Kisses

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.

just read all your imagines and they are so good!! just on here to req anything hobie brown related cos god that man is so fine. maybe like a one-shot where they are fwb cos hobie doest do labels but gets jealous and then asks reader to be his gf and then shows her off to everyone. just like really anything u want to write tbh ✨✨

end of line | h. brown

description. being friends with benefits with your best friend, hobie brown, is fun and all, but you start to realize that maybe firm labels suit you better than whatever this is

includes. slight smut SUGGESTIVE 16+, fem!reader referred to as “girl”, fluff, sweet!hobie, pav gwen and miles mention, rockstar!hobie

a/n: i have no words this was supposed to be uploaded like a week ago but then i went to disney so ... sorry yall. also not edited well bc ... disney. edit: title from the song by daft punk bc tron <3

word count: 1.7k+

things are still in your bedroom. they always are right before he arrives.

you're not a psychic, nor do you have a "spider-sense" (which, with the creepy-sixth sense way hobie described it, you don't want one either), but you like to think that you can tell when he'll come by.

nights when you haven't heard much from him, but the sirens seemed to never stop outside, were usually when your window would creek as it slid up.

you listen out for the sound now as you finish painting your last nail. you'd used the quick dry polish tonight, in hopes that you wouldn't have a repeat of last time, when your fingernails weren't dried but hobie was incredibly impatient and when you were done, you'd realized that your right ring and pinkie fingers were smudged.

the bottle's closed, you'd blown on your nail to ensure it dried, and that's when your window slides open.

there's no point in looking back at him when he tumbles into the room. he starts mumbling complaints as soon as the window's closed, the sound of his shoes unlacing padding his words, something about some common thief who hobie was going to let go but then he went and messed with the lady on the street and her cat.

you'd lost the tail end of his words whenever he started walking closer to you. you sat up straighter, pushed everything out of the way, and waited for him to turn your chair around.

which, when he did, you looked up at him, small smile on your lips as you stared into his deep brown eyes.

"how's your night, hm?" he asked, a courtesy before getting to the real action.

you shrugged, pretending to think. "nothing. just a lot of this."

"no smashing societal standards? picking off misogynists one by one?"

a small laugh in the form of a snort from you. "nah. figured i'd take a day off, you know?" the sarcasm dripping from your words. that's not who you were. you wish you could've been like that, could've been like hobie. but there's one spider-person for a reason.

"oh, yeah, uh-huh..." and hobie trailed off as he leaned in, pointer finger hooking under your chin to pull your lips to his.

it always felt good to kiss hobie.

you'd fantasized about it for weeks before it actually happened. he's your closest friend at the moment, and he occupied the title before this arrangement even existed. and of course you had the worry about ruining your beautiful friendship if you became more, fear that you wouldn't be able to go back and you would subsequently lose probably the best friend you've ever had.

but that was no need to worry. because while you could let hobie pull you up and lead you to your bed, sitting back and pulling you into his lap while he kissed you with a tenderness you know so well, you could also just be friends with him, sitting side by side on the couch and having a movie marathon of horrible biopics without thinking about jumping each other's bones.

there's a balance here that you could only hope would've existed.

and it's never thrown off. not even when he pulls your shirt over your head and his full lips find your nipples and the slightly-faded marks he'd left a few days ago. not even when he switches your position, laying you back and kissing down your torso until he can bury his head between your legs. not even when you whine and cry just a bit, slightly begging for him to pull his suit off so he can fuck into you in a way that only he can.

you try not to think about the equilibrium of your relationship with hobie when your legs hook around his waist and the heels of your feet dig into your lower back. you try to solely focus on the way his cock fills you up perfectly, mostly long with the right amount of girth for your walls, tip reaching deep within you in an almost mind bending way.

but you can't help but think about the way hobie doesn't do labels when he helps you to your bathroom, where he lets the shower heat up while you sit in a shirt he left behind a few days ago when he'd shown up as just hobie brown and not spiderman. you can't help but think about being hobie's girlfriend when his big, veiny hands run along your skin after the shower, smothering you in shea butter as you struggle to hold your eyes open. and you don't bother attempting to fight off the lasting thought of being hobie's while he hums an unknown song to himself with your head on his chest, the deep sound of his voice and the vibration of his chest lulling you to sleep.

you need to be someone's.

the friends with benefits scenario was fun, it worked, it was glorious, but you don't think it's for you. and labels aren't for hobie.

