#ATSV Hobie Brown

[a-little-ray-of-fantasy]

June was THE month for top tier animated movies that give a good ol' "F*** YOU!!" to rules, government and restrictions through true punk icons.

And I'm living for it!

Anyway, please watch "Nimona", it's metal!

[nymphapunkcake]

ℌ𝔬𝔟𝔦𝔢 𝔢𝔶𝔢𝔰, 𝔭𝔯𝔢𝔱𝔱𝔦𝔢𝔰𝔱 𝔢𝔶𝔢𝔰.

[parasiticstars]

Miles doing the “hey” shoulder touch to Hobie is great amazing genuinely 10000/10

HOWEVER

Imagine Hobie, unprompted, doing it to MILES, and the last thing Miles can squeak out before promptly exploding is “uncle Aaron was right”

[cyn1callyonline]

live laugh love homeless orphans 🇬🇧💯🔥🗣️

[godofautism]

Pre-ordered him for my birthday <3

I'm such a faggot for him

I need him to be real chat

[alisblackgf]

hello lovely, hope all's good! May I request Hobie period comfort? Reader's started their period and is NOT felling good at all. They're just nauseous, have a horrible headache, back pain, boob pain, cramps, a slight fever (I get period fevers), and the list goes on. And he's feeling real bad for lovely? He comforts her, makes her favorite snacks, reads aloud to her so that she can nap.

If you get to this, thanks a bunch!!

(honey anon)

YES YES SURE OF COUrse! (thanks for requesting honey anon i hope to see you more in the future!!)

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: hobie brown x afab!reader

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: fluff :)

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: hobie takes care of reader during their period!

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: writing about this man isn’t enough i need to inhale him (i didn’t know if you wanted headcanons or a fic so i did a little bit of both!) also i tried to write him in his accent but it is so HARD and it looks kinda dumb so excuse that

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: the sickness section may trigger emetophobia (fear of vomit), viewer discretion is advised!

𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐬

if you two just started dating, he’d ask you the basic questions.

such as: what size pads, favorite candies, what you want him to do, etc.

but as time goes on, he’s on top of everything.

he remembers all of your preferences and favorites.

he’s fine with you being grumpy, he has a lot of patience for you and will do whatever you need him to.

“go away, hobie,” you groan.

“sorry, love, ‘m not goin’ anywhere.”

“my insides feel like they’re collapsing,” you complain, hugging your stomach and curling into fetal position.

“i know, doll. li’l ol’ hobie’s here to fetch whatever your heart desires.”

“li’l ol’ hobie?” you laugh, forgetting your grumpiness for a second, which makes him smile.

he did mean what he said, though. he will get you anything.

if you like being read to sleep, he’ll get an assortment of books that you like.

he’ll read them to you at your very request! just say the words.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧

if you’re experiencing pain, just tell him where and he’ll massage the area for you.

if your chest is too tender to massage, he’ll just cuddle you and rub circles into your back.

however, if your pain is intense, he’ll go out and grab you some pain killers.

he’ll even buy you a heating pad should you need it (you probably do).

“(y/n), ‘m back. got you some stuff, too.”

“really?”

“yeah, got you some ibuprofen and a heatin’ pad.”

he loves taking care of you and he loves that you let him.

he’ll probably even say some stupid jokes to make you laugh (and they’re probably not funny).

his reasoning is “laughter is the best medicine”.

if you don’t laugh, though, he’ll tickle you.

so laugh.

𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬

if you get fevers, he’ll wet a rag with cold water, fold it, and put it on your forehead.

he gets you fever medication, mainly tylenol because he assumes you wouldn’t like the taste of the liquid medicine.

if you feel nauseous, he’s there rubbing your back and comforting you.

he tells you to let him know if you’re going to vomit so he can accompany you.

if you do end up vomiting, though, he’s right there with you.

if you have long/medium-length hair, he holds your hair back as you do your business into the toilet.

if you have short hair, he rubs your back.

whatever length hair you may have, he praises you.

“there you go, dove, let it all out,” he coos.

when you’re done, he gives you a cup of water.

𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐮𝐬!

it’s nighttime, and hobie was urging you to sleep. even though your body was practically wrapped around him (which was usually all you needed to fall asleep), the pain kept you awake. you were already facing him, looking over the features you adored so much. he was resting peacefully, you really didn’t want to wake him up, but you really couldn’t sleep.

“hobie?” you asked, attempting to wake him up.

“mm, yeah, love?” he mumbled, half-awake. he was so cute you could almost laugh.

“sorry to wake you, but could you read me to sleep?”

“mhm,” he responds. “gimme a sec.”

his willingness to do what you asked without questioning it made butterflies swarm in your stomach. he groggily got up to go retrieve a book.

“want anythin’ in particular?” he asks you.

“no, surprise me.”

he nods and picks one out.

he sits down on the edge of the bed as you get snuggled back under the covers. as he begins to read, you find yourself more relaxed than ever. hobie must’ve loved you to death with the way he was caring for you, so you made sure to let him know you felt the same.

