𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟 ⭑ your first day as soldier boy’s executive liaison becomes a test of nerve when you’re left alone with him.
𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⭑ soldier boy x reader ( f )
𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐡 ⭑ 3938 words 𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 ⭑ tense fluff (basically foreplay)
𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞 ⭑ canon-typical violence and death references, sexual harassment, misogynistic comments, objectification, intimidation and threats, references to imprisonment and torture, workplace power imbalance, strong language.
𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐦 ⭑ heck, i am so darn excited for your feedback on this first chapter. please be kind to it!! it’s been sitting in my google docs for far too long
‧⭑.ᐟ masterlist ‧ join the taglist ‧ support my work
vought tower looks cleaner than a place with this much blood in its walls should. the thought isn't helpful.
the second thing that crosses your mind is that the floors are too shiny. polished black stone, glass walls, chrome edges—all of it reflecting you back in pieces as you walk beside stan edgar through the private upper levels of the building.
your shoes almost don’t make a sound. his make none at all. you wonder if that is something men like him practice.
edgar doesn’t rush. around him, though, people do. assistants with tablets, security in fitted black suits, executives managing crises. they part for him before he reaches them, a sort of silent corporate tide, and for one ridiculous second, you feel as if you’re being escorted through the digestive tract of some enormous, expensive animal.
then again, maybe that’s exactly what this place is.
“the official title is executive liaison,” edgar explains. “you’ll be assigned to legacy asset reintegration.”
you hold your folder against your chest with both hands, mostly because it gives you something to focus on. your résumé is inside it, along with your references, your employee onboarding paperwork, a signed nondisclosure agreement thick enough to make any pre-law student sweat.
“legacy asset,” you repeat, glancing at him.
edgar glances back, not quite amused. “soldier boy.”
right.
you knew who the position was attached to before you accepted the interview. vought hadn’t been subtle about that part; only vague in the way rich companies get when they want you to understand danger without being able to prove they warned you. the listing had said ‘high profile individual support. crisis communication. schedule management. confidentiality required. prior experience with sensitive personalities preferred’.
the last one was probably what had made you land the gig. you had worked reception for a media firm during election season, handling men who screamed over tepid coffees, women who cried in conference rooms and then came out smiling, publicists who could lie through three layers of teeth. you had also once been called useless by a billionaire’s nephew because his oat milk cappuccino had foam.
“he was revived twenty-six hours ago,” edgar continues. “physically stable. psychologically combative.”
“that feels expected,” you say before you can stop yourself.
edgar’s eyes flick toward you again. you force your face to stay pleasant. his mouth barely shifts. “it is.”
that’s the thing about stan edgar. he doesn’t make you feel stupid for speaking. he makes you feel stupid for thinking you have said something he didn’t already know.
you pass a wall of framed promotional posters from vought’s older campaigns. beside them, newer displays have already been updated and homelander’s face removed from the central wall with the kind of speed only corporate panic can arrange. the empty spaces are worse than the posters would have been.
everyone saw him die. everyone saw it in pieces, replayed from a dozen angles, slowed down, zoomed in, dissected on morning shows by people with perfect fake teeth and no shame. you watched the clip once and then never again, because watching someone die on national television felt less like witnessing justice and more like being handed a disease you couldn’t scrub off.
“does he know?” you ask.
“not yet.”
and because everything feels vague, you press a little harder. “about homelander?”
“about several things,” edgar replies.
that’s not comforting. that’s the complete opposite of comforting. you keep walking.
“he believes he’s being detained.”
“is he?”
he doesn’t look back. “he’s being housed under controlled conditions until we determine his capacity for reintegration.”
sure. okay. corporate english. “so, yes.”
this time, his mouth actually does move. barely. “you’ll find precision useful here.”
“i usually do.”
“good.” he turns down another corridor, narrower than the last, with fewer people and more security. the walls are warmer here, paneled in dark wood, expensive enough to pretend at comfort. “your responsibilities include calendar coordination, communication screening, controlled external access, coordination with legal, medical, public relations, and myself when necessary.”
you nod as he lists. “and unofficially?”
the security checkpoint ahead scans edgar without stopping him. the guard looks at you, then at the temporary badge clipped to your blazer, then back at his screen. your picture stares up from it, stiff and glossy, smiling with the manic calm of a woman who needs dental insurance.
edgar stops just beyond the checkpoint and turns to you. “unofficially,” he starts, “you observe, you redirect, you document, you do not provoke unless required, and you do not indulge unless useful.”
something in your throat dries. “that sounds less like an assistant position.”