so, you look elsewhere.

you're at hobie's show, standing in the back of the pub with a drink you weren't interested in, with some guy you really weren't all that interested in, either. but he smelled nice, and he seemed nice, and you were just looking to broaden your horizons just a bit.

you and hobie weren't exclusive, but maybe it's a little wrong to flirt with someone else at his show. but you were slightly upset, and craving attention, so it didn't matter.

not until hobie got off stage.

it took a while for him to roam over to you, but even then you were still entertaining the other guy. giggling, tilting your head, batting your eyelashes, your hip popped out and a manicure, that was still fresh, blinging as your hand rested on the bone.

he greets you with a term of endearment that he uses often, but it feels different in this circumstance. you tell yourself that it feels different because you want it to feel different.

"oi, babe! who's this bloke?"

his arm slings over your shoulder and you tense under it. your hands folding over your chest, your smile tightening a little.

“uh this is steven.” your hand reaches out to point to the man, a tight lipped smile spreading onto his lips.

“steven …” hobie repeats the name slowly, and without looking at him you can tell that he’s eyeing the guy up and down.

the air is stiff, the three of you are silent, and unfortunately, steven takes the hint to dismiss himself, and you instantly turn to hobie, a scowl on your face.

“what the fuck, hobes?” you’re pissed, but the nickname still slips off easily.

hobie shrugs and reaches into his back pocket, a cigarette appearing and he sticks it between his lips. instantly, your fingers pluck it out from his mouth, instead putting it in your own back pocket.

instead of looking upset, hobie looks amused. his hands reach out to grab your waist, and you want to give in, but you try to push his hands away instead.

hobie lets you, and you don’t know if your happy or upset with that.

“what’d you mean?”

you stare at him, deadpan, then gesture to where steven had walked away towards.

“you just cockblocked me!”

a cocky grin, almost a little condescending. “i didn’t ‘cockblock’ you, babes. you weren’t trying to get with that guy.” your eyebrow lifts and you can see realization come onto hobie’s face. “oh … you were?”

“yes! of course i was!”

“but why? you are i are together.”

“sure, hobes, but we’re not ‘together’.”

“yes we are.”

“no, we aren’t.”

“why do you think that?”

you suddenly feel a little insecure, eyes scanning the thinning crowd, ears noticing the way the volume in the pub is lowered. “because you’ve never put a label on it, bee.”

another layer of realization. hobie’s hands coming to your waist again, but this time you let him pull you in.

“i didn’t know we needed a label. but you’re my girl. and i’m your guy.”

your body heats up and you bite down onto your lower lip giddily, peeking up at hobie through your lashes.

"thought you didn't like relationships?"

"labels. i don't like labels."

there's a disruption in the atmosphere. goosebumps raise on your skin, the hair on the back of your neck sticks up, and even if you weren't aware internally, the way the magazine you were previously reading floats above the table would've tipped you off.

the portal opens shortly after, but you knew it was coming. it took hobie a while to tell you that he was spiderman, longer to convince you that he was spiderman, and a while longer to convince you of the existence society, and even though you know, you still get a little shocked whenever a portal opens.

he comes through first, thud of his heavy boots against the floor of his flat. the spoon in your mouth clings against the side of the bowl, your free hand reaches out to the tv remote to pause the episode as you look over at hobie.

"oi, didn't know you were still here." is all he says before he's walking over, pulling his mask off on the way, and leaning down. your head tilts up instantly to meet his lips in a kiss, your body warming with the way his hand pushes into the back of the couch, slender but muscular form caging you in.

you expect him to sit beside you and force you to give a recap of the episode, but he stands back, and then three other people come through the portal.

"oh ... are we expecting guests?" surprise sits in your words, the tone amplified when hobie takes your bowl of cereal out of your hands to finish it off himself.

"right," he speaks through mouthfuls, saying your name as an introduction to the other three. "this is pav, miles, and gwendy. spider people." you nod, waving at each.

"this here, is my girlfriend." three sets of spider-eyes widen with the admission and you can already sense what's coming.

"wow, you're pretty. 's nice to meet you."

"i knew it! i could sense the tension as soon as we got here."

"you have a girlfriend? wait. i thought you didn't like labels."

a small smile on your face as you tuck your hands in the pocket of hobie’s sweatshirt that you were.

in coordination learned from how close you two are, you speak at the same time.