“i love you, hobie.”

he stopped reading and looked at you. your eyes were already closed and your breathing steady. he smiled at your resting figure.

“i love you too.”

UGH i love him

tags: @pr0wlerpunk

[eyesxxyou]

❝ bleeding hearts ❞ (rough hands pt.3)

｡ﾟ･ ¡ content. rival bands hobie x FTM!reader, conflicting emotions, a lot of sexual tension, bleeding, lots of kissing, masturbation, oral (reader receiving) p-in-v sex, creampie. you let things go too far. now, you deny anything ever happened. with the final days of the competition coming up, you find yourself reconsidering your feelings for Hobie Brown.

wc: 4.5k

↳ pt.1 / pt.2 / pt.3

“Again. We need to go again.”

You’ve been at this for hours, practicing your songs for the battle of the bands until your voice was stripped raw of all pleasantness. Now you sounded rough, callous, a scratching against your vocal chords that left you wincing. But you needed to go further, harder, faster. You needed to go until your voice abandoned you.

It was your drummer who said something. “No, I think we should call it a night. You’re gonna lose your voice and we have a competition in a few days.” He was firm, gruff, overriding your demand to keep going with a slapdash period at the end of it. There was no room for argument, especially when all of your bandmates murmured with vague sounds of agreement.

You huff almost like a child who didn’t get his way. “Fine, whatever. You can leave. I’m gonna keep going.” You turn back to the mic, fiddling with the strings of your bass. Your fingers were skinned raw like your throat, you weren’t sure you could use it even if you wanted to. You strummed it while your band packed up, all of them telling you to get some rest. They all noticed something was terribly off about you but whenever asked, you would just grumble and turn away.

Alone, you slowly began to strum your bass and wince with pain as you hummed out the lyrics you’ve been working on. It’s been two weeks since you’ve spoken to Hobie. You’ve seen each other at the venues where the competitions were taking place but would walk right by each other as if the other didn’t even exist. Sometimes you would shoulder check, he would glare. It was as if nothing had changed from the beginning.

But your mind had been swimming with him. He lingered just as you had been trying to avoid. Every time you sat down to scratch down some lyrics, you’d always find them fading into songs about him. How much you love him, how much you hate him. Love and hate are simply the same emotions, you find yourself more and more convinced of it everyday you spend apart from him.

You only stop practicing when your fingers start to bleed onto the wire strings. You look at it, the blood seeping from your fingertips, hot and wet with your desire. You wished your heart would burst and blood would fill your throat, your lungs, your chest. And you would collapse, suffocating on the sweetness of your love.

You put bandages on your fingers and hoped the blood wouldn't seep through in the night. Collapsing onto your bed in only your underwear, you let out a weary sigh. You gazed at the cracked ceiling of your flat, your mind swirling with thoughts of Hobie against your will. You wanted to rid yourself of him, expel him from your body like vomit. You needed him out and away for fear you might decay into your affections for him.

You thought of him. His face, his hands, his cock. The baritone of his voice rang in your ears, singing out notes of pleasure for you. His hands worshiping your waist, his lips pressing kisses to your throat.

Your days usually ended like this, with your body suddenly nude of all clothing, your fingers viciously rubbing your hard t-dick. You imagined Hobie's fingers, stroking through your sweet slick, gathering it on his fingers before slipping one into you with little resistance to be had.

You let out a gasp and whimper as you slid in a second finger. Though it felt good, it didn't feel good enough. It wasn't the same, a poor replication of all you wanted. Your fingers weren't quite long enough, too short and stout to be his long, slender appendages, but they would make due as it were. After all, your days sleeping with Hobie were over and you’d have to quickly become used to your own fingers again.

You hated that you missed him even beyond the sex. It would be one thing if you missed his fingers, his tongue, the sweet stretch of his length inside you. But you missed him. You simply didn't know how to handle it. The notion that you liked him, feelings boiling to the surface against your will, it terrified you.

Your orgasm was unsatisfactory and left you feeling far worse off than before. You looked to the fingers of your other hand and found a few splotches of blood on the bandages.

The battle of the bands spanned 3 weeks. Bands from all over would compete against each other for the prize of a record deal. So far, The Mutts have beaten 3 others. As it turns out, the Mary Jane's were performing today after beating 2 others.

Your bleeding heart in your hands.

You were uninterested. Or– you were pretending to be at least. Roaming the venue packed full of bands of friend and foe, you make your way to the bar to get a drink. It was deserved you thought. You had caught sight of Hobie from across the way, talking to a guy. It could have been something innocent but he was smiling too much, his fingers fiddling with something on the guy's jacket like he used to do to you. He had moved on so quickly.

Something jagged lodged itself in your throat, anger simmered to the surface. You wanted to go over and punch him but to everyone around, that would be uncalled for. You pretended to be unphased by the sight but you weren't sure if you were doing a good job of hiding your seething anger.

Hobie glanced to his side and caught your gaze. Immediately, he retracted his hand from the stranger and his smile fell. He looked away, you did the same as your drink came. Fuck him. Who needs that kind of drama in their lives?

