#🦕 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝓁𝓎𝓁𝒶 𝓌𝓇𝒾𝓉𝑒𝓈

[urdinosaurs]

warnings: afab reader, creepy!joel, pervy!joel, obsession, innocence kink, corruption kink, implied age gap, i think thats it

maybe it was how he looked at you that had you on the edge of your seat or possibly the dark pits of his eyes following your every move around the bar. or maybe it's his reputation that has your fingers drumming nervously against your thigh, sharpening your senses, and pulling your chest into constrictive breaths.

joel miller's reputation followed him, leaving nothing about his violence- his brutality to the imagination. no matter what tommy claimed about his brother's change in lifestyle, everyone knew joel miller. it was impossible not to. and maybe it's why you can't stop stealing glances at him, hoping for him to make the move he knows you won't.

you think he's not interested enough to pursue the tension burning between you. joel just likes the game.

he loves the control he has over you. the way your body squirms when his eyes drag down your frame, how your soft eyes seem lost in the sea of people, practically begging for a man like him to take care of a pretty thing like you. the knowledge that his feelings aren't one-sided only serves to spur him further down the rabbit hole of temptation. the silent chase inflates his ego more than your averted stare ever could.

so maybe when he gets tired of the chase and decides to find a spot next to you, his want won't strain against his jeans, his nerves tingling with excitement, and something darker close to the need of your corruption, you'll talk to him like he knows you've been dreaming about. maybe it will be the beginning or the end of something you didn't even know you started.

[urdinosaurs]

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

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

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

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

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

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

thump thump thump.

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

thump thump thump.

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

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

then you play.

---

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

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

until the mary jane's.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you could do this.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"useless, no good cunt—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“are you ok?”

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

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

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

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

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

"but–"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TAGLIST: @alicefallsintotherabbithole

[urdinosaurs]

Ok. Ok.

Here's my 3am idea:

Mary Janes band. But the members are all Hobie variants. They're all simply concept-art-Hobies.

So main-Hobie (our Hobie) introduces his new girl to his band.

All this obviously ends with groupsex.

╰┈➤ ❝ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐑 ❞ | 𝐇𝐎𝐁𝐈𝐄 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍

PROMPT: when hobie takes an interest in you and brings you backstage after his concert to fuck you silly, you're interrupted by the other members of the band, who seem keen on joining in on the fun

WARNINGS: afab reader, voyeurism, exhibition, unprotected p in v, nipple play, blow job, throat fucking, cum eating, not a fivesome bc they aren’t all fucking at once, more like a threesome, anal fingering, anal sex, double penetration, degradation, praise kink, a bit of aftercare, this is the filthiest thing I've ever written, 7.7k wc (my longest post ever)

A/N: ily bc the concept art of hobie's band members was what i was going for in my last post. i gave them names to differentiate, so i hope you don’t mind. i've been working on this for two months, there's just so much in here that i've never written, so it took a long fucking time to finish this. idk why i hyped this up as much as i did in this post. it's not that good

It wasn't supposed to end like this. Brought to a Mary Jane's show by your friend who adored them was supposed to be a good way to reconnect after your busy lives separated one another and see the band they've been raving about for months.

Not this. Not Hobie fucking Brown, the guitarist with a captivating presence, rocking out in his own little spot on stage, noticing you. Not him handing you his guitar pick at the end of the show with a sloppy, sharpie heart on it, telling you to meet him afterwards with a sly grin.

Not this waiting for him after the show, your heart in your throat, only for him to find you and reignite the flame of lust you previously held.

Not any of this. Yet here you are, allowing his wiry arm to drape across your shoulders like it's the most natural thing in the world. Pulled backstage with the pick tucked in your pocket, you remained in a state of awe at him, taking in the way he walked to how lankly he is up close. It's hard not to with his height and tight-fitting patched pants, dressed with belts to accentuate his long torso. He's the pinochle of beauty, a model for the standard, and you're having trouble doing anything other than gawking.

It's how you end up bent over an old sofa, fingers scraping the worn fabric as your hips buck with the force of his thrusts.

"First time 'ere? Never seen a pretty 'hing like you before," he grunts, hands wandering from your love handles to your ass, kneading the flesh in his palm before pushing you further into the side of the sofa.

"Yeah-" you're cut off with a whine, slumping into the armrest digging into your ribcage. "F-friend brought me."

He whistles, his chest rumbling with a soft chuckle. "Lucky me 'hen, yeah? First punk show?"

His cock feels too heavy inside you to respond, so you shakily nod instead.

"Qui'e 'he welcome, innit? Ge''in' fucked by the guitarist on your first night. Unless you do 'his often? Do you le' every guy you meet wi'h a guitar dick you down, luv?" The low baritone of his voice is cocky and, oh so sure, patronizing tone teetering off into something more curious. Perhaps testing your motive? You're not sure, but amid your sex-filled haze, it adds to his charm.

Shaking your head, stars explode behind your eyelids when he slows his thrusts, leaning over you, his lips a hair's breadth away from the shell of your ear. "Well, don'' I feel special? Wha''s your name, huh?"

Gasping for breath on a particularly rough thrust, you have to scavenge your vocabulary to find the words to eventually tell him. Grinning, his pelvis grinds against your clit roughly, causing another wave of pleasure to crash over you, vocally too. His lips brush your neck, his nose nudging a spot behind your ear as he murmurs. "Name's Hobie."

You nod frantically, and his head tilts, lips trailing down the column of your throat. "You know me? Thought ya' said i''s your first time?"

His curiosity is authentic, slowing to an almost stop as he waits for a response. "My friend talks about you a lot, and y-your--" You try to distract yourself from how much he fills and stretches you, how the humid skin sticks to yours while you gather your scattered thoughts. "--Reputation is infamous at protests."

He stills, leaning back as his hand glides up and down your side while putting the pieces of your story together, gathering more of the puzzle that you are.

"You go to protests?" Genuine excitement coats his speech like a kid in a candy store, and you wish you could turn around to see that shift in him as he takes you for something more than he initially thought. A drawn-out whine vibrates your vocal cords as you wiggle your hips, earning a comforting rub to encourage patience.

"Didn't 'ake ya for a punk."

"Don't like the label."

His chuckle reverberates through his ribcage, amused. "'f course, ya' don't. Too cool for it, aye?"

Finding the strength to mewl, your toes curl as you try to move your pelvis back into him to gain friction in your pulsating pussy, but his fingers dig into the fat of your hips, unamused by your antics.

"Careful now, impatien' girls don't get wha' they want, do 'hey?" He warns, the underlying threat is not lost on you. The question is apparently not rhetorical because his hand strikes your ass with a loud slap, not enough to be uncomfortably painful but enough to leave your skin stinging. The precarious control of strength he seems to show suggests there's more power hidden in his angular frame than what you first picked him for, and the thought alone sends pleasurable butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

"I asked you a question, didn't I? Or 'ave you gone 'at cock dumb already?" His condescending fills you with the urge to prove him wrong, and you shake your head, something akin to a 'no' formed on your lips. Much to your dismay, he arrogantly smirks like he proved himself right, and his next words are said in a complacent simper, "'ts okay, luv. Didn't say it was a bad thing, I don't mind my whores a little dumb."

And with that, he slams back into you with a burst of energy, sending you reeling forward as he resumes his punishing pace, yanking you back and forth and reaching new points of dangerous thrill in the bruising grind of his hips.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck" he repeatedly moans, hands fumbling to tilt your abdomen upwards to ram you further down his cock obscenely. The breath is punched out of you, and you choke on the inhale, tears beading your waterline at the intensity of it all. You can't remember the last time someone pounded you with reckless abandon, filled you to the brink where nothing but their dick has clouded your mind. You don't think anyone ever will, and maybe that's the point. Of his groupies, of his fans, nobody will ever be like Hobie Brown.

Suddenly, the sound of voices grows closer, and you freeze underneath him, your head whipping around to face him. The makings of an orgasm dissipate the longer your full attention is captured by the people outside. Hobie, however, remains calm, maintaining a steady rhythm despite the jingle in the door knob. His eyes soften, and his grip loosens to give you a silent out without any form of judgment. 

But he knows you. 

You've only been in his presence for two and a half hours, yet he knows what you will choose; your unspoken limits and boundaries are like it's the most obvious thing in the world. It should mess with you how he already knows your next move before you make it, how inhuman his sense of perception is, and still, you find yourself saving the Nancy Drew within you for another time. Throwing caution to the wind, you embrace him with blind faith just as the door creaks open and voices filter in. 

"And so I said to the cunt, he better have…" They stop all at once. The only sound besides the buzzing silence is Hobie's lazy thrusts in the wet squelch of your pussy, loud enough to make you cringe. "Didn't realize you were here, mate, my bad."

Yet they don't make a single move to leave. Instead, they stare at the back of your head where you're facing away from them, down to the curve of your figure, and then their eyes drop to your shorts somewhere beside the chair and trace the stretch of your legs until they stop where you two are connected. 

"Nah, i''s alright, we're just ge''in' acquainted, is all." Hobie reaches down, his hand sliding over the apex of your thighs and reaching around the front, where his fingers ghost over your clit after being neglected for so long. You jump in surprise, grinding into his fingers, searching for more of the sweet rapture burning its way to your toes.

The chuckle, whether from Hobie or the men in the doorway, blends in with the static in your ears, and the next second, he moves past the bundle of nerves to the wetness leaking from your stuffed hole. Gathering the excess with his fingers, he brings it to the light, running his tongue over the digits, humming in delight and practically purring, "I think she likes me."

One of them sucks in a breath, and with your head craned the other way, you can't tell who. "Reckon, she's up for somethin' more?"

Well, that's the question, wasn't it? Whether or not you wanted to take the plunge into unknown territory, relinquish your control to the four men burning holes in the back of your head, unable to stray from the alluring promise of pleasure. 

"What do ya think, luv? Think you can 'ake it like a big girl?"

Your cunt drools around him. The answer is embarrassingly easy. Maneuvering your head to the side to face the other men, you look at them, and they're looking at you and sharing the same expression: desire. A notable bulge strains their pants the longer they stand motionless, their chests rising and falling in an uneven pattern. They're more attractive than you remember, the situation and proximity alone adding to the sexual appeal they chase with ease. 

In the name of all things holy, you pray there not be a God or deity staring down upon you, weighing your slipping soul like the Christians tell you he is. Being condemned for sins of such great pleasure has little importance in your sexual appetite, damning you if you do or don't seize the opportunity in the name of the powers that be.

"Yes, please."

In the blink of an eye, they're on you, hands brushing and running across your skin in virgin admiration. "Shhhittt, man, she's beautiful." Someone's fingers hold your jaw, moving your head around in laudation and inspection, whistling. 

"'ear 'ha,' swee'hear'? Pre''ies' girl I've seen in a long while."

"Definitely," the other agrees, tracing your exposed skin with a single finger. "You're somethin' special all righ'." 

A smile unwillingly breaks across your face at the praise. Warm and sentimental feelings churning in your chest the longer they shower you with it. The one closest to your head catches your reaction and laughs, lifting your chin with a single finger. "You like tha,' don't you? I didn't realize you 'ad such a good girl on your mitts, 'obes."

It's impossible to see Hobie's reaction, but you guess it's something akin to pride when he adds, "Even be''er pussy, mate."

There's a hum, and you feel his hands tickle your spine. "Then you might wanna give us space, yeah?" He, the other guitarist, points out chunky red and blue headphones hanging around his neck. "Y'know…since you haven't made her cum yet."

Hobie still lodged deep inside your guts, twitches and not in a sexually aroused way or im-almost-cumming kind of way, it's an irritation prickling at his skin, raising the hairs on his arm kind of feeling.

"Oh yeah?" he challenges, hands tightening over your body. 

"Mhm, if you give me a chance I'll have her begging in no time." 

For a second, there's silence, then his lips quirk into a mischievous grin, spreading across his face and reaching to his eyes that light up. Hobie leans in, eyes locked on the man in front of you but addressing you all the same, his tone low and amused. "What do ya' say, sweets, hmm?"

It's disguised as playful, but you know what he's confirming, and you clench around him, swallowing the lump in your throat as a breathless form of agreement forms on the wet muscle licking your lips. It's hard to believe that just a few hours ago, the thought of fucking someone you just met would be off-putting, wrong even. Yet, with the right push and pull, here you are, letting these men have free reign over every ounce of desire coursing through you. 

Selling your soul to the devil never felt so good. 

Hobie, still throbbing inside you, tugs on your walls as he pulls out, drawing a low gripe contorted by your outcry. A ring of white collects at the base, and he taps his tip on your clit before stepping to the side. His hand glides underneath your shirt, tender fingers stretching out across your spine to console you and calm down the emotions he's pulled to the surface. "Shh, I know, you're feelin' all empty without ol' 'obie yo fill tha' greedy hole ov yours, but don't worry yer pretty head sweets, you won'' be empty for long."

And with that, he takes a step back, and the rest surround you like predators. Multitudes of arms reach to caress your skin, running lines of admiration down and across your body. Now more at ease around them, you find your shirt comes off easily, with four hands aiding you in the process, the others hungrily diving at your torso for a taste of forbidden flesh. 

To your left, Hobie stands there, his cock hard and bare between his legs while he watches the scene unfold before him. You rip your gaze away from him just as a pair of hands cup your tits and pulls you back into his chest, your spine arched and your ass hitting the rough denim. 

"Prettiest li''le thing ion ever see, ain't that right?" The man behind you purrs in your ear, tilting his head to slot it in the juncture of your neck innocently. "I'm going to take right care ov ya', darling." 

Thick, calloused fingers squeeze your breasts like a bra, enclosing them in his broad palm. Classifying yourself as flustered would be an understatement as you feel your face heat up, your body trembling with barely contained excitement. "Fuck– please."

You can feel his smirk against your neck, letting his lips linger in a kiss until his hands retract and the distinct sound of a zipper fills in the gaps. The cold air against your now bare nipples makes them harden, but not before another set of hands replaces them, fondling your cleavage with a skilled hand.

The bassist's fingers roll your nipples, earning a choked sigh as the singer behind you slaps his leaking shaft against your ass, precum dribbling onto your skin. He rubs himself over your slit teasingly, groaning at the feeling of your combined juices. The bassist, Glen, even pulls on your tits with a filthy grin, feeding off your reactions and the yelp you emit like a starving man. 

Calem, the singer, guides himself through your folds and hums in approval. "Hobie's fuckin' lucky he found you first. I wouldn't share a lick of this delicious cunt with them if it were me." 

The chunky locs framing his face swing as he shakes his head, the rest tucked behind his ear, lines his length with your pussy, slamming in a single devastating thrust. Your torso slumps against the couch, unintelligible noises singing from your mouth while you adjust to the size. He's big, much more than you anticipated, and although the girth isn't the same as Hobie's, it's damn near close. 

"Mother fuckin'– Mary mother of Christ, how are you this tight?" Calem hisses, short jerks comparable to thrusts testing and teasing your limits. The taste alone of what's in store for you has added wetness coating his shaft, and not wasting another second, he starts a steady rhythm, building up momentum and speed with each jab. Moans intermingle with your cries, and his hand's fumble to find your waist in an effort you believe to steady himself rather than you. 

Though you were initially unsure about the idea, hesitant even to allow others access to such a sacred place, you've found that letting go, trusting in Hobie and those by extension, feels good. Chemistry crackles like a live wire between you and the five other people in this room, temptation leading you into unspoken territories of newly found trust. There's no pleasing others or expectations here, just carnal lust spiking the blood rush to your brain. Worries of the world outside melt away, giving you the taste of life without inhibition under circumstances you can see yourself getting addicted to, all because of Hobie. 

The others, the names you try to remember, stand in some combination to the side and out of your peripheral. Glen, who was playing with your nipples earlier, has pulled himself out of his pants, experimentally giving himself a couple of tugs as he watches the wanton display. Sid, the backup guitarist and vocalist, does the same, though the way his hands linger in your hair, you have an inkling of where he wants to use you. 

Use. It's such an odd thought to let someone manipulate your body and control you without restraint or care for their pleasure. An idea that you're starting to come to terms with the longer you are surrounded by them and the electrifying energy that follows. 