"he doesn't like consistency."

"don't like consistency, mate."

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…”

“I’m not sure which is worse: intense feeling, or the absence of it.”

— Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin

: ̗̀➛ PROTECTOR. hobie brown x reader

summary: spider-man makes a point of walking y/n home every night, but after befriending them as hobie brown as well, his feelings get complicated. words: 3.5k REQUESTS OPEN ! warnings: non-explicit sexual harassment (a man is very creepy to reader), reader isn't gendered! but be aware, author is female, so possible afab bias, i tried my hardest i swear. all characters are adults :) author is british so this is my interpretation of his silly little slang from what ive experienced hehe also divider credit: cafekitsune a/n: may feel a little ooc, but in my headcanon, when he's pining the way he is for reader, he's so soft. also, spider-man and hobie r completely different personalities u cant tell me otherwise. first time writing hobie so pls give me opinions ty. enjoy!!!!!

“is it home-time already, darlin’?”

there he was. the familiarity of routine washing over you, turning your head to see him propped up against the brick, spikes on display and guitar pick flipping in between his clothed fingers.

“spider-man, my hero,” you sighed and clutched your non-existent pearls, a smirk on your lips.

“you know i hate that,” kicking off from the wall of the pub you just clocked out of, he stuffed his hands into his patched up jacket, his bouncy stride meeting yours on the pavement.

“i know,” you smiled, allowing your bag to fall from your shoulders and into his outstretched hand, as always.

it had become a routine, over the course of a few months, that the one-and-only spider-man would escort you home from work in the late hours. at first, it didn’t seem real. why would he decide to spend valuable time most days walking you home, when he could be out fighting whatever darkness lurks in the shadows? you’ve asked him, almost every time, but he always gives the same, vague answer;

“who else is gonna keep you safe, love?”

his legs were longer than yours, by a mile. so he had to slow his usual pace for you. naturally bouncy, his booted feet tapped against the pavement like a kick drum, and you wondered whether that was the radioactive blood in his veins, or his natural energy.

laughter flittered through the dark streets as you caught up, it had only been a day since you last saw him, but being a crime-fighting, fascist-killing superhero, there was quite a lot to pack into a 24 hour day.

he bounced off the walls of passing buildings, recreating his fights with the air that hung between you both, throwing in some exaggerated punches here and there, to elicit an extra giggle or two from you. you almost got lost following his animated recreations, but he kept an eye out for the roads ahead. he’d memorised all the paths leading to your apartment.

it had all started a few months prior, after a particularly long shift at work. constantly over the span of a few hours, this guy would not leave you alone. no matter how many times you refused his advances, a smile on your face, masking the unsettling pit in your stomach at the sight of his grin. drink, after drink, after drink, he ordered just to stare at you the whole night, crude gestures and words thrown your way.

you’d gotten used to it, working at a pub in the depths of london, it wasn’t ever unusual to get unwanted advances. but something about this guy, you couldn’t shake it. ~

“what time do you finish, ay?” his accent was thick, you placed him somewhere up north.

“i’m not sure,” you muttered back, forcing a smile.

“oi, come on! ‘course you know what time you finish,” his words were slurred, and his eyes hadn’t left yours once, “was thinking we could ‘ave some drinks together, tha’s’all.”

“sorry, i can’t tonight, i have to be up early tomorrow,” you giggled, and if he wasn’t so drunk, he’d definitely have picked up on the nerves lacing your words.

“come on,” vowels drawn out, he made an attempt to stand up to meet your height, the proximity of him sending a shock of fear to your heart, until a strong hand clapped against his chest, the force almost sending him backwards.

“pack it in, dickhead, they said ‘no’,” a deep, almost calming voice spoke, contrasted completely with the stern, threatening tone of his words.

you looked to meet your protectors gaze, and it almost stunned you. he was tall, taller than you, for sure. dark, smooth skin with an aura of pure mayhem, silver piercings protruding from his face. adorned with a ripped, skin-tight plain top and denim vest, littered with badges, patches and just about any accessory known to man.

his eyes were what really held you. a heavy look, dark brown with the most unique feeling of strength and power that you’d ever seen. you could’ve easily gotten lost.

deciding you’d stared at him long enough, though, you broke the eye contact, diverting it back to the man who looked a humorous combination of terrified and offended at the same time.

“‘s alright mate, we were just talking, back off, yeah?” his liquid courage built up, ignorant of the taller man’s hand still pushing against his chest, ring-clad hands seeming to leave an imprint.