It was The Mary Janes’ turn to go on. You didn't bother to turn around to look at the stage as they came on. It was loud, people chanting and cheering, intermingled with sharp whistles and booming claps. You nursed your drink and kept your head low.

“One, two- One, two, three, four!” With the count, the band started playing, loud and fast and so messily chaotic it was cohesive. You expected something anti-authoritariant in nature, something you had heard from them in the past. But as Hobie began to sing, you found that the lyrics were rather lovely in nature, hidden behind gruffy, loud vocals and louder instrumentals.

The lyrics were for you. Or rather– about you. You could tell it so clearly. In a perfect world, you would have swooned and met him backstage with a passionate kiss, declaring your love for him. But all you could feel was the sinking pit opening up in your chest to swallow you whole.

“My hands rough with your love

Sweet lips like a dove

Please don’t say goodnight

To the one thing that brings me alight”

You got up from the bar, slapping down a few quid and ducking out into the crowd. You waded between clammy bodies, grimacing at the humidity and scent of fresh sweat in the air. You needed to get out of here. How could you possibly listen to the retelling of you relationship sung out before a bunch of unknowing strangers?

“To be or not to be

With sweet release we come to see

The way we stand in the debris 

Of our fallen tragedy”

His voice was beautiful. You couldn't stand it, the way the notes slithered around your throat and tightened into a choking hold. With a lump in your throat, you felt the need to sob, to scream, to tear your hair out bit by bit.

“What is this all for

And endless swirl of fresh gore

Why did we even start

When all we’d be left with is bleeding hearts”

You made your way backstage where his voice faded into vague murmurs and you found a secluded area to let your tears flow freely.

You hadn't even noticed when Hobie and his Mary Janes' finished, their end marked by unanimous cheering and whistles. If only you had known the way Hobie rushed off stage to find you. He had seen you while performing, the distressed look upon your pretty face as you frantically looked for a way out. He wondered if he had gone too far. He hadn't meant to upset you. It was intended to be an apology.

People were congratulating Hobie as he made his way by. He didn't care for them. He just wanted to find you. And he did, he found you in the corner, your shoulders trembling. He could tell instantly that you were crying and felt all the more terrible about it. “Luv–”

You stood up straight from your hunched position and whipped around to look at him. Your cheeks were glossy, tears streaking your flesh like fresh cuts. His lyrics had carved a gory wound in your chest. You quickly began to wipe your cheeks with the backs of your hands.

He never meant to hurt you, never meant to make you cry. It was just vague enough for no one but you to understand it. It was for you. It was all for you. How could you not understand that.

You sniffled and crossed your arms over your chest as if to hold yourself. You turned away from him, ready to walk off and leave it there. But he grabbed your arm before you could leave. You attempted to shake yourself free but his grip was too tight. 

He looked at you without a word, brows pinched, eyes desperate, an apology. It was as much an apology as a beg for things to return to how they used to be. A declaration that he missed you.

You were shaking, staring at him with wide eyes and trembling lips. You shoved him away from you. You didn't know how to handle feelings, tenderness, gory wounds and bleeding hearts. You did not want his heart, you told yourself. You did not want it beating in your palms, bloody and full of love. You could not kiss it the way he wanted. You could not love it the way one needed.

Can't you see that he loves you? Can't you see that he’s laying himself in the middle of the road and letting you run him over? He’s placed his wounded heart in your hands. You shook your head and left him without a word, tears like rivers down your face. Hobie watched you retreat, his heart at his feet.

Oh, how love terrified you. The messiness, the gore, the tears of it all. You had every reason to avoid it. But it had seized you so viciously, so suddenly, and left you gasping for air. A cavity in your chest where your heart should be, left somewhere in the clutter of Hobie’s houseboat.

But a part of you hopes he sleeps with it, holds it in his arms and caresses it with his hands that once protected you.

Rough hands, sweet lips, bleeding hearts.

You avoid Hobie and he avoids you. It’s a mutual thing. Your sneers at each other return from a distance. Shoulder checks and glowering glances between the love songs Hobie sings during the competition. Your minds run in a parallel, still lingering on each other in the dead of night.

And by the grace of some higher power, like a sick joke for the amusement of others, it seems as though for the final round, The Mutts and The Mary Jane's are being pitted against each other. Both bands came to life with the idea of being superior to the other in an official setting. Whoever lost would never live it down.

“We’re gonna crush them.” Your drummer twirled his stick between his fingers, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the Mary Janes passing through. You and Hobie caught each other's gaze, a silent pact to never speak of what happened between you two. It would be something of the past, a fling, a brief blip in history. No one had to know of the way your chest lunged for him.

It was the night before the final day of the competition. The night before your Mutts faced off against the Mary Janes. You had told your band to get rest while you played well into the night, scribbling down Hobie’s name into your lyric book before times than you were comfortable with, scratching them out just as fast.

You glanced at your house phone in the corner, your fingers thrumming against your guitar strings aimlessly. You knew Hobie’s number by heart, your fingers already typing out the numbers against the flat of your bass. You wanted to call, to hear his voice to ease your anxieties. How ridiculous would it be to call your competitor before your competition?