"You think that mouth is as good as her other holes?" The question shouldn't surprise you, nor should the vulgarity of it. Still, your head inclines towards Sid, running his hands over your scalp. "Dunno if the slut can handle it."

Your eyes widen, and you shake your head yes frantically before you can comprehend what you're doing, so eager to prove, to serve. A smirk returns your enthusiasm, his pupils dancing with something sinful. Chuckles reward your resolve to please them, but you're too honed in on his hand's increasing pressure on your skull to feel embarrassed. Then his fingers grip your hair and pull in one sudden motion, your neck straining in an awkward position until he kneels on the sofa, his cock bobbing a couple of inches from your face.

From this angle, your backside is spread out further on the armrest, and coincidentally it allows Calem's dick to curve and prod even deeper inside your belly than you thought possible. Cries flow like an endless stream of water from your raw throat, the sensitivity increasing tenfold and threatening to draw tears from how good it feels. No one has ever taken the time to learn the right pull and press to scramble your thoughts and turn everything you knew about sex upside down, but now you're sure there's no way you can go back after this. 

"Pretty girl," he croons, "Bet you would do just about anything, huh?" Sid's lack of accent surprises you, though you don't dwell on it, and a tug redirects your attention to his imposing figure like a misbehaved puppy. "That's what I thought. Now be a big girl and open up wide."

Calem has slowed to a manageable speed, more languid than before, set on watching the scene unfold in front of him. Your lips part to accommodate as much of him as possible. Sid grins, lip piercing, stretching with it as he guides the tip to your outstretched tongue, tapping the bulbous head leaking precum on your taste buds. The saltiness and his musk swarm your head, the weight of it on your tongue and the silky smooth skin leaves you deliriously euphoric. 

He glides himself in carefully, opting for you to decide how much you can take before he pushes your limits, and you've gotta admit, he's more attentive than you gave him credit for. When his cock hits the back of your throat, and a suppressed gag tightens your esophagus around him, he quickly loosens his clasp. Taking him at your own pace, you bob your head up and down his shaft, slacking your jaw further the closer you reach the base in a more controlled manner.

The wet heat of your mouth invites a twitch of his leg, and he yanks you down to his base, your nose buried in his public bone where short, prickly hair from when he last shaved scratches your skin. Gagging obscenely and earning a low, throaty groan from the recipient, you shut your eyes to better focus on each inhale while adjusting to breathing through your nose. 

"Dirty girl. Taking two cocks at once like a proper slut. Just a bunch of holes for us, right?" Sid harshly spits, fucking your throat with the vengeance and aggression of primal need. Calem picks up speed to match the tempo of the man in front of you, prodding at your nerve endings, sparking with sex, and the reality of the situation settles in. Your hands scramble to his thighs, anchoring yourself as Sid fucks your mouth, leaking drool with an intensity you've never experienced before. Calem has no trouble setting a ruthless pace, kissing your cervix at an angle that has your back arching and your toes pointing. 

"Keep doing that, gorgeous, yeah– fuck! You love it, don't you? Being filled on both ends like a fuckin' cum slut." A mewl scratches at your throat in response, vibrating your vocal cords in an apparently satisfactory one by his choked moan. It's ruthless and degrading being tossed around, but then the thrill, the rush of submission, has you rethinking everything you know about the word. 

Everyone else watches, and that could be the most terrifying part because they aren't just watching; they're observing, regarding, and examining. You can see it in their eyes as they pump their hard dick with precum as their lube like they're preparing to be next. Glen, Ramone, Hobie, all ridden with jealousy and a yearning to be inside of you instead of him who is, and honestly, it's fucking hot.

Sid bullies his cock down your crowded windpipe, a groan hitched in his. He grows more frantic the closer he is to his release. Tears burn your eyes, and drool dribbles down the corner of your mouth, surely adding to a sight that could only be described as pornographic. 

The coiled knot of pleasure in your gut twists, the onset of a climax finally in reach. The first tears break and stream down your flushed cheeks, creating tracks in which they have fallen. Calem notices this, his hand fumbling around your sweaty bodies to the spot between your legs. 

"Yeah, yeah. Using you so well and you just can't get enough-" he grunts, a strangled and strained sound "–shit! Let go, f'me."

He pinches your clit between his middle and ring finger, and the world spins like a top, blackness dancing at the corners of your vision as an orgasm tears through your shaking limbs. Ropes of his ejection fill up your twitching pussy, liquid euphoria rushing through your veins and suffocating your brain with an unspeakable sense of bliss. It takes a second to register Sid pulling out and a stream of cum painting your face, as well as the noises of satisfaction that follow. 

Calem sags against your bent-over figure, your lungs clawing for air during the comedown of such an intense release. 

"Didn't do too much of a number on you, did I?" Sid, who has been uncharacteristically quiet since his orgasm, murmurs softly, his bracelets jangling as he reaches over to run a careful hand down the side of your face in assurance. 

"No…it was good, really good." He smiles at that and flicks his fingers over your cheek. Eyebrows raised, your face furrows in confusion before he brings his hand to eye level, letting you see the milky white substance gathered at his fingertips. He taps them to your lips, a silent question to which you abide and open your mouth obediently, closing around his digits. Seemingly satisfied, he lets you suck the cum off his fingers, only retracting his hand when you've licked them clean. 

"Good girl."

Sid brushes the back of his hand on your face to wipe the tears from earlier. Leaning into the innocent touch of another, you close your eyes to savor this bit of contact you don't often feel. However, it doesn't last long, and he taps your cheek in a goodbye, leaving the rest of his essence to dry on your skin, heading towards the leather recliner nearest you. An empty longing builds a lump in your raw throat, one you quickly shove down. 

"Think you can 'ake ano'her?" For a moment, you blink dumbly at him, taking a couple seconds to understand the meaning of his words, and when you do, you whip your head around, your jaw loose. The drummer Ramone's, whose spiky red streaked hair and wild makeup that demands attention, smug question leaves your tongue feeling heavy in your mouth, the idea turning you on more than you would like to admit. 

"Fuck man, you can 'ave her, 'm done for the night," Calem shakes his head, stripped headband damp with sweat, ignores the vulgar sound of your joined bodies to pull out. His lips barely touch your ear when he whispers, "You did amazing, darling." 

He stands to his full height, and the air is pulled from you when he does while you lie limply on the couch, Calem flopping into a bean bag chair. 

"Mhm," Ramone pulls you back by your hips, the rough material of his pants scratching your skin. "Can'' get over how pretty ov a sight 'his is."

The arousal from before returns slowly, dripping over your skin like honey as you're awakened underneath his touch. "Please." Pathetically, your toes curl to keep you patient, though it's running out faster than you can make sense of. 

"There's no need to worry. You'll get a fill," Glen pipes in, taking a step forward. Your eyes widen, taking in the towering men with smirks so wide they could devour you. 

"Now…" Ramone trails off, smoothing his hand adorned with rings over your backside before dipping to your crack and applying a slight pressure to your asshole. "Question is... you goin' to let me take you the way I wanna?" 

Oh. You weren't expecting that. 

The silence left in the wake of his question has Ramone pausing, his following statement softer. "Say 'he word, and 'his stops."

Despite how daunting the reality of the situation is, you were never much of a quitter. 

"It's just… I've never…" You're unable to close your legs with Ramone in between them, but if you could, you would. Humiliation creeps up the back of your neck, and you cringe away at the uneasy tension you've created. An apology hovers over the tip of your tongue, but before you can get the words out, warm laughter soothes your flustered expression. 

"Can'' imagine someone as lovely as ya' hasn't, but I can 'ake care of you. If 'at's wha'chu want," he offers without rebuttal, and really, the notion is appealing. You've seen it only on porn, and until now, it's been a festering fantasy you've stuffed away, motivated by the assumption guys didn't like that kind of thing. The prep and time spent to achieve a pleasurable experience turned most men away, or so you've heard, but seeing how wide his smile stretches and the anticipation in his dark pupils only solidifies what you want. 

"Just go slow, please." Your voice is weaker than you would have liked, meaker, and he bends forward to press a kiss to your spine in what you can only imagine as gratitude. He jesters behind him for something, and a moment later, a plastic lid flicks open.

"Don'' go''a worry abou' a 'hing, princesss." Ramone preps your ass with practice ease, his fingers making quick work of stretching you out, squirts of cold lube coating your insides. He must do this a lot, you think mindlessly to yourself while a crook of his fingers inside you has you arching back deliriously into him. He adds more the more you loosen up around him, twisting and scissoring your entrance to encourage it to relax further around his ministrations. He grins, patting your backside when he deems you ready, peaking around to check your face for reassurance. "Ready?"

By now, any reservations you harbored have dissolved, your pursed hole winking at him while you adjust to the newfound emptiness. Only you catch movement out of the corner of your eye, the flash of black clothing and jewelry adorning dark skin, before a voice speaks up, one you quickly identify as Glen. "Before ya' do… think I squeeze in and fuck that pretty pussy of yours, dove?"

Surprise overtakes your features, your mouth gaping at the idea. You've just about slutted yourself out to the whole band, and with Ramone behind you, who doesn't seem keen on waiting to share you. Meaning…

"A-At the same time?" you squeak, raising your eyebrows in shock, horizontal wrinkles appearing across your forehead. 

"What else?" he shrugs, unperturbed by your shock or thinly veiled hesitation. It's not that you're opposed to it, just the unknowing and unfamiliarity of such an act has you overthinking every possibility. Your mind works on overdrive, your thinly veiled fear forcing you to swallow the wad of spit congealed in your throat, searching the pattern on the couch for an answer. "We'll go slow," he adds, sensing your anxiety. "If it's too much, we can stop."

Well, when you put it like that…

"Slow," you establish, glancing up at him for confirmation. 

His lips twitch in the ghost of a smile. "That's my girl."

You release the breath you didn't know you were holding, the praise like a warm, bubbly consistency to provoke a specific neurological response while he unbuckles his belt, the sound of metal clinking filling the buzzing silence.

"Upsy-daisy now, let's ge' ya' in a more comfortable position." Ramone doesn't protest when Glen helps you out of your precarious position, standing by when your wobbly legs threaten to give out on you. He lies on the couch first, guiding you by your hips until you're settled on top of him, your head nestled in the crook of his warm neck. Ramone follows behind, kneeling on the cushions with his dick in hand, stroking himself while Glen guides the tip of his own flushed head to your dripping entrance. His thickness pops through with barely any resistance, and you both moan in unison.

The feeling of being crowded to the brim again is more familiar than you would have ever thought. Glen starts without inhibition, grabbing your bent legs and tugging them further upwards to spread out your sensitive cunt. Your nose nudges his collarbone, crying out with each rotation of his hips, his shirt bunching around your fingers. It doesn't stop there when Ramone prods your asshole once more, and you gasp, unconsciously clenching hard around them both. You've been full before, first crammed with dick meat by Hobie, then Calem, and now Glen, yet this is entirely new. 

"Ready?" he asks once more, and this time you're more unsure than before. If you had trouble taking one, how were two supposed to fit? Still, your reply gives away the lingering anxiety about exploring something new. "As I'll ever be."

"I'll go slow," he reminds you, watching your head bounce in a yes, your thoughts too scattered to form a verbal reply. Carefully, he unhurriedly pops through the ring of tight muscle, the lube he generously applied, making it easy to ease himself through your previously virgin hole. "Gorgeous fuckin ass. She's just strangling me, is that it?" Being referred to by your sex shouldn't make the apex of your thighs ache like it does or a whimper to escape your parted lips so easily. The stretch is overwhelming, so much so you forget to breathe until your lungs scream and you're panting indignantly.

"Breathe," he urges, a palm settling over your back while you get accustomed to the burn and fullness like no other. You gasp, tears pricking your eyes at the unfathomable stretch. You can feel every twitch and throb, every vein and pulse shooting up his cockhead to mix his pre with lube. His lip is tucked between his teeth the longer he waits for you to get used to the sensation, your stuttering breaths evening out into a normal rhythm.

"I'm goin' 'o move now." He announces, and his pelvis slams into your ass the next second. You're propelled forward, sliding up Glen's body as Ramone sets a brutal and unforgiving tempo. Ramone's dog tags clink above you with every impale, and the sound of skin slapping rings in your ears, filthy in every way possible, especially when Glen thrusts gather speed again. 

There's a threshold you must have crossed, some otherworldly body taking hold of every sense and multiplying it times ten. It's inexplicable, the fullness, the weight of their cocks, and the synchronicity they move with that you were sure would be impossible to feel. But now, experiencing such a thing, having your brain turn to mush, and any form of self-preservation literally fucked out of you. You're unsure if you could ever come down from the high or even want to. 

"Fillin' ya up so good, ya can barely think." Ramone grunts, spreading your cheeks to get a better look. He leans forward and spits directly on his moving cock, saliva joining the profane mixture. You're zoned out, perfectly content to let them use you as they please. 

"Fuckin' trippy to feel you while I'm dickin' 'er down," Glen notes, grabbing fist fulls of your thigh. "Bet if it's weird for me, you're probably goin' mental, dove. Ain't that it?" 

Shaking your head is the best response you can think of, weakly moving your hips back and forth while moaning into his skin. Glen's cock shoves and scrapes at your inner walls; already raw from your first encounter, you'll be marked with bruises for days. Although, guessing by the people around you, you're sure they won't mind. 

"Yeah, you like tha'? Like my mates using you like a fuckin' toy?" Hobie interjects, his voice whipping your head to meet his hungry gaze. His dark pupils have been engulfed by the black of his irises, dewy skin glowing under the yellow fluorescent lights. The sight alone is filthy, his hand rapidly jerking at length, emitting a wet sound from the copious amount of precum.

The action is similar to those behind him: Calem and Sid, who do the same. You catch the moment Sid notices your gaze because he swipes his hand over the tip and arches beautifully in his rapture. They're all watching you like a prize to be had, Hobie most of all, whose movements are fast and sloppy, and you can't take your eyes off it. 

"So good," you slur, so far removed from any thought process to give an intelligent response. You hope those two words will encapsulate what your scrambled mind can't.

"I be'… you're bein' fucked better than most whores." Grabbing your chin, he focuses your previously unfocused eyes on him. "Where's your manners, luv?"

"Thank you," you sob, your eyelids squeezing shut to relieve the burn behind them, but it's too late, and you're crying for the second time tonight. With makeup surely ruined and your appearance messy and unkempt, you have no modesty left to lose. That luxury has been stripped away from you like the clothes now lying in a crumpled mess. 

"Not to me." He clicks his tongue in annoyance. "To my mates makin' sure you won't be able to walk out of 'ere."

Forcing your neck back, you stare at the upside-down image of Ramone, sweaty and crumpled features finding yours. 

"Thank– you." A hiccup interrupts you, but he shrugs it off, taking it in stride. 

"My pleasure." His behavior is playful, merging with something wicked that captures his bright and alive facial features, gleaming with a lust for life. 

"Now him. The bloke makin' sure your insatiable pussy is stuffed." Your head is thrown forward, staring uncomfortably close into the eyes of Glen, but before you can express your gratitude, he says, "I know." And kisses you.

His lips are soft, experienced, and filled with a hunger he chases with his tongue. You long for it, the raw feeling and taste of another, the emotions spilled in the simple touch of your lips, yet you're ripped away by Hobie manhandling your hair. 

"Ah, ah, ah," he tuts disapprovingly, pulling and twisting your swollen nipple roughly. Yelping in pain, his vision hardened, fixed on the space you and Glen were in. "I didn't say ya could do that." 

"'M sorry," Tears slip freely down your face, the vulnerable head state you seem to have fallen into, making you more susceptible to insecurity. The rational part of your mind is baffled by the meekness that has come forth, the apologies and insecurity you've never embodied before now dictating your actions, and maybe if you had reached this type of submissiveness before, you would recognize it or the jealousy steaming off Hobie in waves in anger.

Alas, you don't, but Hobie does, and he softens, rubbing circles along the back of your neck. "Awww, so cum drunk, all you can do is babble, huh?"

He nods his head along with what he's saying before adding, "I bet." Hobie steps back to his spot, fingers finding his cock with ease. Jerking in sharp bursts from the force of their thrusts, the side of your face presses into Glen's chest, short punctures of moans and whines escaping. Being fucked by just Glen was one thing, but having two at once was another. The fullness you feel is borderline painful. 