“think it’s time for you to leave, mate,” he spat back, mimicking his slang.

a moment of silence followed. you’d fully expected the drunken creep to swing a punch, or at least bite back, but under the weight of the taller man’s stare, he seemed to lose all fight he had in him. with a final murmer of something you couldn’t quite hear, and unsure you really wanted to, he stumbled backwards, slipping into the crowd.

“thank you,” you broke the silence, to which the man shrugged.

“he was a pig,” he brushed it off like nothing, and you couldn’t help but smile at his attitude. raising his newly free hand, he stretched it towards you, tight in a fist.

“hobie, hobie brown,” he greeted, and his accent completely erased the ‘h’ from his name.

“y/n l/n,” you smiled, accepting his offer and spudding him, the cold metal of his rings against your knuckles. you couldn’t help but grin at the oddity of his presence.

hobie kept you company for the rest of the night, ranting about his thoughts and opinions of various important subjects, ranging widely from drinks of choice to the existence of capitalist propaganda in modern media, all of which you hung onto every word of.

it wasn’t long until he’d managed to book him and his band into a few slots on the pub’s makeshift stage that stood empty on the other side of the room, smiling to himself at how authentically excited you seemed to hear his music.

when he left, his vacancy was immediately obvious. the booming pub feeling oddly silent without him.

after closing up for the night, you grabbed your bag and slung it over your shoulder, switching the lights off with one hand and fiddling with the keys in the other, shaking the door to double check you locked it well enough. body aching from being on your feet all day, you yawned, stepping autopilot into the darkness. the night air was chilling, causing you to wrap your jacket tight around your body. cursing at yourself for not bringing another layer, or pre-ordering a taxi home.

“oi,” you heard from your right, turning quickly to the familiar call.

stumbling on the pavement, the drunken creep from earlier pointed towards you.

shit.

you hadn’t expected him to actually wait for you. it’d been hours since he left, he was insane. what was he thinking?

grabbing the keys from your pocket, you gripped them in your freezing hands in defense.

“where’s your little friend, huh?” he spat, clearly enraged by hobie’s interruption earlier. he stepped closer, and you stepped back, trembling as you tripped slightly on the pavement.

“ay, is this twat bothering you?” a voice called from above.

wait, above?

craning your neck up, you made eye contact with possibly the last person you expected.

“spider-man?”

and from that night, he’d met you every time. waiting outside the pub doors, no exception, to walk you home.

“hey!” spider-man’s upbeat calling snapped you instantly back to him, jumping slightly as you finally noticed he was directly in front of your face, white eyes narrowed on your demeanor, “where’d you go, huh?”

“sorry,” paying him an apologetic smile, “just thinking.”

“wanna clue me in, darlin’?” his tone was playful, but the soften of his masks expression felt genuine.

“just thinking about the day i’ve had,” you lied, unsure whether his spidey senses could tell. not that it was rare for you to think about how you met, but you didn’t want to bring it up again. if he could tell, he didn’t let on.

“whataboutit?” he sped up, slipping back to your pace and slinging his lanky arm over your shoulders, basically hanging onto you as you walked. he liked walking with you like this. it made him feel powerful, like he was keeping you extra safe.

“hobie’s band played again!” you exclaimed, and if he’d been paying attention, he would’ve seen the way your face lit up at the memory. unfortunately for him, his eyes were trained on webbing a chocolate bar from a passing vendor. god knows why it was still open, but he was glad it was.

“hobie, again, huh?” taunted spider-man, punching your arm playfully with the fist that gripped the newly stolen snickers bar, “starting to think you’re replacing me, love.”

“never,” you teased back, elbowing his side, hearing the jingle of his badged vest, “hobie’s just…”

ears pricking, he clung onto the words you were speaking, anticipating possibly hearing something he didn’t want to.

“he’s just so cool,” you breathed with a smile, and he almost verbally sighed in relief, stopping himself in order not to rouse suspicion. he smirked under his mask, “just got this feel about him, so easy to talk to, and he’s so talented! you know, i’ve almost learnt all the lyrics to his songs.”

his heart just about exploded. in fact, he thinks he could pinpoint the exact moment it did.

he played off his burning cheeks, clearing his throat and incredibly glad his mask hid his flustered expression.