But before you could have the will to stop yourself, you had set your bass down and walked over the the phone, taking it up off the stand and punching in the specific pattern of numbers to call him. The phone rang, once, then twice, giving you just enough time to regret your decision just as Hobie picked up.

“‘Ello?”

You were silent for a long moment. You could still hang up if you wanted to…If you wanted to. But you cleared your throat of the sudden hitch of your breath and let out a shaky sigh, “Hobie?”

You could hear him cough across the line. “Luv.” His voice was tender in your ear and soothed you more than you would have liked any other time, but you needed it. Needed him. Your heart pulsed, your fingers swirled the coiled wire of the phone line. 

There was silence for a long while. The two of you listened to each other's soft breathing and found comfort in the sound of the life within you. So many words to be said, so little will to say it. Your brows pinched, you caught your bottom lip between your lips.

“I’m sorry.” You babbled out. You were sorry for everything. For being a coward, for running away, for tossing his heart right back in his face when all he wanted was to make things right with you. “I'm such a fucking coward, aren't I?” You let out a weak chuckle.

Hobie chuckled with you, the low sweet rumble of his voice making you shudder. “A lil’, but ain’t we all?” There was something oddly comforting about his words. He soothed his fingers over your cheek and told you sweetly that it was all okay. A flaw that wasn't a fault of your own.

“I'm scared.” 

“O’ what?”

You held the receiver against your face, holding it with both hands, holding it as if it were him in your arms. “Of you.” You’re terrified by him, the feelings he stirred up in your chest you weren't sure you were ready to handle. You don't know why you’re doing this, why you’re telling him this. Did you hope to hear him say he loved you and he was scared of it too?

“Would i’ make ya feel better y'know ‘m scared o’ ya too?” It was a tender admission. Two people, in rival bands, so scared to love each other, in love. What a sick joke. “But who isn' scared? I never let bein’ scared stop me.”

“Why are we doing this?”

Hobie hummed. You could almost hear him shrugging through the phone, his smile. “Why shouldn' we be doin’ this?” He was so lighthearted and sweet through the grain of the phone speaker. You kept curling the phone line around your finger, curling and uncurling, curling and uncurling. “Our bands-”

“Fuck ‘em.” Hobie scoffed. “‘M no’ gonna let ‘em get in the way of wha’ I wan’. They need t’ grow up.”

You chewed at the soft inner flesh of your cheek. “Can I come over?” You almost whisper into the phone. Your voice pleaded for him not to deny you of your request. How cruel could he be to deny a lonely, lovesick man his simple ask? You’re lucky that Hobie was not as much of a dick as you always believed him to be. He hummed. “Ya know ya can come over wheneva ya wan'.”

You said your sweet goodbyes and hung up the phone before going to put your shoes on. You left your flat in a run and caught a cab down to the docks where Hobie’s houseboat resided.

The salty wind whipped at your face as you boarded the boat, your shoes thumping against the hardwood as you made your way to the door. The nights were on from the inside, you could hear Hobie’s rummaging behind the door. He had been waiting for you.

He opened the door as soon as you knocked, standing before you in just a pair of sweatpants hanging lowly on his hips. He was beautiful and tragic and your stomach churned upon seeing him standing there before you. You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around his neck without as word, pressing your lips to his. The kindness one man extends to another. 

Hobie’s hands were on your hips, dragging you so close you body pressed to his. Tender kisses shared between timid lips and wet tongues, Hobie pulled you into his home and closed the door behind you, pressing you gently to the wall with all his body. He wanted you to feel him, his desire, his need, his want, his love.

His fingers sunk into the plush of your flesh. His lips caressed yours, his tongue lapped into your mouth and teased at the sweetness of your mouth. Your desire spilled out all over each other, but you were gentle, your hands tenderly roaming. You sighed into his mouth and he swallowed it as if it were the only sustenance he'd ever need. 

You placed your hands on his arms and broke your kiss to look up at him with soft, scared eyes. You both knew, if you did this, there was no going back.

“I’ll take care o’ ya.” Hobie assured you, leaning down to kiss the corners of your sweet mouth. You caught his lips, the taste of him making you delirious.

You peeled each other's clothes off piece by piece, your fingers tracing, your eyes admiring. “Yer beautiful.” Hobie murmured dizzily between kisses against your throat. He had never complimented you like that before. It came out like he had been waiting so very long to say that. Your face was hot, you purred with satisfaction. “You’re beautiful too.”

Hobie led you over to his bed, messy as if he had just been laying in it. He had you sit at the end and asked you to lay back as he began to kneel down before you. You understood what he wanted to do. Every time before, it had been a hasty matter. Frantic, as if you were running out of time. But he had gone slow now, lowering to his knees and carefully parted your knees. He brought them up over his shoulders and with tender lips, began to kiss your inner thighs.

His breath was warm, fanning your thighs delicately. His lips traced a path along your supple flesh, fingers gripping into the meat of your legs. You fluttered where you needed him most as his breath kissed your clit. “Hobie, please–” You gasped as his tongue licked you where you were wet and open.