Hobie fucks his fist with even more vigor, pushing the limits of his own body by staving off another orgasm, determined to reach the edge with you. 

Their dicks push out parts of your belly, the faint outline of them showing through your skin in a lecherous way. Strings of slimy release break and connect you to them through every pull-out and thrust back in. Your full-on crying, the pressure, the stimulation borderline too much heaved a choked-out breath from you.

"'s too much, too much," you sob, clinging to Glen like a lifeline while Ramone pumps into your gummy sensitive spots like he owns the part of your body, determined to show you that no one can do it better than him. 

"Givin' it to ya so good, your fuckin' cryin' on i', Jesus," he hisses, grabbing a handful of your ass and squeezing it roughly. Each of them jackhammered into your holes like their life depended on it, adding to the lewd symphony they were orchestrating in the snap of their hips, pelvis against pelvis, a chase for the impeding edge you're dangling off of. 

"Gonna cum, gonna cum, gonna cum," Glen chants like a mantra, his vision tunneling on making you both taste sweet release. Ramone wasn't any better while you writhed underneath him, the stimulation of his mushroom tip brushing previously untouched areas proving a greater reward than you could have imagined. 

"Where?" Ramone growls, breaking you from your trance, and for the first time, you notice a phantom sensation in your throat, as if their thrusts reached your lungs, violating you from the inside out. You can feel them everywhere, the places they reach, yet you crave more of the fullness, needing everything they can give you like nothing before. You're not sure how you do it, but amidst the haze, you sob a ruined cry of "Inside," and it's all either of them needs. 

All at once, Glen's sticky body stutters, sheathing himself entirely inside, chest Heaving as bursts of his seed fill you with a filthy moan. His mouth parts in a silent cry, broken sounds of pleasure auditable through the ringing in your ears and the obscene sounds that follow your apex. You can feel Ramones eyes watching your creamy entrance spit out bits of Glen’s cum and finish inside you at the pace of an erratic animal. His absurd amount of spend is plugged into your contracting, velvety walls.

Soreness fills your joints with lead, resigning yourself to lay on him while you regain your lost oxygen. You lose yourself in the aftershocks, the feeling in your limbs slowly coming back while Ramone pulls out. 

"There ya go, atta girl, good girl. You did so well for us, gave us the night of our lives." Glen cooes, and Ramone returns with a rag to clean you up, his deliberate movements making sure to clean any traces of his cum painted on your face, along with the mess between your thighs. 

Wearily, you find Hobie's gaze and drop your sight to his hand, covered in a drippy white substance. He seems almost embarrassed as he cleans himself up with a handkerchief, refusing to meet your eye until he tucks himself back into his jeans. You glance at him for a moment longer, intent on deciphering his behavior before you take in the rest of the room, the mystery of Hobie lost on you. 

The yellow-tinted lights cast a sheen around the room, the faint thump of the bass from the stage reverberating through the poster-stained walls. Old recliners and bean bags surround the couch, and a coffee table overflowing with belongings like weed that hangs in the air like smoke. The lived-in feeling it brings is not lost on you or the familiarity of which they share it. 

"Good as new," Ramone proudly announces, kissing the top of your head and patting your back. Somehow you manage to stand and pull your clothes on despite the boos he receives from Sid. You dare to examine the splotchy bruises starting to take shape around your hips, between your thighs, and decorating your chest. However, the band is happy to shower you with praises and compliments, all in a somewhat smug mood after seeing their impact on your body. Not that you mind it. You like knowing you matter, at least to these people. 

Each of them begins to find some contraband to help themselves to while making it abundantly clear you are welcome back anytime. It's meant to be reassuring, but it doesn't explain how it soothes a deep ache inside you, a quell to the torn voice picking apart everything about yourself. Going through the motions in a haze, you're having trouble registering what had just occurred.

You enjoyed it, but now you're left, a hollow and empty shell doused in dry sweat and bruises, and you don't know how you're supposed to feel. The post-orgasmic high has worn off, leaving you detached from your body in an odd separated state. Refusing to cry over these conflicting emotions, you thank them, though they seem more keen on thanking you. 

Ramone doesn't seem bothered by how you subtly grasp his arm to support your unsteady legs. Hobie was right. You can barely stand without feeling the ache they all left behind. You awkwardly manage your way to the door, saying the last of your goodbyes before coming face to face with the man who started it all. 

"Um, thank you." Lip caught between your teeth, and you tried formulating some makeshift plan. The tension lingers, the unasked question of what's next hanging in the air like a dark cloud. What was supposed to be a one-time thing, sex with an attractive band member, had spiraled into something uncontrollable and unpredictable in mere minutes.

The attraction still hovers in the space between you. Despite everything, you still wanted him the moment he stepped on stage, and while you thought you knew even a fraction of what was racing around his busy mind, his behavior and motives remain an unsolved clue. He's unlike anyone you've ever met before, and you long to assemble the pieces and figure out who he is under all the makeup, piercings, and rockstar persona. And the longer you stand here, the more the opportunity slips away. Hobie notices the tension in your shoulders and places his hand over it, lip piercing and stretching with his mouth.

"You're 'he one who did all 'he work. No need to thank me." He grins, his hands cupping your face to keep you from looking away in the embarrassment burning your cheeks. 

"I'm not…" You start, and you're about to dismiss your line of thought; so sure, he wouldn't want to hear it, but his fingers apply a bit more pressure to egg you on. "I didn't really do anything. Just glad I was worth your time, is all."

He doesn't take your shrug well, the slope of your frown, or your sagging posture because his expression loses its laid-back demeanor and goes cold. "You always were." 

His lips collide with yours hard, devouring you, your taste, every curve that forms the smile he loves so intensely. You reciprocate, trying to replicate the same passion you feel for him in the messy mesh of your mouths feeding off each other's reactions, but he pulls away, panting and wild before going back in before you can even catch your breath. 

This is what you were missing, you think. All this time, you two fit together easily, and a feeling you quickly ignore rises to your chest the longer you indulge in this. You know Hobie doesn't want more than sex, more than just one night, doesn't want you the same way you find yourself needing him. You can't expect more when there is none, but that doesn't matter right now. 

His tongue flickers against your mouth in an invitation, pushing past your lips greedily when you whine into the spontaneous make-out session neither of you can get enough of. His wet muscle explores your mouth, dancing with your tongue in a way that has you melting into him, intoxicated and delirious with the lack of air. 

Soon, however, you're forced to remove yourself when your lungs burn and scream for air. You try not to choke on air as you catch your breath, your head spinning all the while. Your hand smooths down his collarbone, dipping underneath his shirt, and instead of finding thin, a latex sort of material hugs him like a glove.

You frown, tugging a bit of his collar down in one swift movement, revealing red and the edges of a white spider web. Hobie's hand gently encloses yours, and you whip your head up, mouth agape, staring at him with the utmost astonishment. Your fingers tremble and clench harder around the fabric. His behavior, his unreal senses, and his affinity for reading people all fall in the explanation of the conclusion right in front of you. 

TAGLIST: @alicefallsintotherabbithole

Hobie's Spiderman. 

if you've made it this far, this is my official announcement that part 2 of this drabble is in the works and will not be another drabble (it's gonna be a true fivesome unlike this)

[urdinosaurs]

since i'm not going to get this done this weekend like i had hoped, here's a teaser for next weeks fic (smut ahead). in the full fic, it may or may not include a fivesome with hobie and his band mates 🫣

edit: full fic here!!!

it wasn't supposed to end like this. brought to a mary jane show by your friend who adored them was supposed to be a good way to reconnect after your busy lives separated you and see the band they've been raving about for months.

not this. not hobie fucking brown, the guitarist with a captivating presence, rocking out in his own little spot on stage, noticing you. not him handing you his guitar pick at the end of the show with a sharpied, sloppy heart, telling you to meet him afterward with a sly grin.

not waiting for him after the show, your heart in your throat, only for him to find you and reignite the flame of lust you previously held, the low baritone of his voice cocky and oh so sure. "hope i didn't keep ya' waiting."

not any of this. yet here you are, allowing his wirey arm to drape across your shoulders like it's the most natural thing in the world, pulled backstage with the pick tucked in your pocket. you remained in a state of awe at him, taking in the way he walks to how lankly he is up close. it's hard not to with his height and tight-fitting patched pants, dressed with belts to accentuate his long torso. he's the pinochle of beauty, a model for the standard, and you're having trouble doing anything other than gawking.

it's how you end up bent over an old sofa, fingers scraping the worn fabric as your hips buck with the force of his thrusts.

"first time 'ere? never seen a pretty thing like you before," he grunts, hands wandering down from your love handles to your ass, kneading it in his palm before pushing you further into the side of the sofa.

"yeah," you're cut off with a whine, slumping into the armrest digging into your ribcage. "f-friend brought me."

he whistles, his chest rumbling with a low chuckle. "lucky me then, yeah? first punk show?"

his cock feels too heavy inside you to respond, so you nod instead.

"quite the welcome, innit? getting fucked by the guitarist on your first night. unless you do this often? do you let every guy you meet with a guitar dick you down, luv?" his patronizing tone teeters off into something more curious, perhaps testing your motive? you're not sure, but amid your sex-filled haze, it adds to his charm.

shaking your head, stars explode behind your eyelids when he slows his thrusts, leaning over you, his lips a hairsbreadth away from the shell of your ear. "well, don't i feel special? what's your name, huh?"

gasping for breath on a particularly rough thrust, you have to scavenge your vocabulary to find the words to eventually tell him. grinning, his pelvis grinds against your clit roughly, causing another wave of pleasure to crash over you, vocally too. his lips brush your neck, nose nudging a spot behind your ear as he murmurs, "name's hobie."

[urdinosaurs]

↳ ❝ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃𝐒 ¡! ❞ : nsfw, afab reader, unprotected p in v, public sex, dirty talk, established relationnsip, ghost anakin?, i think that's it

i wrote this a week ago, but idk how to finish it, so lmk if i should. major spoilers for ahsoka ep 5

i'm not that big of a star wars fan, but do you know who i'm a fan of? anakin. and who was just in the most recent ep of ahsoka? anakin.

waking up in a strange place with no memories of how you got into this white-speckled void was one thing. seeing anakin skywalker after two decades was another.

tears had been shed on your behalf after being reunited with him, as well as the conversation that followed on the transparent pathways, but something had changed. through your vast knowledge and experience of him, you could have never imagined this other side of him, filthy and downright obscene, even in death or wherever you are.

he had taken you into his memories. why? you weren't quite sure, but the tears you shed upon laying sight of him were dead and dried on your lashes; the sadness sucked out of you at the sight.

anakin's smug and self-assured demeanor, however? yeah, that was still there.

the sound of skin slapping and the squelch of your pussy was utterly lewd and degrading in its own way. your past self's moans and calls for him grate on your ears. it was hard to believe you sounded so…pornographic. whiny and loud, your face captures the essence of your blissed-out feelings. desperation is a sure word to describe you, and not in a positive way. transfixed at the scene before you, it's hard to register anything else but your old risqué scene in an alleyway.

"oh, ani," you had moaned, fingers dug into his robe. you bounced up and down, your back scrapping the wall as this version of you was wrapped up in the mind-numbing sensation of anakin's cock pistoning out of you at an ungodly pace.

your eyes flicker over to anakin next to you, watching his smirk through his narrow eyes. out of all places, after not seeing each other for two decades and your brief union in the pathways, this is where he brings you?

"bring back memories?" egotistical as ever, he leans in, dark pupils gleaming with devilish pride.

"you're fucking twisted if the first place you bring me to is here." crossing your arms over your chest, anakin purposely takes a pause before answering so you can hear every whine and grunt, the sounds of his cock filling you to the brim over and over again. you hate the way you're wet.

"i don't see a problem." he shrugs, his folded arms encapsulating the broad span of his chest. you gape, your mouth opening and closing as you frantically search for a rebuttal, embarrassment painting your features the longer you struggle. all while he watches, amused and smug.

"i haven't seen you since the clone wars ended! i-i never knew what happened to you, and you're just here to what, taunt me?!" you exclaim, throwing your hands in the air and turning your back from the scene. he frowns, very apparently caught off guard by your outburst.

"do you know how long i've waited for you?" he blurts out. there's an undertone of something, something dangerous and dark, the threat of it licking at a deep and primal part of yourself you had buried along with the jedi.

anakin takes a step closer, and the air is charged with electricity, crackling and erratic, just like your heartbeat. his low tone brushed the hairs along your arms to stand on end. "to feel you again?"

heat blazes through every nerve, ending as the warmth of his hand seers your back, where long and calloused fingers are splayed over your shoulder blade. you can barely breathe. it's been so long, so long since you've felt the warmth of another, and you feel like everywhere his skin meets yours is changed by the connection. his hand glides across your back to your collarbone, hovering over the base of your neck before grasping at your chin to pull you close.

"to fuck you?"

your heart is in your throat, stuck in a wad you can't seem to swallow. robotic fingers flex, the smell of metal wafting to your nose the longer you stand enraptured by everything that he is.

"no…i don't think you do."

it's the final nail in the coffin. you're sure of it. gulping back any display of weakness, your arousal is more noticeable than you intended. his eyes gleam sadistically.

i don't really like this. might delete it later or should i continue it?

[urdinosaurs]

Broooo that most recent one shot u made with Hobie was beautiful like it was amazing I enjoyed that story so much like it was sooo good u should write more. Your really talented. I enjoy the angst I love angst like that so much u should write more frl

╰┈➤ ❝ 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 ❞ | 𝐇𝐎𝐁𝐈𝐄 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍

PROMPT: people's behavior had been a lesson ingrained into you since you were young, especially men. they were quick to anger, quick to blame, quick to take out said anger, which is why when you mess up big time you already know what’s going to happen before it will. your just afraid of what it’s going to look like.  

WARNINGS: fem reader, angst, self blaming, mentions and insinuations to past physical and emotional abuse though it is never explicitly mentioned, insecurity, blood, injury, it is not my intention to romanticize this. if anything I hope to bring awareness to to how unhealthy this behavior is, hurt/comfort, fluff in the end, 2.5k wc

A/N:  when i first read this comment i had tears in my eyes. you don’t know how much this means to me and i literally love you sm anon i just wanna give you a big fat sloppy kiss fr. sorry this took so long, trying to get this just right is impossible. This is a darker fic so read at your own risk, enjoy!

Hobie was going to kill you. 

Not in the literal sense, of course, but you're sure you'll be on the receiving end of his anger when he finds out. Though, knowing for sure isn't possible with how little you actually know about him, given that you only met him six months ago. In that time, however, you've never seen him enraged. Hell, you assumed he was incapable of it entirely by the flirty and nonchalant demeanor he expressed around you, which you recognize now as both a pleasure and a curse. 

You know what people are like, how quick they are to anger and take it out on you. You've seen and experienced it more times than you could count, and even suggesting that he would be exempt from these patterns, all men seem to have ingrained into their behavior is unthinkable. The unknown alone sends fear trickling down your spine at the thought of his rage or worse. 

Yet, how could you fault him for any reaction he'll have? You knew how important it was to him and how much he trusted you around it, and still, you found a way to destroy the little of what he held dear.  

You stare at the shards, your breathing coming in quick pants as droplets of blood bloom over the lacerations the pieces of broken ceramic caused. Frantic eyes search the wreckage, your heart thudding at the back of your throat, choked with horror. How could you?

The pottery was a piece Hobie's mother had given him when he was too young to remember why. The simple electric guitar-shaped porcelain with chipped and scratched paint was the only thing he had from her, years of memories turning it dull and dusty. Nonetheless, it remained one of the few material objects for which he held a deep sense of sentimentality for, and you shattered it with an accidental bump of your hand.

The cuts begin to sting, and cold fingers of dread brush against your neck, tears welling in their stead. Stupid. How stupid could you be to knock over such a thing? Jerking a sharp breath, your eyes dart around the room for a solution. 

The only reason you were near it in the first place was to grab the item next to it, a spare pick, which was forgotten in the haste of his exit. Meaning he would be home at any minute to get it before heading to his rehearsal, only five minutes away from the boat. 

Fixing this was the only thing keeping you from shutting down entirely, the objective kicking your senses into overdrive as the increasingly sharp stabs of pain from your hands distract the little mental fortitude you have left. 