“you should come see him, you know,” you looked up at him, and though you knew his answer was ‘no’, it was worth a try, “i can hide you in the back if you don’t wanna be seen.”

“come off it, love,” he dismissed, avoiding your gaze, but his back was tingling like pins and needles under the warmth of it, “i’m not keen to meet the man stealing you from me.”

“fuck sake,” you laughed and pushed his arm off you, brushing off his playful flirting.

his confidence was excelling. the friendship you had formed over the prior months had stemmed from his childish charm, and it hadn’t faltered once.

“well, here i am,” you brought your pace to a halt, hovering in front of the door to your apartment building.

“i’ll miss you tonight,” he fell against the wall, eyes stuck on you. you couldn’t see it, but you could feel his smirk.

“i’ll see you tomorrow, i finish at 11,” you stepped towards him.

“i’ll be waiting,” he kicked off from the bricks, raising his hand to ruffle your hair, much to your protest, before practically disappearing in front of your eyes.

you were left grinning to yourself, much like every night.

“what’s up, bruv?” hobie’s friend elbowed him harshly in the ribs, causing him to rip his eyes from you.

“nothing,” he huffed, but by the lack of sustenance and playfulness in his reply, his friend was less than satisfied. hobie was a carefree, reckless guy with a constant spurt of irony, and seeing him with a sullen expression and no bite back, was worrying.

“come off it, hobie,” another one piped up, sitting across from him with an empty pint in one hand and cigarette in the other, pointing the latter in his face. he huffed, “you’ve been slumping for like 3 months now, and you’ve only been writing sappy love songs.”

the table snickered, and even hobie’s lips curled into a smirk. his friend was right, he wasn’t even nearly like his usual self. he blames you for that.

“who is it then, huh?” his friend pushed, cigarette still hanging in front of hobie’s face, ash crumbling off the end, “has our ol’ hobie brown got himself a partner?”

“oi, you know i hate labels,” he smirked again, knowing he was lying. not that he didn’t usually hate them, but he couldn’t avoid the fact that every time you made your way to the front of his mind, he was urged to call you his. his partner. his person. his love. just his.

he always did hate consistency, anyway.

“another round, guys?” your voice ripped him from his thoughts, your scent somehow drifting above the sticky smell of beer and cigarettes, he pinned that down to his spider abilities, but he’d be a fool to ignore that he had simply just memorised the aroma.

“please, darlin’,” hobie’s friends chirped up, grinning at you thankfully. he cursed the burning feeling in his chest.

“i could do you guys a deal,” you smirked playfully, and he looked up to meet your eyes. you looked beautiful tonight, like usual. he was fucked.

“if you lot give us a song, it’ll be on the house,” you smiled hopefully, taking note of their usual orders just incase they agree.

“sounds like a plan,” hobie reached his hand out to you, open for a handshake, to which you took. soft hands falling into his calloused ones, he couldn’t help but notice how nice it felt.

turning away, you left to get their usual set up sorted, feeling him still watching you, to which you threw him a smile over your shoulder.

it wasn’t unusual at all. his eyes would always find you. at the table with his mates, his gaze would swim through the crowd to yours. even on stage, lost in the moment with himself and his guitar, it was you he always found his eyes trailing back to. it wasn’t like the other men in the bar, it wasn’t predatory desire or lust, but it was warm. it was safe.

he had three options, really; confess himself to you as hobie brown, coming clean about the way he felt about you, the warmth in his heart that spread across his spine whenever you smiled at him, eventually having to come clean about his alter-ego. he could confess as spider-man, to which he’d have to come clean about his actual identity. or option three. stay silent and suffer in his own pity. bite his lip and pretend his heart wasn’t yearning for you.

but, he prided himself in being able to speak his mind without hesitation. confident in his word, suffocated in his silence. he would always say: if he ever bit his tongue, to kill him there and then. well, here he is; begging for mercy at the barrel, his tongue bleeding from keeping his heart locked in his chest.

he was fucked. well and truly.

“anything special happen today?” spider-man nudged you, taking a worried note of your unusual quietness recently. it was the same night, he’d picked you up like normal, and hopped along beside you.

“the band played again,” a swelling smile bloomed on your lips, “other than that, not really.”

your voice was hollow tonight. easily mistakable with your naturally soft tone, but to his trained ears, it didn’t feel right.

stopping immediately in his path, his bouncy steps ceasing, you quickly copied him. confusion slipping behind your eyes.

“what’s up?” you questioned.