He was sweet. Tonguing at your open cunt gently. He dragged the tip to your hardened clit where you shuddered and moaned as he traced stars across the bud. He kissed you there like they were your lips, like they could kiss back, drooling and suckling where he knew you liked it most. 

He tasted you. Your musky sweetness, the sweat from practicing all day. He liked your tanginess. You didn't taste like something artificial. He laid broad strokes against you, spindling dulcet mewls from your trembling lips. Your fingers curled into his sheets, back arching away from his bed.

He sucked at your clit, rolling the rosebud between his lips. Long ringed fingers pressing into your thighs, keeping them from claiming down on his head. Your legs trembled with every messy lick of his languid tongue.

“Yer so good f’me.” Hobie hummed against you. You cried out. Suddenly you found yourself eternally grateful you were on a boat, completely removed from other people. You would have been embarrassed by how shamelessly you moaned for him.

Your fingers were pulling at his wicks. Suddenly feeling sappy, you wanted his lips against yours and his length filling you to the brim. You wanted to press your hand on your tummy and feel him place his love there. ‘Pour yourself into me and I will give you the same kindness,’ you wanted to say.

Hobie understood you wanted to go further by your needy tugs and began a tender path up your body with his lips. Your pelvis, navel, diaphragm, sternum. And when he reached your mouth, he had been nestled neatly between your legs with his heavy cock lying against your tummy as if to demonstrate how deep he would be once inside.

“Be gentle.” You told him, murmuring against his lips, your arms around his neck, eyes glossy and hazy. Hobie kissed you again, neat and sweet. It did not lack passion but it was contained. He did not want to scare you off with it, let it loose like a dog off a leash. You could tell he was holding back and kissed him deeper, coaxing it out with your tongue and teeth. He laid his passion out before you as if to say, ‘here is my heart, take it or leave it, but it will always be yours’.

As Hobie eased his way into your wanton opening, you gasped into his mouth and your entire body shook with the sweet stretch. Your moan was high and shrill with pain and pleasure and all the things that make them one. Hobie's hands grasped your hips to keep you still, his lips pressing to your throat blooming with roses of hickeys.

You held each other as if to hide yourselves. You felt terribly vulnerable and bare with him so snuggly inside you. It didn't help when he got up and sat on his haunches for a better angle. Your hips were raised, back arched, your body laid, splayed out for him to admire.

Hobie rolled his hips into yours and you felt him brush your cervix. It made your walls flutter. You watched him falter a bit at the feeling of your soft wetness. Yes, he was right, all your rough edges and biting words was all a plot to hide how you truly longed for — and feared — the gentleness of love.

Hobie did as told and was rather gentle with you. He had never been so before, always in a rush, always fingering you until your body did things it had never done before, never leaving you until he had thoroughly satisfied himself with your orgasms and crying. But he looked as though he struggled to be gentle, as if it was something so foreign to him. He had never been gentle before but he wanted to be for you.

Two bodies and their struggle at love-making, you rolled your hips into each other, whisper-like moans and shuddering breaths fill the space between you. Hobie thrusted into you with a slow push of his hips, groaning at the way your greedy hole welcomed him. “So good.” He murmured lowly.

You were purring with heavy, hazy eyes, gasping as you’re filled to the brim. You felt terribly close to him. Yes physically, but also emotionally. Your moans laced in with one another, mingled in the air with your humid sweat.

Everything was quite soft. Your skin stuck together due to the thin layer of sweat accumulating on your flesh. It was as if your bodies did not want to part, the feeling was too sweet. Your toes pointed and your legs shook. Hobie soothed a hand up and down your thighs. “I’s okay. Go ‘head ‘n take i’.”

“Hobie~” You sang for him. Long gone were the days of heavy petting and questioning if you’d ever have the courage to go further with each other. The torture of will you won't you ended by the sweet relief of intercourse.

You grasped at Hobie’s hands on your house and pressed your hips down until you could feel him pressing into your intestines. You pressed your hand there and felt him move in and out of you. “God!” 

“Does I'm hurt?” Hobie slowed to a paused, holding you close, ready to adjust if it did. You viciously shook your head and reached out for him. “No…come kiss me.” Your voice was bare and full of a vulnerability you would have otherwise been embarrassed by. But he had stripped you of your humiliation and left you needy and wanting for love.

Hobie was eager to do as told, his heart swelling at your neediness. He came and he kissed you and you purred some more. Lips press, tongues push, the gentle sighs and moans into each other's mouth make you giggle softly against his lips. You hook your legs around his hips and pull him in.

There's a building in your lower abdomen, the beginnings of an orgasm tightening in your tummy. “I'm close.” You whisper between kisses. Hobie’s hands caress your body, sliding between your legs to rub at your aching clit. “‘Ow romantic would i’ be if we came together?” Hobie could feel himself approaching as well.

You squeezed him tight and held his face as you kissed him hard to shut him up and to hide the fact that you did want to cum with him.