While you aren't sure what you're going to do to salvage this, anything is better than letting Hobie see it and, in his anger that will shortly follow, affirm your uselessness and inability to do anything right. A fear that has plagued you for longer than you remember. You're about to pick up the pieces when the lock jingles and the door creaks open. The color drains from your face, adrenaline shooting through your system in a flash of white-hot panic as Hobie's voice cuts through your thoughts in an instant. "Hey, did ya' find my…"

The world stops when Hobie steps into the room. The entire universe, your universe, is shifted right off its axis the moment his breath catches at the disaster you created. 

Bile rises in your throat, your pulse skyrocketing in a moment of sheer hysteria, grasping your chest so firmly it won't subside.

"S-shit-" your voice comes out in a broken gasp. "I'm so sorry. I-I didn't mean to. Fuck, it was an accident, I…I'm so stupid." Choking out the last of your rambling, your throat constricts to the point where words feel heavy on your tongue. You can barely breathe over the terror gripping you like a vice, the art of apology forged into your tongue from years of use.

He kisses his teeth, staring at the mess for a long second, so still, you could swear he stopped breathing. Then his gaze flickers up at you with so many yet so little emotions you can't quite decipher swimming in his wide pupils. You can tell the moment he fully recognizes the extent of your emotional state as well as the blood escaping your curled fist because his expression morphs into one of concern. He steps around the glass like splinters, grabbing your shoulders and twisting you slightly in his thorough examination of your body. Apprehension squeezes the air from your lungs, rendering you speechless and too afraid to bear witness to a physical rage you've never seen. The thought of how it manifests sits like a lump in your throat. 

He takes notice of your hands, sharply gasping as he holds your balled fists, crimson rivets smearing onto his skin. Your eyes burn with the onset of tears, and you slam them closed, feeling your shame and fear as clearly as the agony stabbing your hand.

"Fuck," he murmurs, his voice oddly devoid of emotion. His warm hands disappear from yours, and you let your arms fall to your side, your eyes still tightly shut. The soles of his shoes vibrate across the floor as a door hinge creaks, and you can hear the sound of shuffling just as the door swings shut, and he moves in large strides back into his room. Trepidation crawls over your body, prickling your skin. 

Peaking through squinted eyes, you gauge Hobie's reaction as he, without a word, leads you to his bed, his hand gripping yours delicately as if he assumes you will crack under too much pressure. He presses you to sit on the quilt, making quick work of popping open what you now recognize as a first aid kit. Gaping, you swallow back the lump of guilt and confusion that had formed.

Of course, Hobie would take care of you first despite the damage you've done. Of course, when he has every right to leave you here, he patches you up no matter how much you don't deserve it. Punishing yourself is an easier pill to swallow than his kindness. 

The silence stretches out as he digs through the kit, finding what he needs and holding out his hand. Tenderly, you place your hand in his awaiting palm, almost scared of what happens when you do, and his eyes flicker to yours momentarily, catching the emotions spilling over them before he carefully and slowly unfurls your fist. A sharp intake splits through the anticipation as Hobie's body crunches forward in worry, gently turning your palm from side to side, inspecting you with consternation. Small pieces of ceramic, as big as his fingernail, stick out of your palm in gory spikes, pushing and pressing on the nerve endings in your throbbing limb. 

He studies your avoiding stare in an attempt to decipher the sudden radical change in your behavior wordlessly. 

The tweezers sit heavy in his hand, watching you ruefully as he readies them above your open palm. He gives you a moment to collect yourself, and you can feel the weight of his stare on your injury, flickering to the shards of his childhood on the floor in a quick second. You sink deeper into the guilt, thickening your throat, knowing he has to be angry, or at least disappointed, even if he's not showing it. 

Without a word, the tweezers bite into your skin and pull the splinters, eliciting a loud yelp from you, tears stinging your eyes. His other hand squeezes your thigh, an apology and a gesture of comfort to ground yourself in besides the misery he's regrettably putting you through. You stiffen at the contact, more surprised than anything that he would want to touch you. Shouldn't he be repulsed? 

Sneaking a peek, you watch his lips curl into a soft frown and his eyes droopy, weighed down by his guilt for being the cause of your unshed tears, which you don't understand. Why isn't he visibly disappointed? Is he hiding it well enough that you can't tell? Is he waiting to unleash his anger? 

You wince, sharp jabs echoing up your hands like jolts of electricity, and you bite your lips to contain any pained noises. Hobie plucks the last fragment, letting it clatter into the metal tin before applying the disinfectant in one fell swoop. Somewhere between a groan and whimper leaves your scratchy throat at the alcohol burning its way down each individual cut. You flinch, blinking back, tears swimming in your eyes devastatingly. The antibiotic ointment is plucked from the case, and he makes sure to delicately smear it across your cuts, a pleasant cooling sensation erupting from the inflamed area. He starts to bandage up your hand when he debates it, chewing on his lip with conflicted pupils before he opens his mouth. "How?" 

It shouldn't trigger such a harsh flinch, but it does, and the apology hovers at the tip of your tongue before you can stop it. 

"I'm sorry, Hobie," your voice wobbles, sounding strained. You're desperate to prove yourself before he does anything rash, and you're sure he can see it."I-I didn't mean to. I-it just slipped while I was trying to get your pick and…" 

"Shhh, i''s okay, luv." His words don't register with the incessant ringing in your ears and the pounding in your head hindering your whirring thoughts, hopelessness clawing at your words.

Despite his reassurances, you don't feel okay. Every nerve, every fiber of your being is screaming at you and your clumsiness, the seemingly innate ability to never be good enough. It's consuming, clogging your head with every fault and problem with yourself that leads you here. 

"God, I'm so stupid. I-I can make it up to you, I promise. Just please don't be mad. I'll do whatever you need and–"

"Hey," Hobie firmly says, fingers digging into your shoulders to pull you out of your spiral. "I'm not mad."

"But-" you start again, only for him to cut you off with a stern finger grasping at your chin in an effort for you to understand. "I'm not mad."

"But I broke it." You exclaim, desperation bleeding into your words, your vocal cords climbing to a higher pitch, everything you've done wrong boiling to the surface. "One of your most prized possessions, and I shattered it in seconds. It's all my fucking fault."

Your hands shake, and the sudden graze of Hobie's hand against your warm face stops you from saying more. The eye contact is unbearable with the heavy weight on your consciousness, and your hands flex experimentally despite the pain. He sighs, and his expression is a melancholy sort of heartbroken. "It's not your fault. It was an accident, right?"

"Yeah–"

"So that's it. Ya' didn't mean to. There's nothin' else 'bout it. Why would I be disappointed for a mistake?" He sounds genuinely curious, but it's hard to tell under all the layers of sadness on top of it. 

"Because I can't do anything right! You told me not to touch it, and I couldn't even do that right. You have every right to be angry; hell, I deserve it-" 

"Oi." he snaps coldly. "Don't say 'at. You don't deserve me to treat you like fuckin' shit, so don't even think about it."

With your voice frozen in your throat, a chill creeps through you in the midst of trying to process his words. Then, when you do, droplets of salty tears run down your cheeks, and quicker than you can comprehend, his arms wrap around you, pulling you into his chest in one swift moment. You can only cry harder, surrounded by everything that is him, a cruel reminder of what you did. 

"I-I just...I thought you would be mad. Everyone always is," you heave, burying your face further into his chest. You're unsure how much he can hear you with your face pressed against his soft crop top, but he seems to understand you well enough because he stiffens. 

His grip tightens in response as if he could protect you from the world. "Never," he states softly, affirmation and defensiveness bleeding in. "Never." 

You wrap your arms around his long torso tighter, each emotion spilling out in unceremonious tears. The reality that he wasn't mad finally settling in.

"I'm sorry," you cry, your shoulders shaking. "I'm so sorry."

His breath tickles your ear, his lanky arms cocooned around you. At the same time, he presses a tender kiss on the crown of your head. "You never need to be sorry, ya' hear me?" he mutters delicately, nuzzling his nose in your hair, his head leaning on your side, his tone more lighthearted. "As long as you get those thoughts outta your head, get what I mean?" 

You do, and while you don't know how much of the lingering insecurity you can get rid of or the fear of disappointment and volatile reactions, it's a step in the right direction, a path Hobie wants to help you on. So you shake your head because, after this affirmation that you're not what you believed yourself to be, you understand. He's freed you from the shackles of yourself, effortlessly turning every preconceived notion into an indisputable lie. Made the fear kept close to your chest wither under his understanding demeanor. Not only that but re-written the very DNA of your relationship into a tight-knit web of shared feelings and experiences that will inevitably only bring you closer. 

"I don't know how to fix it," you admit, sniffling as you untangle yourself from him to find that not-so-scary eye contact anymore, searching his face for an answer like one does a guidebook. 

"Yeah, me neither." He shrugs, brown eyes wandering to the mess you still can't face. "But we'll find a way."

You nod, unsure of what else to add, letting your head fall to his chest as you sit there momentarily in the aftermath, his presence like a warm blanket. You unclench your fist, which you must have balled up in your anguish, and pain burns your hand so severely a mix between a hiss and a pained-sounding gasp leaves your throat. Hobie pulls you from the embrace so fast you get whiplash, inspecting you for injuries until his eyes fall on your hands. 

"Shit." He scrambles, noticing your reopened cuts are dripping blood down your wrist. The bandage he had started to do was soaked in the crimson liquid. "Let's get you patched up, ya?"

Swallowing, you watch as he picks up the gauze, taking your hand in his and continuing to wrap the cloth around your fingers with so much tenderness and care that your heart squeezes and the lump in your throat returns.  

"I can't stand to see you like this," he murmurs offhandedly, his hands never ceasing movement. Your breath hitches, eyes wide with surprise before they fall remorsefully, a mixture of emotions brewing in your chest. 

"I'm sorry," you say out of habit more than anything. He gives you a pointed look, collecting his thoughts before he speaks. "There's no need for any of 'at insecurity. It's no trouble at all, you're no trouble, so just say thank you, and we'll be straight." 

i wanted to try out using caps this time, what do you guys think?

And you do, soft-spoken words carried by the air conditioning kicking on. He looks up from his work, both of your hands wrapped in a layer of gauze, a satisfied smirk pulling at Hobie's lips. "That's my girl."

TAGLIST: @alicefallsintotherabbithole

[urdinosaurs]

↳ ❝ 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑 ¡! ❞

✧.* streamer earth-42 miles has me in such a chokehold istg (based on this c.ai bot) ✧.*

like just imagine him initially doing it in his free time for fun with a decent setup in a little corner of your dorm room. he's not expecting much to come out of it, merely trying to see what the fuss is about since all his friends are doing it and urging him to do the same. which leads him to pick his twitch name on a whim based on a character he plays and, later, what he becomes infamously known as: the prowler.

it quickly turns into something more when hundreds of followers flock to his account after he joined a friend's stream for a few hours and started independently streaming shortly after. the newly acquainted audience eagerly follows to watch his high-energy mix of gameplay and commentary, while others stay for the sole purpose of watching him in the corner of the screen and listening to the deep and seductive drawl of his natural voice.

he knows this because of how often people leave replies saying that exact thing, fawning over him rather than his gameplay, which tends to leave him annoyed most days. nevertheless, he doesn't let this deter him, as he'll sit there for hours on end, joking and hunched over his monitor, intently focused and clicking furiously away at his controller. what was supposed to be a way to pass the time ends up earning him more money than he knows what to do with.

and just like that, it becomes so much more than a game.

however, in the rise of his popularity, there was one thing he desperately tried to keep separate from the audience of his life as the prowler: you.

you weren't supposed to be part of miles' new hobby, more as a safety precaution than anything; his attempts to keep you separate had failed when his viewers dragged you onto the stream by popular demand. though you suspected mile's constant talk of a girlfriend had something to do with it, you abided by their demands and somehow became a staple on his platform overnight.

since you both were so busy after school, miles secretly adored the time you spent together when he gamed, and you could sit perched on his lap, responding to the chat and even taking over his controller from time to time to play matches of your own (he found it insanely attractive).

the views tended to skyrocket whenever you joined, and miles found a great sense of pride in it that his girl was able to do that. it wasn't avarice he felt, but more of an admiration for your ability to captivate an audience the way you do to him.

and so he loves to show you off. offering praise and flirty compliments whenever he can, this man will pull you to your feet and even give you a little twirl in his effort to brag to the camera about you and your outfit. he takes great pleasure in ensuring you know your worth with an especially insatiable smirk and a mischievous gleam in his eyes. "lookin' real pretty ma. all that f'me?"

although, his flaunting will only go so far before his defensiveness takes over. someone's flirting with you? it doesn't matter; they're just inadvertently complimenting you behind a screen. they can say all they want, but it doesn't mean you will ever be theirs. making rude and uncomfortable/sexual comments? nah, he's calling them out, shaming and insulting them for all their worth while hitting the report and block button without batting an eye.

he's dead serious about it, just as protective of your image as your identity and digital presence, an act that comes in a more subtle form, but make no mistake, it's there and something he takes very seriously. that's why when questions are personal or specific, he quickly shuts them down and keeps information not readily available on your social media accounts private. if there's one thing, it's that miles doesn't play around with your safety and lets the silence after he has to block someone new ring as a warning to anyone who messes with his girl.

besides those rare instances, a standard stream you sit in on is fun and full of laughter and excitement, though after a couple of hours of his yelling and bickering into the mic, boredom starts to plague you. minutes will drag on to the point where you're shifting around in his lap to face him instead of the camera and rest your head against his shoulder. he knows to take this as his sign to make this his last game, but sometimes he gets so caught up playing that he doesn't realize what you're doing.

usually, when that happens, you make sure to make it known exactly how bored out of your mind you are by pressing kisses to his neck. they start slow and deliberate, mapping his skin with your lips, but soon, the simple touches turn heated with a bite and suckle of a hickey to his neck. by this point, miles usually pauses the game to ask you what you're doing and runs his fingers up and down your side while you tend to each of the hickeys with the smooth glide of your tongue across the affected area in apology, saying how you were just bored. it tended to have an instantaneous effect on him as well as the chat, which floods the comment section with all sorts of expressions of jealousy of your relationship while others were awed by it.

you don't see them, but fuck, miles does, and he tries to keep his cool with a chuckle, telling you just another five minutes, but the compliments cause his smirk to grow at the hundreds of people saying how good you look together, and it makes his heart swell with pride.

through all of this, his streams tend to last for hours, so falling asleep while he plays happens more often than you would think. juggling school and a job and the fact that his streaming schedule consists of late-night hours, with a severe lack of light in the room, it doesn't take long for miles's voice to lull you to sleep. the downside, you quickly learned, is being startled awake when his voice accidentally gets too loud, or he shouts unexpectedly, too caught in the heat of the moment to check his volume.

you make sure to give him a cold state after the fact to let him in on your obvious irritation. he's quick to make it up to you by pressing a kiss to your lips, scrunched in annoyance, mumbling a quiet enough apology the mic can't pick it up to give you the illusion of privacy while thousands watch. you accept it each time with a grumble, finding home once more on mile's chest, and it never ceases to amaze you how bashful he gets when you do.

sure, his humble demeanor provokes a type of bashfulness inside of him when he gets praised or acknowledged for his skills, but you pull a particular kind of affection from him that can't be replicated by anyone else.

"you're too good for me, mami," he often says. his face softened in adoration at the end of his stream, his body worn with tiredness. "making me feel so soft without even havin' to lift a finger."

you can't help but smile, pressing a kiss to his jaw, hoping to convey your sentiment. "i'm glad."

screen captures of the moment will surely be sent to him later to tease him, though he can't find it within himself to care, not when you're in his arms.

