashes, a stream of light from the closed curtains fell across your face. reaching to a discarded film camera on your bedside table, he placed a kiss onto your forehead and snapped a picture. after you got it developed, he stole it from you, taping it to the front and center of his guitar, so he can see it whenever he played.

walking through the streets of london, you stopped and stared at the window of a vintage camera store with pure adoration in your eyes. "hobie! hobie, look, it's my dream camera." he stuffed his hands in his pockets and joined you, "is it, darlin'?" and you nodded, hands pressed against the glass, "well, we better get it then, huh?"

he'd constantly come home with pockets full of fresh film or new lenses that he'd nicked during the day. even if he didn't understand or share the same passion, he'd be your number one supporter, bending over backwards to help in anyway he can. swinging you to the highest buildings and nicest views to get a good shot, playing up to the camera whilst you shot him performing one evening at a local pub. he was your muse, and you his.

just the thought of him slowly nuzzling you out of your shell in front of the camera, because you couldn’t deny the photos he took of you were artistically excellent, and you had an eye for it all. you’re straddling his lap, innocently, and he’s laying with his head on your pillow. one of his hands is on your thigh, the other holding a cheap film camera to his eye.

“just pose for me, beautiful,” he’s showing his teeth as he smiles, “hobie, no—” you try and push the camera away, but he insists, “please?” and there’s a second you consider it, before refusing once again. within a second, his hand has come up to your chin, taking it between his fingers and running his thumb over your lips to shut you up. you melt to his touch instantly, and when he’s caught your eyes fluttering and smile forming, he snaps a picture. “perfect.”

he comes along to all your exhibitions. bringing his band mates, or pav, gwen, and miles, to see your photography hung up. as much as he hates money, and spending it, he always buys at least 8 copies, just to see the explosive smile on your face when you see someone’s bought your work.

his chin would sit on your shoulder, watching you work away at your laptop as you edit photos. he doesn’t understand any of it, but he loves to see you work. he kisses down your neck, shoulders, rubbing shapes into your hips and thighs as you edit away, mumbling a complaint anytime he tries distracting you, “concentrate, love, you got this,” he mutters as he begins to kiss you particularly low, in a particularly sweet spot, hands slipping below the desk, “doing so well, pretty.”

head over heels for this man

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…”

kisses

Hobie brown x reader

You and your boyfriend love bothering Miguel, that's why you two always are making out infront of him.

a/n: a shorty drabble 'cuz hobie has me in a chokehold

"Miguel is so upset" you murmured in amusement to your lover, who had his arm around your waist as you two listened to Miguel "talk" to Miles. The boy had guts. You liked him and so did Hobbie.

Speaking of Hobie, as soon as Lyla began her explanation of the canonical events, your boyfriend began leaving wet kisses on your neck making you giggle.

"Hobie.. stop" you whispered but we both knew that meant "keep doing it", your boy smiled against your skin before placing his hand on your jaw and being able to join his lips against yours.

Being kissed by Hobie Brown was heavenly, your tongue touched his cold piercing making you shiver in his arms, you leaned your head to deepen the kiss and Hobie received your tongue gladly in his mouth.

As soon as Hobie started to almost eat your mouth you forgot where you were and with whom. However, when Hobie sucked on your tongue you couldn't help but moan, after that, their bubble burst.

" ay, no puede ser! Could you two not eat their faces to each other when I'm explaining something really important!.. It's rude" Miguel scolded you two, your cheeks heating up when Pav winked at you while Hobie just shrugged, wrapping his hand around your waist.

"Just pretend we're not here, mate" he murmured making you laugh.