It was a gentle affair, a building of pressure, heightened moans into each other's mouths. Your felt warm on the inside, the spilling of white goo inside of you, painting you white. Your walls pulsed with the feeling of your orgasm ravishing your body. A kaleidoscope of colors hazed your vision, stars dotted your gaze as you tossed your head back against the pillow and clutched Hobie tight. Your toes pointed, back arched, body shuddered. Your world collapsed and came back together all in one breath.

Hobie struggled to keep himself from collapsing on top of your lovely body. His hands gripped the sheets beside your head. His body trembled. He pulled out swiftly because he knew if he spent any longer inside of you he may cum again and fall even deeper in love.

Heavy panting as Hobie falls on the bed beside you, uncharacteristically pulling you close. After your rendezvous, you’d usually put your clothes back on and make your own hasty exit before things can get too sappy, too emotional, but you’re long past that now.

Hobie pressed kisses to the side of your neck. “Sleep here t' night.” He almost pleaded with you but Hobie Brown would never be caught dead begging.

“So we can wish each other good luck tomorrow morning?” You ask, looking down at him as he rests his head on your chest and looks up at you. Hobie smiled a bit, chuckling.

“‘O course.”

[luvergirl777]

is it not obvious that hobie browns “briefly a runway model” was him CRASHING the runway?????

[cosmosis]

MOVED TO @seratopia

personal hobie headcanons!

he asks you to do his eyeliner for him; pulls you in real close and you hold his cheek with your hand, drawing on a quick smudgey look for him. he likes staring at you while you do it too.

you're his cute little rockstar gf <333, he loves taking you to his shows, sometimes drags you up on stage with him

he has this kind of adrenaline rush when he performs on stage, heartbeat thundering, sweat beading down his forehead, a somewhat proud smile on his face. you like seeing him in his element

i envision him slinging a lanky arm around you often, like he's always pulling you close by your shoulders

very attentive, he starts noticing the smallest details about you. knows where you like to be held, how you love to be kissed. he's a decent gift-giver, likes picking something up at a store if it reminds him of you.

i knowww he doesn't like labels and all that, but i cant get over hobie calling you "luv" or "sweets" like UGH got me kicking my feet fr fr

mischievous, loves to tease and poke fun at you, pinching your side with a smirk, nipping at your liip while you kiss, barges into your house without invitation, that kinda stuff

likes experimenting with fashion; somewhat genderfluid presentation of himself? i'm talking sheer tops, fishnets under distressed jeans, crop tops, maybe even a skirt or two.

never did well at school, possibly a dropout

he'll wear cute kandy bracelets that you make him along with his spiked cuffs, ones with the letter beads.

he'd help you get dressed, like tying your top into a cute little ribbon or maybeeee tying your shoes for you?

he likes putting lipstick on you!! holds you by your chin and starts dabbing makeup onto your lips. when he's done, he kisses you to seal the deal.

has a idgaf-type attitude towards pda. like if hobie wants to kiss you then he will? if hobie feels like keeping a hand on you, he will, regardless of location or circumstance

isn't the type to shop at hot-topic; instead opts for alternative thrift stores, ones that specialize//specifically sell punk-type clothing

when you sleep together, sometimes he stays up a little too late, thinking about your relationship. when it's late night, his feelings are raw and he gets a lil sappy, hugging you just a little bit tighter or pressing a kiss to your forehead.

its fun to think that hobie likes to ask you distress his clothing with him, whether it'd be utterly tearing into a t-shirt or fraying away at jeans with a pair of scissors. "that's it, yeah, maybe a li'l more?" he says, holding up the shirt with pinched fingers. "y'did a good job, though."

one day hobie shows up with a pair of platform boots, asking about your opinion on them. they're very hobie, studded with spikes, leather fraying at the creases. "whad'you think, sweets? pretty cool, right?" now he's 6'1 (pretty sure he's 5'11 at normal height)

has a prince albert piercing

handles jealousy by being like "alright, mate i'mma have to stop you right there-" casually slinging an arm over you, lightly pushing a guy away by his chest. "let's stay at least 5 feet away from my girl, yeah?" all with a slight smirk on his face

lets you wear his millions of band tees around the house

if you haven't already, hobie's music taste will start to rub off on you. he shares cute little playlists with you or starts playing with tunes on his guitar.

© 𝒄𝒐𝒔𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒊𝒔.

[evacjack]

Ya they trans keep scrolling

I really like this meme format xD

[parasiticstars]

Miles teaching Hobie how to do more detailed graffiti and Hobie swinging around both his and Miles’s dimension finding more spots to do it in and them both going around leaving tags places and at the end of the day they’re both laughing together and actually having a chance to not be two heroes with the weight of the world on their shoulders but just teenagers who get to have fun and deserve this lighthearted moment and I might not be entirely sober

[mythicalmochiii]

After all, why not have a symbiote cat!

Original Idea from @qirarey123

[crimsys-blog-sucks]

since nobody on here knows Hobie's birthday (including me), I'm counting today as it since it's National Punk Day

soo....

HAPPY CLOSE ENOUGH BIRTHDAY HOBIE!! 🥳🥳

[rkrq]

Unfinished Spiderpunk drawing.

It had become too messy so I abandoned it. Maybe the messiness makes it a true punk drawing...