[urdinosaurs]

painting pottery with e-42 miles, except he's really good at it

you knew full well that miles was artistically inclined. how could you not with how many hours he spent bent over his sketchbook or in front of a blank wall with cans of spray paint in his hands? painting, however, was another thing entirely.

so when you take miles to a place to paint pottery for fun, he takes that shit seriously.

a cute date idea goes south quickly when this man pours hours over his ceramic haunted house, obsessed with the finest details and painting every tiny crook and nanny. it takes him an hour to finish his first coat of paint…out of three.

and don't even try to talk to him or distract his focused mindset because he shuts you down so quick, saying, "i needa focus ma, hold that thought f'me."

he makes sure to stay true to his word and will take breaks to compliment your work and let you speak about the latest drama he missed with your friend group. he even enables you to keep talking once he gets into the groove while mainstream pop plays over the speakers. just don't expect a reply. not that he isn't listening, far from it, but miles has trouble diverting his attention between you and adding the fine points to the haunted house.

the day bleeds into night. the children occupying the place with their parents have all left the now quiet building, a few of you still remaining, and after four and a half hours of painting, miles finally finishes. he endlessly apologizes for taking up so much of your time when this was supposed to be a date for the both of you. though your reassurance that you were more than happy to see him doing something he found to love seems to go over his head when he turns his attention to his piece with a frown.

if anything, trust he will never be satisfied with his work and will ask for your advice constantly on whether it needs more paint, more details, more sponging, more brown here, more blood splatter there with a pout. no amount of praise and compliments will convince him that his piece is a stunning work of art, no matter how many times you tell him.

"ion know what you're talking about, mami. it just don’t look right, yknow?"

turns out he just has to step away because the moment he does, he starts seeing the same hard work and beauty in it that you do.

taking pictures is a must, and you make sure to praise his skills in the caption of your post, despite how humble he is about his abilities. once that's done, miles will insist on paying for the pottery, even though it was your date idea.

he argues that it's his thanks to you for introducing something he has found a love and art for. he kisses you on the crown of your head, urging you to agree, and you relent, letting him pay. his arm snakes around your waist as he finishes the transaction, wondering out loud about dinner while you exit, the surrounding buildings' neon signs illuminating his motorcycle.

but best believe you will pay for dinner that night just to get under his skin. though when he asks you about it, you feign innocence with a grin, and he can only shake his head with an appreciative sigh, pressing a thank you in the form of a kiss to your lips. "you're too good for me, ma."

you don't bother telling him he has paint on his cheek.

thank you to the person who did, but guys, i still need fic recs based on this idea bc i can't find any and i'm going insane so pretty pls with a cherry on top help me 🤞

[urdinosaurs]

i can't stop thinking about that one fanart of hobie's concept art. it's actually taking over all of my mental capacity

.・✭ very suggestive/explict details ✭・.

i just can't help but imagine them in hobie's apartment, smoking weed and lying across the living room, chatting languidly since they last saw each other. some are splayed across the rug, others slumped on the sofa, passing the blunt as they discuss their dimensions while music hums from the record player. then, the door creaks, announcing your arrival from your late-night shift as you step through the threshold, and lord, it would be a sight.

you stand there, shocked, in front of five men (who look suspiciously similar to hobie) smoking in his apartment. it doesn't take much to tell he's smoked through his first blunt and is higher than he lets on. if the suffocating smell hanging thickly in the air isn't anything to go by, his hazy irises tinged with red and flippant body language are every sign you need. hobie greets you like normal, his words slurring at the edges in introducing you to his friends with a wave of his hand.

and they're all looking at you hungrily, eyes cloudy at the weed coursing through them and the thought of sex. you present yourself, though the introduction doesn't seem to be needed by how they greet you as if you've known them your whole life.

unbeknownst to you, it's because, in their world, they have. each of them is lusting after a version of you, all stuck in the label of mere friends despite secretly wanting so much more, and seeing this hobie, with everything they crave and fantasize about, makes jealousy and spite prickle at their skins. how could hobie, the nerdiest version of themselves, pull the girl they have been in love with for years so easily? how is it you're able to fall for him when every other version of you ends in pining?

it's not until hobie explains who they are when he catches your unasked questions that your eyes shine with understanding and you shrink away from the increasing weight of their stares. you already know his identity as spiderman and the spider society he occasionally visits because of how often gwen drops by from her dimension, but this is something else entirely.

amid the hazy mindset, your hobie catches on quick. being the only one in the room with enhanced senses, he deciphers the atmosphere in seconds. he invites you over using the same two fingers that had been pumping inside your cunt just this morning with an amused smirk to drive you crazy, patting his thigh. it takes a second for the initial shyness to wear off from literally being surrounded by hobie to sit in his lap.

and oh, the glares he receives are intense, irked by his blatant boasting.

you try to converse with the rest, who are incredibly unbothered about the same things you are trying to wrap your head around, while his hands grow bolder, much to their displeasure. envy replaces the carefree atmosphere the longer his hands wander, and you might have swatted his long, teasing fingers in spots they shouldn't be in front of others a long time ago if it wasn't for the lecherous stares you receive that have you rethinking the purpose of their attendance.

they're hungry, starving for any ounce of yourself you can give them, freely displaying the jealousy consuming them of how much of yourself your hobie has. how you're inexplicably his while they can only wistfully dream.

you can tell they crave it, fantasize about being the one to skillfully manipulate your body, and your breathing picks up just as one of them adjusts himself in his pants.

"you look just bloody like her." comes the deep, seductive rumble of the hobie sporting striking spikes with streaks of red running through the cut. he's referring to the version of yourself somewhere in the depths of the punk rock in his dimension, his far away yet very feverish expression saying everything.

the weed is long forgotten as your hobie pridefully grins, showing you off without inhibition. carefully, giving you time to refuse, it starts.

the variant, with headphones wrapped around his neck and dreads pulled into a messy bun, runs the back of his hand over your arm, the smooth surface of the metal rings eliciting pleasurable shivers down your spine. as if testing your boundaries, his fingers glide up your arm, dancing across your collarbone and settling at the base of your neck.

when you don't refuse and even go so far as leaning into the contact, the others take it as their queue to join. bodies crowd around yours snugly against hobie's lap, his relaxed posture hiding the arousal poking into your lower back. his demeanor, however, remains inviting and smug while they move in with perverted intent, a multitude of hands, fit chunky jewelry descending upon your body. you're not sure you ever want it to end.

TAGLIST: @alicefallsintotherabbithole

[urdinosaurs]

HI I JUST WANNA SAY THANK YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE ‼️‼️‼️‼️ THAT HOBIE ONESHOT, U DROPPED SOMETHING, MY JAW ILOVEU LMAO u write amazingly all jokes aside!!!🫶🫶 and if you have time maybe another sheet gripping oneshot ig... lmaoaoaooa I'm sorry😭😭 thanks again ily

╰┈➤ ❝ 𝐔𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 ❞ | 𝐇𝐎𝐁𝐈𝐄 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍

PROMPT: what was supposed to be a one-time thing isn't, not when hobie slides his phone number in your bra after fucking you dumb backstage. it leads you to reserve sat nights for him to fuck him afterwards. however, one night you decide to trade your usual style for something more revealing. who knew the decision would provoke such jealousy and sex and change everything you thought you knew about hobie?

WARNINGS: afab reader, rockstar exhibitionist!hobie, unprotected p in v, major cockwarming, canon divergence, insecurity, self-consciousness, public sex, little degradation, possessive hobie, 5.2k wc

A/N: ahhh thank you, sm ily more, ur so silly and amazing and you get me!!! i've been meaning to write more rockstar hobie and was inspired by this post (editing this, i noticed some of the details are the same, which is completely unintentional. i do not mean in any shape or form to copy the author of that fic. I had written a good amount before the fic even came out. pls keep that in mind)

you were at hobie's shows more often than you would like to admit. you liked the music, the message it sent, and the atmosphere that filled you with a sense of belonging, but it's the performers that enticed you to come back to this dingy venue time and time again.

you knew each of them well after hobie expressed his attraction to you following a show almost three months ago when he had pulled you backstage and fucked you within an inch of your life. afterwards, he slipped a piece of paper into your bra and sent you off with a wink, his bandmates not hiding their stares and smirks at your rumpled clothing and smudged makeup. only when you were outside, sometime past midnight, did you pull the paper out, unfolding it to reveal the messy digits of his phone number scrawled across the dirty wrapper. it was a one-time thing until it wasn't.

from that day forward, you visited every saturday night, coming early to get a good place at the front, where he would shower you with subtle attention and lingering glances. this left you to act as desperate and horny as any other wearing low-cut tops and skirts, so small they hardly served their purpose, acting docile and dumb with a tinge of desperation; all tactics that were played in the endless roulette of catching his eye.

you lamented how these woman degrade themselves by shoving their self worth and respect away in the hopes of being noticed. not that you could be one to critize when that pliant and passive self you swallowed when he was on stage would be bullied out of you by his cock each time he pulled you somewhere new, somehow finding a way to make your legs shake better than the last time you met. you find your hypocrisy amusing.

the experiences, however, were euphoric. the risk of getting caught and the new highs of pleasure hobie brought you made a dangerous combination you found yourself addicted to.

at the end of your sexual encounters, he would bring you to the place they called "the lounge" to relax. alcohol was graciously provided along with the occasional cig or blunt, depending on what they could get their hands on, allowing you to indulge yourself. each of them got to know you better after each week while you sat in hobie's lap in an almost domestic scene, the four of them sending you on your way well past midnight. there was no name for this relationship you formed with hobie, and you learned to be okay with it, more so afraid of how fast he'd push you to the side if you wanted more.

tonight was no different. you moved to the music, neon lights dancing over your skin, shoulder to shoulder with people who reeked of booze and sweat. still, your exhilaration was responsible for the one thing that had changed: your outfit. the fabric was more revealing than any of the others you've worn, practically begging for his attention, and the possibility of receiving it outshines how desperate you must look. the regular attendees giving you dirty looks at your appearance don't matter, not when hobie's on stage.

the song ends, and clapping breaks out, cries and screams of approval thundering through the room. his smile is almost boyish as he leans into the mic, sweat gleaming deliciously across his skin.

"lookin' real nice for us tonight." he draws playfully, winking at one of the girls in the audience, and you fight the jealousy forming a pit in your stomach. "you must 'ave remembered our one-year anniversary, unlike these twiddling twats behind me." hobie gestures behind him teasingly, earning a punch to the shoulder from h, as they so call him, whose dreads frame his sour expression, unamused by his antics.

back and forth, hobie scans the crowd, wavering on familiar faces before moving on and inevitably landing on you. his surprise flickers across his face in an instant, and you know right then that he sees your outfit. he inspects you up and down, even leaning forward on his tippy toes to get a better view from above (and stare down your shirt).

your breath is caught in your chest, waiting in a state of anticipation and a sense of hopefulness, bouncing back and forth on your feet. it's funny how someone you look up to, their opinions and approval, can hold such a weight that you'd crave it as severely as you would thirst for water. you need something, just anything that says you've impressed him. it takes him a second to snap himself out of his trance, and that's when his lips curl into a devilish smirk.

"we got a looker tonight, boys," he whistles lowly. "migh' 'ave to take 'er back after 'his to show 'er a proper good time, doncha think?" he chuckles, laughter and cheers filling the room. you're astounded-- aroused, your jaw dropping and your eyelids drooping as you gape with the purest form of lust painted beautifully on your features. he shamelessly adjusts himself through his pants, earning screams and whistles alike as his tongue flicks to the roof of his mouth, staring at you dead in the eyes. "yeah, i think she would like that, wouldn'' ya, swee'heart?"

starstruck would be an understatement of what you feel. dumbfounded, brain dead, brainless, except for worshiping the ground he walked on would all be better ways to begin to describe what's taken hold of you. not trusting yourself to speak, he takes your fawning appearance as an answer, nodding to himself. his lip is caught between his teeth, stealing one last look before returning to the anxiously awaiting crowd.

"enough ov me tryna shag 'er. le''s get back to the show, yeah?" the rest of the performance passes by in a daze, and you're still reeling from the encounter earlier as people begin filling out. you follow them, conversation flowing effortlessly from the people around you as they gush about the experience. you move to the bar to wait for hobie, and a woman passes you. she sneers, scowling and looking at you up and down, her lips curled into a snarl. "whore," she spits before disappearing into the crowd.

your mouth opens to retaliate, but you're too astonished to speak, and you don't realize you've stopped moving until someone's shoulder collides with yours. the force makes you stumble forward, your breath hitching, your hands scrambling to stop the fall, but boney arms catch you before you can. slipping into their arms, you plant your hands on the mysterious chest to steady yourself, mumbling an apology before you can get your thoughts together.

"'s all right, luv." the familiar timbre of his voice has your eyes shooting upwards, catching on hobie's dark ones, twinkling with amusement and playfulness. "if 'his is all it takes for you to fall for me, i should 'ave done it sooner."

you scoff at his corny joke, pretending to find it stupid while glancing away in humiliation and dusting off your clothing.

"if that's your sense of humor, maybe i'm fucking the wrong guy." you tease, pulling your shirt collar in place, gathering the courage to steal a glimpse. hobie peers at you incredulously while huffing a laugh, cheeks pulling into a smile as he shakes his head.

"that mean yur not in the mood tonight?" he bends forward, and you can smell him better, leather, cigarettes, beer, and cologne all enticing you. "we can just hang if that's what ya' want." he offers, shoving his hands into his pockets.

you shake your head awkwardly, clearing your throat. "no– no, i want to. wouldn't have come if i didn't."

hobie's eyebrows raise at this, leaning in and invading your space further. "so that's all i'm good for? my dick?" he sounds curious, not offended, just wondering almost. you gape at him, embarrassed by his lack of decorum and how far removed that statement was from the truth. he cocks his head to the side, seemingly trying to figure you out, and you can't stand how easily he's able to.

"i didn't think you wanted me for anything but my body." you shrug, your gaze flitting away out of embarrassment.

"low blow, mate. i can't believe you would think so little of me," he clutches his hand to his chest dramatically, rolling his neck to the side in faux hurt.

"hey." he taps your cheek with two fingers, guiding it back to his, where his countenance has turned solemn. "don't think i would use you like 'at,' alright?"

nodding your head is about all you can do, offering him a half-hearted smile despite your lingering doubts. he sees through it because, of course, he does, but thankfully doesn't comment on it. turning to the door that allows access backstage, his head jerks to it in question.

a grin beams across your face, thankful for the change in the topic as you cling to his arm, letting him guide you back.

"nice get up" he nods to your outfit, his lopsided grin returning. "a bit revealing, innit?"

"thought you liked that." your shoulders shrug, breathing picking up. the interaction leaves you unsure where hobie's heading with this, and you're growing worried he's trying to insinuate something. the lady's jab reverberates in your head, leaving you wondering if he's hinting at what he heard before if he heard it. even though it's unlikely he would, due to his only instances of calling you such names being in the heat of the moment. unless you read it wrong, and it's not just while you're having sex, maybe it's how he views you, and you've just been naive enough to believe he thought more of you–

"oi." hobie stops, spinning around to face you. "what's goin' on?"

clearing your face of its surprised impression is more challenging than you anticipated, and he notices it, a hand falling to your shoulder. the contact burns your skin, making you painfully aware of how close he is. "is it about tonight? we don't have to--"

"i already said i want to hobie. it's nothing, just in my head, is all." studying you for a moment longer, he buys your response, not liking it but letting it slide for now. his arm slinks around your neck, where he pulls you to his side, the tension from the earlier conversation dissipating as soon as he pushes the door open. except when you enter, it's not some room with barely working lights or a bathroom that looks like it hasn't been cleaned in the last decade. instead, it's the lounge, and the three men sitting there are looking suspiciously between you.

you're never in here this early, and they know it too. the fact that he brought you here first knots your chest into the familiar sensation of arousal.

"hobie," you murmur, a lot shyer than you were a minute ago, anxiousness marrying your features. he grins wider, patting your back reassuringly and guiding both of you to the used, plush chair.