“you know you wanna tell me,” he stepped around you, arms falling over your shoulders from behind, heavy with his full weight. something about the mask, it gave him a confidence with you that he’d quenched as hobie.

you sighed and rested your head back against his chest, taking him by surprise. there was something intimate about the way your eyes were closed, body resting against him. your brain was hectic, he didn’t need his spidey senses to see that.

“there’s just…” you spoke, eyelids feeling heavy as you opened them, looking up to see him. head split in two, you were unsure if you even wanted to say it out loud, “there’s this guy.”

it was almost cruel how fast his heart dropped, plummeting like a boulder into the pit of his stomach. body stiffening, his head was spinning so fast he didn’t even have the conscience to mask it.

“i just can’t get him out of my head, it’s so stupid,” if your wistful look wasn’t answer enough, the outpour of dissonance he could feel from your body told him it was serious.

“not another fella tryna steal you from me,” he chuckled, but his voice was weak, vulnerable. you hadn’t heard it like that before.

untangling yourself from his weighted grip, you leant against the wall of the building you were stood in front of, staring up into the night sky. there was something so embarrassing about admitting a silly little crush.

“not another one, technically,” you spoke softly, a hint of a smile tickling your lips at the thought of him, he stepped closer, “i’ve already told you about him.”

and he stopped dead in his tracks. mind racing a million miles an hour, picking apart every word you said. was he stupid? was he reaching? seeing something that wasn’t there? he was the only one you’d spoken about, but surely not, right?

shifting closer again, his body begun to feel the heat radiating off you, barely an inch between you both. he towered you, as always, the spikes on his jacket and mask hitting the streetlights perfectly, giving him an orange glow. you bought yourself to look at him, and though you couldn’t see the eyes beneath, you felt his gaze.

insufferably close, closer than you’ve ever been, you could feel your heart in your chest. a tension that you hadn’t quite felt before, bubbling in the air between you.

“say his name, love,” his voice was low, lower than normal, and a twinge of familiarity hit your chest hearing the deeper tone, one you couldn’t quite pinpoint. chills dripped down your spine at the new found feeling.

gulping, you could feel his name in your throat, struggling it’s way out.

“hobie.” your voice was barely above a whisper, but considering he almost had you pressed against the brick, he heard every syllable. and god, did it sound good.

“again?” he croaked, just wanting to confirm, needing to hear it again, needing to hear you say it, relish in every beat.

“hobie,” you repeated, louder this time, more conviction in your chest, “i like him, like a lot.”

he went silent. dead silent, barely moving. heat radiated from him, and you could’ve sworn in the vacancy of sound that you could hear his heart pounding against his chest. reaching up, your hand trembling slightly, you placed it there. on his chest, feeling the material of his suit, the humanity of his heartbeat. he melted into it.

“are you o—“

“i need to tell you something.” he interrupted you.

it was your turn to be silent, eyes heavy with intrigue, begging him to continue.

without a word, his ring-clad hand ghosted your skin, drifting past the air between you and to the base of his mask, sliding along his neckline for the seam, and dragging it up over his face, revealing the man within.

your heart stopped, a thousand things flashing through your head, through your heart, surging in your bloodstream. you didn’t even know what to say, what to think, how to comprehend it.

“hobie?” your voice was small again, shrunk beneath the look in his eyes, the desire.

embarrassment waved through you for a moment, a sudden panic of the earlier confession, your chest pounding at the possible rejection.

he didn’t even leave the thoughts enough time to fester, however, because his hand that was holding his mask was suddenly flush against your jaw, the material falling softly onto your neck. thumb trailing the comfort of your cheek, revelling in the feel of your skin, warm against his hands, he leaned forward.

his lips were on yours, without a word. gentle, but rough. the tension escaping through the feeling of him pressed into you, desire leaping out of every shared breath. his other hand fell to your waist, and yours stayed firm on his chest, bunching the fabric in your hand to bring him closer. he obliged, of course, and the kiss deepened. his head spun.

pulling away for breath, you kept your eyes on his lips, disbelief swimming around your brain, colliding with the need to kiss him again.

“y/n,” his hand brought your eyeline to his, “i like you, too.”

you couldn’t help but smile, relief washing your body out.

“like, a lot.”

he kissed you again. and again.

a/n: hope u enjoyed!! pls let me kno if ur did, this is my first time writing for him <3 thanku!!!

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.”