[eyesxxyou]

𝖕𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖑 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖊𝖆 🏴‍☠️🐚

| vi. six | over the hill, between the palm trees

🐚・・・pirate!Hobie x mute!siren!reader.

𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔫𝔱: mentions of death. mentions of running away. hobie crying. mentions of Hobie and reader not talking.

↳ ❝ dis life we got, it's too short fo’ you to ‘old on to dis rage ❞

𝔪𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱

The chatter of the market made Hobie remember how much he missed being surrounded by people. Oh, how much he loved humanity. The merchant men trying to make a decent living for their families, selling clothing made by their wives, and fruits and vegetables cultivated from their farms by their children. It was harvest season and everyone presented their very best.

He and his crew had made their way to land for more supplies. It would be a brief visit. A single night and they’d be off at sea again. Spending weeks upon weeks out at sea meant that just the idea of being on solid land excited everyone. The entire ship buzzed with the news for days. Life at sea was often boring and draining. Sea sickness of the mind set in and soon one was ready to toss themselves off the ship to escape the monotony. It was easy to get excited over something as small as standing on something other than wood.

Two young children rushed past him, their bare feet stirring up dirt as they ran and let joyous laughter escape their fruit-filled mouths, markings of a happy childhood. They ran to an older woman who he presumed was their mother who held their hands and walked them through the market. For a moment, he mistook her for his mother. The same silhouette, the same scolding face, she even wrapped her head the same way. But he knew better.

Hobie lowered his head and kicked a rock in front of him before turning around to go find the oranges he was looking for. You had eaten all of them, sneaking them in the night and eating them alone in the storage room where you slept. You did not come back to Hobie's door. He never tripped over your curled up body again.

You and Hobie did not speak for the last 4 days you were out at sea. It was a rather difficult task–avoiding each other. There were only so many places the two of you could be at once that didn’t happen to be where the other was. For once, you turned your pearly gaze from him every time he entered the same space as you and he ignored you as if you weren’t even there.

Did he feel bad? In an odd sort of way. But that song was sacred and triggered something within him, something primal. You had no business even knowing it, much less letting it rattle in your throat. But maybe he shouldn’t have snapped at you so harshly. There was no use in apologizing though, he figured. Your wound was healing. Your bandage (now managed by Gwen) was no longer spotted with blood in the mornings. You’d be gone soon and at this rate, you’d be more than happy to leave.

Hobie walked through the market he knew well in his youth. No one seemed the recognize him. He had changed so much over the years from a hardened life at sea. He was grateful for it. Didn’t need anyone asking him where he went, where he’s been, bringing up the unfortunate fate of his mother. A tragedy that still seemed to linger around the island. Hobie heard mothers scolding their children about going near the water. “Ya don’ wanna end up like tha’ poor woman.”

He rounded the corner only to bump into a small woman, knocking her basket to the ground.

“Oh, ‘m sorry.” Hobie rushed to pick up her things and place them back into her basket. The lady stood there, staring at him. She was old, petite, with a wooden cane and graying hair peeking out of her headwrap. “‘Obie?”

Hobie hadn’t heard that voice in many years, since he ran away from this small island and became a pirate. It was a bit fraile now, but just as recognizable.“‘untie?”

His Aunt Maya had taken him in when he was just a boy after his mother walked into that ocean and never came out. She was not blood related but she was family all the same. It was a shame that he had left her but he could not bear to remain on this island anymore longer.

He stood up with her basket, towering over her small fragile frame. “‘untie, I didn't tink–”

“Dat I still be ‘live, huh?” She smiled with the coy playfulness she always seemed to display. She lightly slapped him on the arm. “Look a’cha. All big ‘n strong now. Wha’ happen to da wee lil’ boy I cared fo’?” She looked him up and down, examining him. She felt his arms and stomach and clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “You no’ eatin’ ‘enough, ‘Obie. Why don'cha gimme a hand and take dis stuff back ‘ome? I’ll make us some tea.” She turned and began to walk and with an obedience he hadn’t had in a long time, he followed.

Maya still lived in the very same place he remembered, on a hill tucked between palm trees ripened with coconuts. She grabbed him for stability as they hiked the hill together in silence and made their way to her home. 

The door was still partially broken. It got stuck easily. Hobie immediately went ahead of her and barged the door open for her as he did when he was young. He held it open, watched as she waddled passed him with her cane, setting it down beside the door. “Now, put dat down ‘n gimme some love, boy.”

He put the basket down beside the door and gave her a long, warm hug. So small, he could have picked her up off the ground if he wanted to, she hugged him back as if he were her very own. She raised him the same way. It contained all the love and acceptance of being hugged by a mother. Hobie would not insult her by calling her a surrogate, she was far more.

When he released her, she waddled away to start a fire. “No ‘untie. Lemme do i’. You sit down.” Maya shooed him dismissively with her hand and grabbed some wood from the corner. “Don' treat me like ‘m old. I been doin’ jus fine wit’cha gone. Si’ down.”