"thought you guys were gonna go at it like rabbits tonight," the rhythm guitarist comments, his striped headband holding his mohawk from his face, a deep frown etched in it. the excitement damping your panties has you hearing his voice in an entirely different light. you've listened to it hundreds of times before as backup vocals, but it's attractive how he lazily draws his phrases, and you can't help but wonder why you've never realized this before.

hobie's long fingers tap your jaw, clearly unhappy with your wandering focus. "who says we won''?" he responds nonchalantly, your first inclination of what's about to occur. he flops back into the chair with his hands behind his head. "sit," he commands you easily.

you glance back at the men who discreetly steal glances at your attire before you turn back to hobie, gulping.

he's hard. that much is painfully evident from the tent in his pants, and you search his expression for an explanation, yet he relinquishes nothing. it takes only a moment of deliberation, and you're stepping over his leg while he helps you take a seat, panties gliding over his erection. you're trying to get comfortable without making it obvious how much you want more than what he's giving you, but the breath is stolen from your lungs when you lean forward slowly, your hips grinding ever so slightly on his jeans' rough fabric. he clicks his tongue in annoyance, using your hips like a handle to pull you across his lap. your teeth sink into your lower lip to contain the yelp at the precipice of your lower lip, staring at him with wild eyes.

you're having trouble piecing together his next move, his purpose for bringing you here. he's obviously horny, but what's his goal? to show you off?

minutes pass, the conversation between the band members picks up, and the smell of weed fills the air shortly after. curiously you direct your attention to him, and hobie presses a kiss on your head in response, quietly sitting straighter so you're not sitting directly on his erection. music from the venue speakers fills the room while the building welcomes the last performers of the night. the walls vibrate with the bass, shattering any form of silence. from what you can tell, it's not bad, but you're too focused on the almost indistinct zip of hobie's zipper to notice.

his fingers dance over his pants, pulling his flushed tip from its confines, the rest springing out, hard and desperate. it takes longer than it should to figure out where he's going with this, and when you do, your head snaps to attention, mouth agape.

he offers you a smug smirk, raising his eyebrow as if daring you to cockwarm him in front of his buddies. he must feel the way your cunt throbs because his dark irises engulf his pupils, long fingers wrapping around himself with a concealed hiss, precum beading at the tip. if his hand lazily gliding around his cock head is anything to go by, he seems to enjoy your deliberation.

you reach forward slowly and lightly trace your finger over the exposed skin. hobie jumps, hips tilting up to meet your slow strokes, his shaft twitching. precum leaks further down his length, droplets of it meeting your curled fist.

taking a steadying breath and quickly glancing behind you to ensure the three other people, no more than six feet away, know what you are doing, you lift your skirt and pull your panties to the side, slowly sinking onto him. he's big, and without any prep, the stretch teeters on the edge of unpleasurable.

biting back your noises and moving steadily so the fluids from your connecting bodies are silent is the hardest part after being so used to him encouraging any sound. nonetheless, you manage somehow, fullying, seating yourself with a quiet huff, clenching and unclenching as you get used to being full. hobie's practically giddy with glee, his lips quirking in a sanguine grin, knowing full well you'd never deny him.

time passes in a slow tick, and conversation floating between his friends occupying the room becomes background noise with your head on hobie's chest. you're not focused on anything in particular, having drifted into an airy headspace, his silky cock the only thing keeping you grounded.

hobie's hand stops its slow circles across your lower back, boney fingers splaying across it. the break from his methodical comfort jerks you back to the present as he leans forward to grab the joint one of them offers.

his cock head shifts inside you, nudging a spot deeper inside your core that after so long of not moving, a light noise, an inkling of a whimper, vibrates in your throat. heat flares, red and hot, as the lust you've been trying to quell roars its head, setting your body ablaze.

you're striving to be good, you really are, but the peers from the others and hobie's smug grin are making it impossible to do so.

again he moves to return the blunt, and your slick drips down his cock obscenely. from being splayed across his lap for so long, you're hyper-aware of every ridge and curve of his dick, the veins lining it, and the distinct pulse it beats to. it's almost as needy as you and your achy clit begging for stimulation.

the beginnings of restlessness dawn upon you, hips sore from being kept open for so long. your toes curl in your shoes as you try to remain still, very aware of the other people in the room, though you must be getting too antsy for his liking because he pinches the fat of your hip. the sigh escaping your puckered lips is low enough for his ears alone.

a chuckle, not from hobie, resounds through the room, cutting through their easy conversation. "your girl ge''in sleepy on ya'?"

your hot breath fans across hobie's neck, and unconsciously your pussy flutters around his unmoving shaft. the feeling of him keeping you stuffed to the brim is too much, and you're becoming more desperate for him to provide you with stimulation of some sort.

"why don't you ask her?" hobie shrugs, his grip tightening. you can't see them, but you can only imagine their reaction as you hear a bean bag shift.

"'re you ge''in tired, swee'heart?" the drummer– no guitarist- asks, his voice dripping with condensation, the flirty undertone surprising you.

"turn 'round," hobie commends, jaw clenching while tapping your hip, "bit rude to turn your back on my mates when they're talkin' to ya', aye?"

your breathing picks up significantly, and you look to him for guidance, your heart beating outside your chest. his hardened expression melts just slightly, and his hand traces the contours of your face, letting his rings slide down before cupping your jaw gently. "you can do it. go on."

if the other men in the room had no idea what was happening then, they have to now when you turn around. his cock moves inside you, heavy and thick, and you nearly sob in relief. it's a miracle you're able to stifle your moans as you lift your hips ever so slightly, his dick slipping from your gummy walls while you carefully change direction, trying to hold him inside.

you're barely clinging onto the threads of your control, holding back from fucking yourself on him with the bit of restraint you possess. faintly it crosses your mind how they haven't protested or found any of hobie's exhibitionist tendencies, and apparently yours too, perverted. they want this, and hobie seems to know it too by how his body hunches possessively around you. gradually, the situation makes sense in a way that suggests he planned this. which begs the question, had they discussed this? after hobie's instance of not sharing you, had he done this to prove something?

your head swims with new information, and the desire singing in your veins turns your thoughts into molasses. each of them goggles at glimpses of your mound from where your skirt rides up, fixated on your trembling form. you slump back, the new angle making it harder to sit still.

the drummer shakes his head, blonde spikes streaked with red catching the dim light, lowly whistling when he catches sight of your skirt fluttering when you sit back down. he chuckles, "you perverted bastard."

"i don't know what ya' mean," hobie coyly replies, feigning indifference. you look at his band members, the tension rising now that they know for sure and see what's happening. the smell of sex permeates your senses the longer your eyes linger on the rest of them. the bassist, farthest away from you caresses himself through his pants to satisfy his bulge straining through it.

"at 'his poin,' jus' fuck 'er, 'obes. we all know wha' you're doin," one calls out, and you feel his neck straining as he scrutinizes him.

"so you dirty pigs can get a peak? nah, she's fine where she's at"

"well, if you're not gonna do it, i'm sure i can finish the job," h tilts his head, dark irises blown wide by his lust. it has your breath stuttering, your mind wiped by the simple request, and if hobie's taut muscles are anything to go by, he's growing increasingly frustrated by the idea. not jealous per se, he's too secure in himself to be, but almost angered by his audacity.

his hands engulf your hips in one quick movement pulling them forward to impale you hard on his cock. the moan punches from your throat, and you keen over, unable to move with the feeling of hobie so deep in your stomach.

"who says i wanna give her up?" he's moving you, grinding your clit over his pubic hair, and creating a rhythm that has you seeing stars. "happy?"

"by seeing her? fuck, i could cum from the sight alone, but i wouldn'' mind taking a go at it. who knows, she migh' like it better." he's playing into hobie's bitterness, and you don't know if you should thank him or not because it's spurring him on, and he's grunting and thrusting into you unsparingly.

"you're delusional," hobie drawls, pulling your back flush with his toned chest, and the movement chokes out a cry.

"your faul' for fucking your girl in fron' ov us when you know she likes it," the guitarist notes, the red and blue headphones around his neck sticking to his sweaty skin.

"you've never minded before," he retaliates, and you brush off the implications that this has happened before, and despite your efforts, you cling to the words "your girl." you have to bite your lip to contain your grin. since meeting him, all you wanted was to be his, and being referred to as his, proved to be a greater comfort than you could have imagined.

you fumble for something to ground you as your half-lidded eyes watch the members of the band you've known for months get off to you. the emotion building in your chest from the attention is unexplainable. however, hobie makes his disapproval obvious by keeping his hips snapping furiously. you're sure your cervix will be bruised at the end of this, and the ache between your legs will make walking impossible, but the way he's controlling your pleasure so spectacularly leaves little thought for the future.

"fuckin' hell, luv." he moans, his breath fanning across your neck. "they've been talking 'bout you, ya know?" hobie grunts suddenly, "longest time i've been with a girl, wanted to know when it was their turn" he lowers his voice, his mouth next to your ear as he takes ahold of your chin so you're staring right at his band members getting off. "know wha' i said, huh? I wasn't keen on sharin' 'his one. too perfect a girl for 'at. and do you know what they told me?"

you whine, shaking your head. the moans strain your throat from their loud pitch, unfiltered and unrestrained in a way the men seem to revel in.

"bastards didn't believe me. shoved the idea of an angel willingly bouncing on my cock like a cheap whore. now look at them. a bloody mess at the sight of ya'."

he's right, and it's becoming impossible to think of anything outside this moment, outside him pistoning into you. his thrusts are measured but aggressive all the same, almost as if he's trying to prove to them that no one could fuck you as well as him. he's all you can feel as moans and whines tumble out.

"bloody hell, mate. swear, you gotta let me have a taste," the drummer, whose name escapes you, begs, pulling his rather significant length from his pants, tugging on it with an expression you can only define as carnality.

"see. what did i tell you? practically drooling for ya'." hobie ignores him, fingers snaking around to furiously rub your neglected clit, the base of his cock disappearing in your slick-coated walls. there's nothing human about how he maintains his thrusts, possessiveness embedded into your skin from how hard his fingers hold your hips. the ugly mixture of jealousy turns you on far more than it should.

"shit, such a good girl, f'me, all f'me. best hole i've ever 'ad."

your eyes are blurry with tears, choking on your spit, moans cutting off any attempt at talking while your legs shake. hobie's pace doesn't falter, seemingly encouraged by your rapidly growing climax. "there you go, sweet thing. gonna cum? show these twits they couldn't make you feel half as good?"

whines and whimpers fill the air along with the course of skin slapping over the music based in the next room.

you whimper, mustering your strength to nod your head frantically, on the verge of babbling. he delivers a sharp slap to your ass, causing you to arch into him.

"right there, 's right there, fuckin angel. perfect, f'me, just me." he's reduced to babbling, impaling you relentlessly with his twitching dick, balls slapping lewdly against your ass while tears gather behind your eyes. there's none of the eye contact he usually craves, just your sweaty body slumped into his, thighs perched open by his in a way that would be intimate if it wasn't for the three other people in the room.

his thumb vigorously rubs circles on your clit, your pussy gripping him like a voice while the knot in your stomach tightens. you're nearing the edge faster than you can make sense of, his pace unfaltering, when suddenly he's forcefully pressing down on the sensitive bundle of nerves. you're coming with a strangled cry the next second, your back bending off his toned chest, the tension in your stomach breaking in one sudden push. he chases his orgasm like a madman, fucking into you like somebody will rip you from his arms if he doesn't.

all at once, his sticky body stutters, his chest heaving as hobie cums with a filthy moan. his mouth parts in a silent cry, broken sounds of pleasure auditable through the wet squelch of your pussy and the obscene sounds that follow your release.

your sure the both of you are a sight to behold with your matching fucked out expressions as a result of coming down from an intense, mind-shattering high. his absurd amount of spend is plugged deep inside by his softening cock. it takes a couple of moments for your breaths to even out, and you can already feel the beginnings of soreness settling in your joints.

"fuck me, bro," his drummer sighs, using a tissue to wipe his cock free from his cum. "i don't know how you do it. i can never get good pussy like you."

and just like that, the high is ripped away, abruptly plunging you back into reality. the lady's words echo in your head, blaring red and loud like a warning. whore. that's all you were to them. some cheap use of cunt that's only good for a release. it's why he never invited you any other day than saturday. why your relationship is built on sex alone and not some connection you seem to feel.

it's as if someone dumped cold water over you, and you're suddenly vulnerable. even fully dressed, you feel as exposed as if you were naked, thoroughly used with hobie's cum leaking out of you. truly you feel like nothing more than a whore while being spread open so vulgarly.

slowly you stand, mindful of your achy body. his touch lingers like he's not expecting you to leave, and you squash the hope he wants you to say before it can fully form. the other guys realize this is your goodbye before hobie does, beaming at you.

"maybe next time, sweetheart. you let us know if this geezer ain't treating you right, yeah?" h announces, grinning while tucking himself back into his pants, hobie following suit, his stare burning a hole in the back of your head. you smile, humorlessly chuckling as you try to regain some sense of dignity.

"hey," hobie's eyebrows furrowed in confusion, grabbing your hand with a severe expression forgoing his usual playful complexion. "aren't you staying?"

"i figured i'd better get out of your hair early. i'm sure you have things to do." your clothing has been fixed, yet you keep fiddling with it, using it as a distraction and a reason not to keep the eye contact he's searching for.

"never said 'at." silence follows like he's leading up to a question he's afraid to ask. "everything alright?"

swallowing the knot in your throat, you hum in agreement. "yeah. yeah, i'm fine."

you expect him to brush it off like he did the past couple of times because why would he care about how you feel? it's not like you're in a relationship. he is not obligated to feed you reassurance and ensure you're okay. you prepare to take a step back to leave, afraid to face him reflecting the disappointment bubbling in your chest.

you don't know how he does it, how he can so effortlessly continue to surprise you and question everything you think you know about him all by a simple tug at your hand. the gasp is stuck in your throat when your feet trip over each other by the pull, and you somehow end up in his lap, gazing into his adamant and worried features. "i don't believe you."

"yeah, well…" trailing off, your standing attempts are denied by his rings digging into your skin.

"not gonna ask again, luv," hobie says sternly, leaving no room for argument. he searches your face for an answer, lips pressing into a rigid line while waiting for a response. you're trying to find an excuse when you see it. the shift in his eyes, the shine that replaces it, and his face overcome with realization. "does it 'ave some'hin' to do with wha' she said?"

your entire face falls, your heart sinking to your stomach in horror. had he heard what the woman had said? it wasn't impossible since he was so close when he caught you. he could have easily heard it. "you started actin' funny after she said it," he explains, though it isn't needed. you swallow the lump in your throat, nodding and frantically trying to find a way to escape this, but he beats you to it by pulling you into his chest.

"you're not." these two simple words set your entire world off its axis or right back on it: you're not sure which yet. it takes longer than necessary to sink in, and once it does, your chest is tight with emotion. you have half a mind to argue, deny it like the voice in the back of your head is begging you to do.

"you're not," he says with firm authority, his hands grasping at your shoulders in a plea for you to understand. you might never know why, but it makes your heart stop and speed up simultaneously.

he observes you slowly grasping the words, letting you accept them under his roaming gaze. the stiff lines of your face relax in acceptance, and his smirk curls into something devious as he kisses the crown of your head.

this not all that sorry yall

"don't worry, you're pretty 'ead, luv. they'll learn not to mess with what's mine soon enough."

TAGLIST: @alicefallsintotherabbithole

[urdinosaurs]

ok ok, so the idea for the hobbie... how about the reader having toxic friends who, when they meet hobbie, say he's "too much" for her? so, she would be super insecure, maybe they'd break up without explaining because of their pressure, but you know how hobbie is, she doesn't give him options other than him solving things the "hobbie way"

this happened to a friend of mine in the past, she was told that her boyfriend was "too cool" or that she was getting in his way, and I can't stop thinking how the hobbie would handle it

no need to write about it, it's just an idea... Oh, and could you add me to your hobbie taglist?? I would love to be able to follow then

╰┈➤ ❝ 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐑 ❞ | 𝐇𝐎𝐁𝐈𝐄 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍

PROMPT: when your friends you've known for years decide to get together for the first time in months, they meet your boyfriend, hobie brown. the five of them are stunned when they first lay eyes on him, appearing polite, but when he leaves you’re bombarded with "advice" that starts the downward spiral of your and hobie's relationship. he however, won't let that happen.