The words sent a pang through his chest. He had left her with her so much as a proper goodbye and fled in the night to board a random ship to take him to sea. He was young and stupid. He never thought of how that would have affected her. He lowered his head almost in shame. “‘m sorry, ‘untie.” It was a shameful thing what he did, leaving her so unceremoniously.

She shuffled about with her small fire. “Don't ‘pologize. Ya did wha'cha had t’. I though’ you was dead fo’ a while bu’, I had faith that you was okay. You always been a survivor.” She placed a pot of water over the fire and fanned her hand over the smoke to keep it out of her face.

Maya wasn't mad at him though she had every right to be. She mourned him for many years and with time she learned to understand his decision. He was young and he was scared in a world without his mother, what was he supposed to do? Stay? Let the memories haunt him? Pass his mother's home on the way to the market and mourn for the rest of his life? He needed to leave to free himself.

“Yer no’ mad?” He asked softly, looking at her with a disgraceful frown, brows furrowing.

Maya shook her head. Her lips  “‘m no’ mad. But I hafta wonder wha’cha come back fo’. I expected to neva see ya ‘gain.” She came and sat with him while the water took its time to boil. It was just as it was before, as if he never left, as if his departure had been all but a blip in time.

Hobie thought of what to say for a long while. “I jus’ missed ya.” This island was not the closest to them when he decided they needed more supplies. He went out of his way to come to this one. Against all odds, he missed home. “‘m a cap’tn of a ship and I came here for supplies…”

“‘N t’ see if I was still here,” she finished. Hobie nodded slowly. He felt like a child again, fingers fiddling and tugging at each other. “An’ t’see if you was still here,” he echoed.

There was silence. Hobie took his time looking around the home he had spent such a brief part of his childhood. Nothing had changed, everything was just the same. His eyes lingered on the unfinished basket in the corner, his mother's. The basket that would never be finished.

“Ya still got this ting?” Hobie got up and went over to it. He picked it up with a grunt and felt the brittle fragility of it in his hands, like it would wither to dust if he held it too hard. He pressed it close to him as if he’d be able to feel the lingering presence of his mother on it. Her fingers fiddling with the straw and weaving it with such meticulous care.

Maya sighed softly to herself and shook her head. “How could I eva get rid of i’? It means so much t’ya. ’M surprised ya didn' take it wit’cha when ya left.”

“Had t’travel ligh’.” Hobie murmured distantly. He was back in front of that fire with his mother, working diligently on this very basket. The very last thing her nimble hands touched.

He remembered it so clearly. Falling asleep in her arms and waking up to a distant melody. He mother was gone, nothing left of her but the basket and her headwrap. He tugged at it, hanging from the belt around his waist. He carried it around with him, always.

The water was boiling over now, Hobie nodded to it and Maya got up to tend to it. “Take i’ wit’cha. Was made fo’ ya afterall.” She took the water off the fire and got some hibiscus to let it steep.

Hobie looked at this basket and thought of you. Your destroyed basket, the fear in your eyes, the anger in his voice, the broken lantern. He wanted to yell again. He wanted to destroy the godforsaken basket like he destroyed yours, he wanted to toss it into the fire. He wanted to cry. He wanted to burn. There was rage in his eyes, it exuded from him like a wave. His hand tightened against the basket. Maya could feel it.

“Da anger you got ‘Obie, you need to le’ i’ go.” She hummed with a voice meant to soothe. “‘T do ya no good. ‘T will ’old ya back. Dis life we got, it's too short fo’ you to ‘old on to dis rage.” Maya poured the tea into a small cup and shuffled over to Hobie, frozen where he was with tears streaking his dark cheeks. She took the basket from his hands and replaced it with the tea cup.

With gentle hands, Maya reached up and wiped his cheeks. “Fo'give. Yourself and whatever took ‘er from ya. Le’ ya self live. Do ya some good.” She lightly patted his cheek and took him by the arm. “Now come sit ‘n drink ya tea. ‘M sure ya can' stay long.”

So Hobie sat with Maya and spoke to her of his many adventures at sea, carefully working around the very real siren he was housing on his very own ship in fear that she may simply pass away due to the excitement of it all. He enjoyed the small taste of home and almost wept again with the emotion of it all.

He stayed for hours, until the sun began to set over the horizon. “I can't stay, ‘untie.” It broke his heart to leave her but Maya seemed quite fine with him going. She made her peace with the way things are. Hobie had to learn to do the same. He lived in too much regret, lingered in the past. He couldn't let go. But he could learn to.

“I know ya can' but come ‘n visit more of’en, boy.” She reached out and pinched his cheek endearingly. “Take tha’ basket wit’cha. She would've wan’ed ya t’ ‘ave i’.”

He took the basket with him as he left, holding it in his arms with the tenderness something so old and sacred deserved. Walking down the path back towards the harbor, he looked over the horizon painted in broad strokes of peach and tangerine.

And in the distance, over the hill, between the palm trees, he could see his mother's old home sitting over the horizon.

𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱: @lovelyygirl8 @humungus-mythology-geek @shutingstar @pixieofthesun @hobiesbf

[sardonic-the-writer]

he's plotting to overthrow the government