WARNINGS: afab reader, angst, feelings of inadequacy, some british slang: adam and eve - believe, toxic friends, manipulative friends, insecurity, self consciousness, self hate, 3k wc

A/N: since we talked about this in pm you already know that i made changes to the original request. my god it took 3 weeks to write and even then i barely got it done on time. i kind of hate this but wtv i have to post it at this point

it's been eating at you for weeks. constantly your friend's words churn over in your head when you hang around hobie. you hide it. at least you try to keep your uneasiness at bay and push it to the back of your mind whenever he wraps an arm around your shoulder in public, or people's heads turn as you walk past. but it's maddening to have their words play in a vicious cycle, reminding you of what you'll never be for him, good enough.

last week, you took time off work to visit your friends who had made plans to see you. because of your jobs, you were spread across town, your daily lives separate from one another, which meant finding time together was a rare blessing. it was going well until hobie came to pick you up, and that's when it started. the side glances, the questioning looks they shot you, were unavoidable and only amplified when he came up to greet them.

each of them took him in, offering a polite greeting, their eyes narrowing when he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and quickly kissed your forehead, saying he'd meet you in the car. when he was out of earshot, they turned to you.

"that's your boyfriend?"

"you didn't tell us you were dating someone like him."

"i didn't think someone who looked so… you know… interesting and uh… attractive would date you. no offense, of course!"

"well, it's just that your, you."

condescending, judgmental, disdainful; that's all you heard. even after trying to laugh it off, saying that you got lucky, it didn't end there.

"he's just so much cooler than you."

he really was. hobie brown was so much better than you deserved, flawless in his looks, smug and assured without being overconfident, secure in himself but not narcissistic. he was perfect, so much so that you had a hard time believing he was real. thus it shouldn't have shaken you as it did when those words took root in your consciousness, sprouting and branching out into further uncertainty, spreading and infesting your mind until you end up where you are now. a tangled mess of doubt, trapped in a cycle of self-pity and blame.

those thoughts spiral over the next couple of weeks, to the point where even hobie has taken notice and pulled you aside time and time again to ask what was the matter. you find that lying to him has gotten easier, despite him managing to see right through you and the facade you hide behind. instead, he's taken up on coaxing you into the truth by offering more physical reassurance. his arms linger around you more, checking up on you with little brushes of his hand across your back, letting his kisses last longer, all of this while initiating these tender gestures.

it's a more than thoughtful expression, nearly bringing you to tears most nights when he whispers words of reassurance into your ear like you deserve to be held so tenderly.

in those moments, the self-deprecating thoughts become too much, and you feel yourself slowly slipping away from him, detaching, only clinging to the love you think you deserve.

you wish you could say that your thoughts were the only cause, but the more you saw your friends, the more their comments about your relationship would wear you down. sleep evades you most nights, caught up wondering about the future of your rapidly deteriorating relationship with hobie, so really, it should be no surprise when you come to the conclusion one night that you should break up.

by no stretch of the imagination do you want to, but it would be best for both of you, right? he could finally find someone who can give him all he deserves, the affection you lack, the love, the sex. someone who won't rely on the constant reassurance you seem to need, hold him back from his duty as spider-man, who's not a continual burden, a person that is, in all essence, everything you aren't. it's better this way. after wasting his time, he'll find someone he deserves. you're counting on it. besides, it's not like he would notice that you were gone or, more likely, care.

self-hatred fills your chest as you relive your relationship with hobie in your head, fueled by the new information and perspective that you were never going to mean what he meant to you. and that's precisely what you say in the note you leave on his kitchen counter before walking out the door, choking on your tears.

∘°∘♡∘°∘

hobie comes home that night to an empty apartment. it's quiet, too quiet for you to occupy it, and it's his first inkling that something's the matter. he calls out your name, peeking into various doorways curiously, hands shoved in his pockets. a minute passes and the crinkle between his eyebrows deepen as he spins aimlessly in place for any trace of you.

his senses prickle, pace stuttering when he feels something is amiss. hobie's observational stare flits around the room, taking care to search for disturbances, taking note of his untouched mess before his spine straightens, and it's then he realizes all your stuff is gone. the bra lying on the back of the couch is nowhere to be found, your small bag of belongings is missing from its corner in his room, and the jacket you claimed for yourself is hanging in his closet. it's his second indication that something isn't right.

hobie's lips purse into a frown, warning bells ringing in his mind as he peers back into his room and confirms that all your things are missing. dread pools in his stomach, and he's more frantic now, scouring for any trace of you, when he stumbles upon the note sitting on the kitchen counter. it's his third and final sign, and his fingers crumple the paper as he swipes it off the counter, his breath catching in his chest at the first two words.

i'm sorry.

he reads it and can almost imagine your voice reading it to him in the low timber you use when remorseful or insecure. it doesn't help that the more he reads, the more panic rises from the depths of his stomach, his face falling when your friends are mentioned. the alarm gripping him like a vice dissipates into raw, unbridled anger.

it becomes too much listening to you degrade yourself like this that he slams the writing down, his hand running over his face while stepping back. he paces in a circle, glaring at the sheet of paper, before snatching it again in a fury. by the end of the note, where you sign your name with an 'i love you,' a deep ache has furrowed its way into his chest that doesn't subside those coming seconds after reading.

he sets the letter down, his elbows resting on the counter as his head falls into his hands. he's conflicted, frustration clouding his thoughts at your friends, at how you let them get to you in such a way that could ruin the one good thing he's ever had. the other is mournful, deeply pained by the fact you believe such things about yourself when all he's ever shown you is how much you matter.

he picks up the message once more, examining the front and back, skimming the page, a deep frown edged into his lips. peering aimlessly, the reasons for your behavior over the past week begin to connect, and he curses himself when he realizes this, groaning as he slumps further against the counter. how had he not seen it? the way you would come home silently after being out with your friends, like your mere presence was an insult to him, taking as little space as possible, secluding yourself, and apologizing more. his blood boils as it all comes together.

he stares at his hands, which have unconsciously curled into a fist, and flexes his fingers. "fuck," he mumbles, breathing heavily. there's no way he's letting your relationship end, not like this. you still love him, that much is clear, and if you're going to let some narcissistic, pretentious twits ruin what you had, then he'll just have to change your mind. he's out of the apartment before he can think it through.

easier said than done, apparently, because he's been swinging around the city for the past half an hour. he has checked every place he can think of, from your apartment to your favorite hangout spots and food places. he's even visited your old bedroom at your parent's residence. there's nowhere else to be. he doubts you would leave town with your livelihood here. hotels are expensive, and you wouldn't have the money to sustain yourself at one for long unless, of course, you're staying the night with friends.

oh.

a fresh swell of resentment pulses through him, not at you, but that you would stay with those people and let them feed into the delusions they've created. moving swiftly, he hurries across buildings, emotional in every sense, flying through the city without care. it festers on his way there, and he's practically suffocating in it as he drops down in front of the place, pushing his hands into his pockets. with his enhanced senses, he can hear pockets of information leaking out, and he slows his steps, careful not to make noise. he strains his ears, picking up the low murmur of voices, yours among them. it's almost pathetic how his heart flutters at the sound of your voice but quickly drops when he starts piecing the conversation together.

"aww, don't cry. it's better this way." one of the girls coos, the faux sympathy in her voice grating on his ears.

"he's just too much for you. i'm sure you'll find someone better suited to you."

"yeah, hobie will find someone he deserves." he stands at the doorstep, speechless, your sniffles breaking his heart.

"you just weren't meant to be."

hobie's fist pounds at the door, hatred roaring so intensely he has to stifle it in an indifferent guise. who were they to assume such things about him? what kind of audacity must they possess to pray on your insecurities? he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, hiding his bared teeth behind disregard.

the conversation falls to a hush inside, slow footsteps treading their way to the door, a girl poking her head out. she's shocked by his appearance but quickly recovers by batting her eyelashes, looking at him up and down with an expression he's seen all too often, desire. hobie feels sick, so disgusted he clenches his fist, holding it to his side before it can collide with her face.

"where is she?" he doesn't bother with pleasantries, his gruff voice impatient, desperation underlining his words. she's clever, though, picking up on it as she bristles, trying to appear annoyed by his appearance.

"you know, you really shouldn't be here." her voice is whinier than he remembers. "not when you're the one who caused this."

"me? com' aut' of it now. it's you who caused this," hobie scoffs, scowling, leaning against the door frame. "now, i'm no' goin' to ask again. where is she?"

"you have a lot of nerve playing with her feelings like this when you can obviously do better." she taps a manicured hand over her crossed arms, raising an accusing eyebrow.

"an' you have a lot of fuckin' nerve assumin' shit abou' me when you don't know a damn thing," he spits aggressively, his face hardened and his eyes narrowing into slits. hobie's getting ready to barge in, attack her with insults to get you in his arms again, when he hears your sweet voice calling across the house.

"is everything ok?"

shoving past her, his thick boots vibrate across the floor, directed solely by his spider senses when he sees you for the first time since the breakup.

∘°∘♡∘°∘

your throat is uncomfortably tight with the previous tears you shed, gaping at hobie, whose disheveled appearance curls your lips into a frown. you're extended in the moment, caught in each other's gaze in a way that blurs your mind. your friends look between you two, the one who answered the door, setting a hand on his shoulder, nudging him toward it.

"it's time for you to leave." she gives you a remorseful pout, fingers digging into the bare skin of his shoulder to get him to leave. the pressure snaps him out of his daze, and he jerks his arm out of her grip, surging towards you. with just a step back, he pauses in his stead, his face contorting into one of betrayal, and your heart sinks.

"we need to talk." you can't help but think of how out of place he looks here, in the normalcy of abby's rented home.

"there's nothing to talk about."

"please," he implores desperately, eyes begging you to agree. you're trying to figure out his motive when you swallow your reservations and follow him out the door, your head tucked at your friend's disappointment. the cold air bites your skin, and you shiver as hobie shuts the door behind you.

his head jerks to one of the tallest buildings, the one he's brought you to before in question. you know what he means after so long of being with him. he wants a private spot, really the only place you can get privacy in this city, and you look back at the dwelling. hobie seems to read your mind, gently pulling your hand forward, a silent message to trust him, and you can't help yourself by doing exactly that.

hobie swings to the top of the building, setting you down next to the ledge. the breeze is fierce up here, your short sleeves unable to fight the goosebumps rising to your skin. looking out across the city and pulling your arms in to maintain the heat, you can almost forget about tonight just by watching the dazzling array of lights. that is until you feel warm leather draped over your shoulder, and you're suddenly pulled back into the present.

he takes a step back, avoiding you peering quizzically at him, turning his attention to the same lights he can't seem to find the same beauty in as you. clearing his throat, he sits down at the edge, inviting you to do the same, his face hopeful. you sit, leaving enough of a gap to steal the intimacy of the situation from the air.

"this isn't how a break up is supposed to work," you murmur, picking at the corners of your nails, avoiding his vision exploring the emotions you suppressed rising to the surface.

he scoffs, throwing his head back. "wasn" much ov a break up, more than you jus' leaving, luv."

your breathing hitches, and the guilt eating away at you worsens, hating how you can't even stand by your decision.

"an' by the way, wha' the hell was that note?" his nostrils flare, and you shrink further into yourself, pulling his jacket closer. "letting those pieces of shit you call friends talk to you like 'at. having 'em ruin our relationship."

"they didn't," you murmur lightly, your throat thick with emotion. "i did. they just told me the truth."

"the truth?" he clenches his fists so hard that his nails cut into his skin, downright appalled. his mind races faster than he can make sense of. "'that's wha' you adam and eve 'his is?"

your silence speaks louder than words, and his scoff rings in your ears, his head shaking in disbelief.

"what are you doing here, hobie?" you whisper, looking away. "why can't you stop using me?"

"using you?!" hobie's head swivels around, his breathing shallow and face contorting in outrage. "your friends 'ave you more fucked in the head than i thought if you seriously believe that shit."

"but they're right, hobie!" the words burst out of your mouth before you can stop them, whipping your head around to face him. "all you do is pretend to care even though you know you can do better!"

"shut up," hobie's lips curl in fury, pinching your chin to make you look at him. "shut the hell up with the self-deprecating bullshit they've manipulated you to think."

"why do you keep denying it?" your desperate voice shakes with emotion, now on the verge of tears. "i've come to terms with it. we just– we weren't meant for each other, hobie. why can't you understand that?!"

sniffling, you break away from his lax grip, holding the water building behind your eyes at bay as you try to compose yourself. hobie's stunned, words evading his skillful tongue by your confession. his chest is uncomfortably tight as seconds pass, the wind carrying the sounds of cars and late-night street life from below.

"i don't," he states firmly, clenching his jaw. "i've never 'hough' 'at way or given any indication i did. it doesn'' make sense when i know wha' i want."

you swallow, reaching through your struggle to put your intentions into words. "all i want is for you to be with someone who can give you everything."

"but i don't want everything. i want you."

time slows down to reveal the flawless details of hobie's pretty, dark skin framed by the city's lights encompassing the two of you. for a moment, you pause, blood pounding in your ears. registering his words takes longer than you would like to admit, but the tears have already started falling, and hobie's enveloped you in his arms tightly before you can blink them away. he sways, his embrace suffocating, and it's all you need to cry into his shirt. desperately and utterly, you sob, each pent-up emotion spilling out in waves of crying. he holds you through all of them, his gentle but deep voice rumbling in your ear all the while.

"i'm sorry." you cry in his shirt, the fabric muffling your voice. "i'm sorry to make you do this."

he shushes you in an instant, his lilting cockney accent soothing. "don't do that."

"i don't deserve you." the hoarseness in your quivering tone does not go unnoticed as you sink deeper into his embrace. he holds you close to his chest, tapping your thigh to encourage you to move onto his lap, which you do, your face still tucked into the crook of his neck.

"hey…hey, look at me 'ere sweet'eart." hobie taps your jaw, and when your head moves, he ushers your chin up gently. "none of that nonsense, alright?"

he waits for some kind of acknowledgement, nudging your chin. "alright?" a nod is all you can give, swallowing back the tears that prick your eyes.

"listen 'ere, luv. their opinions mean jack shit, got it? they don'' have a clue 'bout us. just a bunch of presumptuous asses, right?"

you turn your head down, lip caught between your teeth debatingly.

"but–"

"no buts. those cunts think they know everything, and that's where they get ya. only you're better than 'em, huh? we don't conform to other people's elitist beliefs, isn't that right?"

you chuckle lightly, sniffling while the weight on your shoulders you've been carrying for weeks begins to lift.

"i wanna hear you say it, sweetheart. their opinions mean jack shit." he reaffirms.

taking a deep breath, the anguish that's been wearing away at you, the insecurity and doubts flicker like a dying flame, and releasing the breath extinguishes it in seconds. "their opinions mean jack shit."

"there's, my girl!" hobie exclaims, and he pulls you into his side for a hug, which you quickly reciprocate. "i knew you 'ad it in you. you're perfect, ya know that? absolutely perfect in every way possible, luv. though ya do need be''er friends."

laughing, you wipe away any lingering tears, settling into his hold with an agreeing hum.

"does 'at mean you're mine again?" he whispers into your hair, and when you nod in agreement, your chin still tucked into his chest, his pierced lips pulling into an ear-splitting grin you recognize as boyish.

TAGLIST: @alicefallsintotherabbithole

"that's wha' i like to hear."

[urdinosaurs]

e-42 miles would definitely take you to get a barbie after seeing the barbie movie with you.

that night after the movie, he would take you to target to find the barbie, even going to multiple stores without complaint if they didn't have the doll you wanted. when you did find it however, he'd let you pick out outfits for it. upon your insistence of course. you would search through the small plastic packaged clothing that included shoes and purses and when you asked him which one went best with the barbie you chose, he'd give his honest opinion, even though he didn't really get it.

but he's not getting one. no matter how much you beg, saying how you would be just like barbie and ken, he's firm on his stance on not buying one. he's a man. he wouldn't be caught dead with a toy made for woman...is what he says but miles ends up walking out of target with two barbies, one for you and one for him with accessories for both.

who is he to deny you?

[urdinosaurs]

Hello, I love your hobie x reader where reader is giving a bj, can I have something similar but the reader can fully deep throat him and lick his balls at the same time 🤭 (it's my special move. 🥴) I just wanna know how he'll react, maybe he'll bust early 😝

╰┈➤ ❝ 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐑 ❞ | 𝐇𝐎𝐁𝐈𝐄 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍

PROMPT: going to hobie's shows is something you've done for as long as you can remeber. watching him perform on stage with his band never failed to render in a state of awe. only this time your boyfriend meets your heated gaze and decides to do something about it.

WARNINGS: nsfw 18+, exhibition, afab reader, canon divergence, no p in v, blow job, come eating, throat fucking, itty bitty degradation (slut, whore), the reader sucks him off in a dark corner, exhibitionist rockstar!hobie supremacy ♡, 1.6k wc

A/N: ahhhh ily *giggles cutely* this is such a slutty and silly idea fr!!! i tried to do my last fic from hobie's perspective, so now i'm doing it from the readers, so yay me!!!

out of all the ways the night could have ended, this wasn't totally out of the ordinary.

hobie played shows often with his band. who, in all honesty, were just a couple of kids who had the same political beliefs as him and translated them into music to play at any venue that would let them. not that there were many of them left anyways after having many instances of being "disruptive," causing property damage, a few cases of assault, although very justified, ended them up with quite a few permanent bans.

however, tonight was a good night for them: high energy from the audience, lively interactions, tips, and an atmosphere that could pump up your adrenaline until you were drunk on it. you're adrift in the crowd, hands in the air, and your voice lost in the sea of hundreds. you know the lyrics by heart, having heard hobie play these songs more times than you could count, you sing along, your head bumping to the beat. lights flash, and the rhythm vibrates in your chest. it felt good to let loose like this, dance with wreckless abandon in a scene of like-minded people.

through the dancing and singing, the moving bodies and screaming, your attention remains on hobie, in awe of him throughout the show and his expert fingers moving over the cords under the colorful lights blinking on stage. sweat drips off his face, gliding down his skin and trailing under his shirt, worn and ripped in places from so much use. you could never get over how gorgeous he looked in his element. entirely absorbed in the throws of music pulsing through his veins, the audience's energy pushes his body to perform to its absolute limits. fueled by the show's intensity, he takes its thrill like a drug.

it was as you were admiring him that he finally caught your gaze from the crowd. when your eyes meet, a smirk pulls at the corner of his lips, accentuating his pearly white canines, his studded tongue flicking over them sensationally as he finishes off the last couple of notes, the song ending in roaring applause. almost as if he could see right through you regarding him hungrily, he subtly adjusts his pants with his boney fingers decked in rings, and it's then you see his distressed jeans tent, begging for attention against strains against the fabric.

gawking, you blink at the bulge in his pants, and his eyes light up with barely contained mischief at your shocked expression. he grabs the water bottle next to the drums, the other members taking a water break as well, an unusual act for most performers, but then again, they weren't like most bands, as clearly shown by hobie's bold display of lust toward you.

he's told you before how much he loves watching you dance at his shows: your face lit up in excitement, and eyes that stare at him like he's someone to be admired. it's a rush, he told you once after a show, cornering you behind the stage so you could squeeze in a quick fuck before he had to meet the rest of his band. despite how his cock twitches in his pants when he watches you, hobie loves it- lives for your engagement that brings heat pulsing through his body like a live wire. so really, it should have been no surprise that he was sporting a hard-on halfway through his own show.

hobie's head tilts back, beads of condensation running across his skin and adam's apple as it bobs. observing him with bated breath, his focus stays on you while he caps the bottle, his band getting ready to play again, but not before he shoots you a wink, lips quirking into a smug smile.

under such a heaty gaze, glinting with the whisps of arousal starting to fill them, it shouldn't have been a surprise to you that you ended up on your knees in a shady corner of the venue, hobie's cock shoved halfway down your throat. he manhandles you in a way that's positively addicting, furiously bullying more of his dick down your crowded windpipe, a groan hitched in his.

"good girl, such a good girl f'me, taking what i give you– fuck," hobie hisses, his choker bobbing deliciously at the nape of his neck, constantly shifting over his sweaty skin from the throaty moans spilling out without respite. your jaw is sore from going down on him for so long that drool drips down your chin.

he graciously swipes away the spit with his hand, and instead of placing it back on your head, he brings his fingers to his mouth, sucking on your saliva. his eyes roll into his skull pleasurably at the taste. the moan of satisfaction he relinquishes is muffled, and you can't help but gape at him, stunned by how a simple action can make your core ache so badly.

at this point, all you crave is his release, so you can get yours. selfish, yes, but you're sure your panties are sticking to your skin, soaked in your juices, and the utter desire for something other than the heel of your foot rubbing against your clit is almost unbearable. you trace the veins of his cock with your tongue, fully committed to speeding up his building climax with your newfound goal in mind. the hitch in his throat is distinct, his fist tightening over your hair for leverage while his dick twitches.

"that's a girl. fuckin' minx with that mouth, yeah?" his breathing grows more labored, and the chatter filtering into the corner you've secluded yourself from the rest of the pub has become background noise.

"finna fill you up early if you don't slow down, baby." his head hits the wall behind him, hips bucking into your mouth, and your vision burns with unshed tears. "but that's what a slut like you wants, innit?"

you clench around nothing, whining into his cock as you double your efforts, fueled by his dirty words. he thrusts down your throat, your jaw stretching wide to take him as far as possible. he guides your head, using it to bring himself closer to the edge. his grunts are escaping them faster than he can think to muffle them.

each sensation is multiplied by the feel of his fat tip hitting the back of your throat repeatedly, and you fight the urge not to gag. he's becoming more desperate by the second to cum, and despite the rough force he's using to shove your head to the base of his shaft, he's unable to fall into the oblivion of his orgasm. you can tell he's struggling and growing frustrated by the pathetic whines replacing his grunts, and before you can think about your actions, your tongue extends and glides over his balls in one swift motion.

he moans loudly, his back arching and his breath stuttering in a scene you can only describe as pornographic. slurred cries serve as your only warning before his body convulses, and he's shoving your face into his pelvic bone, your nose smashing into his pubic hair. his legs shake just as hot spurts of cum rapidly fill your mouth. you desperately gulp down what you can, but it's more than you're used to, and it dribbles out of the corner of your mouth.

when he finishes and his hand loosens, you tear yourself off, coughing and straining to catch your breath. each scratchy inhale is a reminder of your raw and well-used throat and the pounding it took. you message it, moving your sore jaw around while hobie comes down, slumped against the wall. now that the high is wearing down, your knees throb. not too bad, thanks to hobie's jacket underneath them, but it's enough to where your body is going to hurt the next day. the rest of your legs are sticky from who knows what on the floor, and your shirt sticks to your body, your thighs uncomfortably wet from your neglected pussy.

but despite all that, you look up at him with that glazed expression you know he loves, and he meets it, brown eyes practically black with lust as they flicker over your features. a gentle hand caresses your face admirably, the callouses from the guitar creating a pleasant contrast against your smooth skin. you lean into his hand, longing for the reassurance only he can offer.

"missed a spot." hobie mumbles, thumb swiping at the corner of your mouth to catch the droplets of cum that had spilled. he brings his thumb to your lips, and instinctively they part, expecting him to push the digit in, but instead, he presses his finger to your lips. carefully he smears his cum across them in a mindful motion, like he was applying lip gloss, leaving a thin residue of his seed behind. hobie leans back to take a look, a satisfied chuckle vibrating through his chest. he pats your cheek, his pupils gleaming with amusement and a devilish smirk pulling his lip piercing taut.

i hate the beginning and i've tried to rewrite it a hundred times and it's still bad, but atleast the smut's decent. honestly im a little ashamed to post this. tumblr…please…for the love of god, don't flag this

"now you look like a proper whore, aye?"

TAGLIST: @alicefallsintotherabbithole

[urdinosaurs]

↳ ❝ 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐑 ¡! ❞ : nsfw, sub hobie, slight choking kink, unprotected p in v, i think thats it,

hobie's piercings this, hobie's rings that, what about that damn spiky choker at the base of his neck, huh?!

like just imagine slipping two fingers underneath it to avoid the spikes jutting out to pull hobie in for a kiss, and he stumbles forward, caught off guard, his head bowing and his neck craning to your height as your lips collide.

it's such a turn-on for him, too, the subtle but increasing restriction of airflow, being wholly and utterly at your mercy, subject to your desires, and it doesn't stop there when you guide him to bed by the neckband, lips still racing across his.

and by god, he's so horny he doesn't know what to do with himself, swearing he's just about to cream his pants when you climb on top and grab ahold of his studded fabric like a handle.

hobie's never let someone take control of him like this before, mainly because no one ever wanted to, but when you did, wanted to use him, keep him at the center of your pleasure. well, he's a goner, for sure. your display of dominance has unveiled a part of him he didn't even know he had, and it's a feeling hobie's sure he can get addicted to.

but it's only when you pull down his sweatpants and impale yourself on his flushed and throbbing cock that he lets go of any grasp at control, reduced to pathetic groans and grunts as you start fucking him for real.

you're taking what you need, his choker in your hands, and he's practically delirious with need. rambling like the world will end if he doesn't. "'s right there, sweet thing. right there, fuckin', making me feel so good," and "that's it, take it, all yours, 'm all yours."

in no time at all, he's right on the edge and pleading. it's pathetic, but who does he care? he's not embarrassed by his needs, and right now, that's his rapidly approaching climax as your slick cunt grinds and moves without respite. his chest heaves, hands digging into the flesh of your hips as his voice comes out in whiny, slurred pleas. "wanna cum, wanna cum so bad. can't fuckin' take it. please, let me cum baby."

having hobie begging, with tears nearly clouding his eyes underneath you, and pitifully thrusting his hips to meet yours is a sight to behold. brown, hazy irises implore you from under his long lashes, and you can't help but tug at his choker, which is all it takes for hobie to cum harder than he ever has before.

moans spill past his pierced lips that he can barely hear over the blood rushing to his ears and cock. he's loud while his hips sporadically jerk, his body convulsing in ecstasy. he fills you up, so much so it leaks down his cock, mixing with your own juices as he falls flat on the bed, arms flopping uselessly by his side while his body slowly comes down from his high.

when you slow down, having reached your own climax and released your hold on him, does a fucked out smile beam lazily back at you.

"best time i'd ever had, luv." he guides your hand back to his neck, somehow growing bolder and cockier even though his cock is wrung dry and his voice horse from begging. "but you didn't think we were finished just yet, did 'ya?"

[urdinosaurs]

. . . ⇢ ˗ˏˋ 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇 𝐄𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 ࿐ྂ | 𝐇𝐎𝐁𝐈𝐄 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍

⇢ PROMPT: i saw your comment @hoesindifferentshows talking about "Oh my god imagine sucking his dick and he lays his head back and takes a drag from his blunt 🥹"

⇢ WARNINGS: blowjob, no p in v, cum eating, throat fucking, hobie is just really high while getting his dick sucked,

you know what? you're right. you're so right it's almost unbelievable. from this post here

hobie doesn't smoke fags often. it just isn't his thing. he's a weed person, gets it from his bandmates, who regularly buy. it's usually after shows that he and his band smoke a couple of joints, talk about the show, or throw around ideas for the next. it's a good way to end off the night, and usually, he goes home with a small baggy and some rolling paper he bought off them.

tonight's one of those nights he decides to indulge himself after a long day and rolls a blunt. it's a process he's perfected after so long of doing, and soon enough, he's bringing the lighter to his lips, taking a slow drag, savoring it, and falling back into the cushions with his eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment.

the lighter falls back on the table, and languidly he stares up at the ceiling, pushing the smoke past his lips in a thin stream before letting it fan out above him. the hand with the blunt between his fingers rests on the back of the sofa, the other reaching down to gently stroke the top of your head. he caresses the side of your face in reassurance and encouragement, the cold metal of his many stacked rings cooling your flushed skin.

his hips buck into your mouth with a satisfied grunt at a particularly sensational twist of your soft hand around his dick, and he can feel your smile at his reaction when you press a feather-light kiss to the tip. a groan reverberates from the back of his throat at the sensation.

hobie takes another drag, his eyes twisting shut in pleasure as your jaw starts to move, head bobbing up and down his pulsating shaft. the feeling of your lips wrapped around him is intensified by the smoke, his cock much more sensitive to your ministrations than usual, which is why it jumps when your tongue slides across the underside, whimpers tearing from his throat.

"ya', just like that, luv, too good wit' it." hobie's head falls back, sighing as his lips wrap around the stick, fingers pinching it before leaning forward, tapping the ashes into the tray. he slumps back, relaxing further into the wet heat of your mouth, the weed unwinding his body until he's a mess of loose limbs. hobie breathes more of the joint, slouching further into the couch, his legs spreading with his airy headspace.

"atta girl. takin' it so good, usin' your mouth like it's 'posed to be used." his tongue flicks out of his jaws to wet his lips, the appendage flashing with his silver piercing in the moonlight.

his head lolls back, lips parted as he blows a ring, savoring the feeling of your throat constricting around him. he takes another hit, flicking it into the ashtray as he decides he's done with the slow tempo you've set, and takes his thick fingers to grab the back of your head and push you further down on his cock.

your throat convulses momentarily as you adjust to the rhythm change, and his hips jerk off the couch, the grip tightening around your hair as he moans. the tight heat of your esophagus constricting has his pace stuttering, more precum spilling down it.

"fuckin' hell, luv," he curses before his hand relaxes, his hips sloppily thrust up into your throat, chasing his high the only way he could with his clouded mind. he's getting himself more worked up, drawing more noises out of you, only for them to be muffled by his dick down your throat. drool leaks from the corners of your mouth, unable to be held in with the force of his thrusts. hobie builds a fast, messy, and sloppy pace, his focus drifting but still high enough to enhance and quicken his release.

"that's it, 'bout to cum. shit- you're a fuckin' dream. 'm gonna make a mess of your throat," slurred words spew out of his mouth just as his cum spills down your throat. his back arches, and a low moan escapes him as pure euphoria surges through his veins like a continuous pulse of electricity. slipping back into the cushions, you prolong his orgasm with clever flicks and strokes of your tongue, riding his release in a way he never has before, his body trembling with the aftershocks.

he lets go of your head, his tilted back while he catches his breath. he feels you gently leave him, and his spent cock bobs against his stomach. his neck rolls around to look down at you. his brown eyes are rimmed with a light shade of red, unfocused and hazy with arousal.

"'i'd reckon that's 'bout the best orgasm i've ever 'ad, luv." he lazily grins, hands moving from your hair to travel down your skin layered in a thin sheen of sweat, cupping your face in appreciation. his thumb rubs tenderly down your features, admiring you before tapping his lap.

his thighs spread, making room as you climb on top of him, resting a hand on his chest to steady yourself. he's already hard again when you brush up against him. his fingers dig into the fat of your hips, pulling another blunt from where it sat next to the ashtray.

ahh, i hope you guys saw that the title was inspired by the k.flay song! i promise i'm not a fake fan by using her most popular song :(

"ready for round two?"

[urdinosaurs]

seeing atsv made me realize just how attractive the idea of hobie smoking is...

like just imagine him splayed across your couch, legs spread, one hand slung over it while the other nurses a cigarette. he's laid across the sofa, lazy and unaware of the glances you sneak as he tips his head back, taking a drag before blowing smoke in the air.

he raises his head to look at you where you're sitting as you tinker with whatever new project you are working on to find you staring. and by god, if it isn't such an ego boost having your attention focused solely on him. immediately he would catch the way you seem to focus on the smoke as he takes another puff.

his first thought is that you're uncomfortable with it. he's never smoked around you before, so maybe you don't like the smell, but when your eyelids droop into the lust-filled expression he's used to seeing, he knows that's not the case. the smoke leaves his lips in a perfectly formed o, and he doesn't miss the way your mouth parts before your eyes shyly advert his when you realize he caught you staring.

"come 'ere, luv," he beckons you forward with his fingers, the same ones he had buried inside you a couple of hours ago, spreading his thighs to make space for you.

you move on command, and he watches with a smug grin as you climb into his lap, albeit a little clumsily, and his hand smoothes across your thigh.

"seein' anything you fancy?" cockily, he smirks, puffing while his eyes drift down your body clad in his shirt. hobie exhales, blowing the smoke to the side, and you stare at his perfect jawline and straining neck muscles before his head rolls around to meet your eyes again.

he's arrogant in the way his hand roves past your hips to your lower back, pushing you to his chest and coincidentally across his lap as well, holding you in place as he bends forward, fingers tapping against the stick, the ashes falling into the tray. he leans back with a smug grin at your flustered expression. his heavy gaze looks you up and down, where you squirm over his lap, and he brings the cig to his lips, the smoke billowing out of his nostrils.

"well, what're you waiting for?"