“most positions at vought are mislabeled.”
you almost laugh but choose right at the last minute not to. rent is due in twelve days. your student loans still exist. your last job dissolved after the homelander fallout collapsed three media clients in one week and your boss called it restructuring, which was rich, considering the structure was apparently you and two interns getting kicked to the curb.
you need work. that’s the ugly little truth at the bottom of this polished hallway. you need work, and vought is hiring, and morality does not pay your electrical bill.
edgar starts walking again. “he responds poorly to visible fear.”
“most men do.” you feel the words leave you and briefly wish you could reach out and snatch them back by the ankle.
edgar’s expression doesn’t change. “you have a communications degree.”
“yes.”
“use it carefully.”
“of course, sir.” and there it is—the voice. clean, polite, employable. you smooth it over yourself the way you smoothed your blouse this morning, pressing down every wrinkle, every opinion, every inappropriate instinct to tell the truth too soon. in front of edgar, you’re the girl from the résumé photo. capable. composed. professionally warm. the sort of woman who says happy to help! and only thinks about arson in private.
he leads you to the last door in the hall, and from the outside, it doesn’t look like a cell.
the door is dark wood with brushed gold hardware, wide and tasteful, surrounded by a discreet security frame that probably costs more than your childhood home. there’s no barred window, no blinking red light, no warning sign. just one suited guard on either side and a small panel that scans edgar’s palm, then his eye, then his badge.
three locks disengage inside the wall.
not a cell… right.
the door opens. the suite on the other side screams macho. dark leather couch, heavy wooden table, low amber lamps, crystal decanter on a sideboard, though you notice the caps on the liquor bottles are sealed with electronic tags. a shelf of war books so untouched they might as well still be trees. and, to give it a touch of home, framed black-and-white photos of soldier boy from a century ago, all grin, jaw, uniform, and old american violence made marketable.
the windows stretch from the floor to the ceiling along the far wall, showing the city below in a cold afternoon shine. none of them open. soldier boy’s standing in front of one.
he’s broader than you expect. which feels stupid to think because everyone knows what he looks like. his face’s been on posters, documentaries, old commercials, conspiracy forums, museum installations, trading cards, t-shirts. you've seen him in archive, footage with women hanging from his arms and soldiers laughing too hard beside him, seen the public-service reels where he tells kids to drink milk and report communists.
but footage flattens people. posters make them symbols. this man is not flat. he’s solid in a way that makes the room feel built around him and still insufficient. barefoot on the expensive rug, dark sweatpants low on his hips, white shirt stretched across his chest, beard rough, hands loose at his sides, but nothing about him is relaxed.
“soldier boy,” edgar calls.
he turns his head slowly. the look he gives edgar could curdle milk. “if this is your idea of hospitality,” he stars, voice rough from sleep or disuse or rage, “i’ve had warmer welcomes from the russians.”
edgar steps into the room as if he’s not just been casually compared to enemy captivity by america’s most unstable museum exhibit. “you broke the reinforced door in medical.”
“should’ve reinforced it better.” he’s all teeth and anger.
“we made a note.”
“here’s another one—fuck you.”
your fingers tighten around the folder. and almost like he sensed it, soldier boy’s eyes move to you.
there’s no gradual discovery in it. no polite assessment. he looks at you the way men in bars do when they’ve already decided politeness is something women invented to make them work harder—shoes, legs, skirt, blouse, mouth, eyes. then, because he wanted you to know he’s doing it, back to your chest.
you keep your face still. it takes effort—not because you’re flattered, but because you’re deciding how many times you can run your mouth on your first day.
“this is your new executive liaison,” edgar ignores the tantrum completely and instead gives your name cleanly. “she’ll be handling your schedule, communications, appointments, and necessary coordination during your reintegration.”
soldier boy stares at you for one more second before he looks back at edgar. “i don’t need a ‘sitter.”
“good thing she’s not a babysitter, then.”
“then what is she?”
“qualified.”
soldier boy snorts. “for what?”
you open your mouth, but edgar answers before you can—which is probably for the best. “for managing difficult personalities under public scrutiny.”
soldier boy laughs once without humor. “public scrutiny. that what we’re calling it now?”
he starts toward the sitting area, all heavy steps and barely contained force, and you notice the guard by the door shift his weight. soldier boy notices too. his eyes cut sideways and the guard stills. good to know.
“you drag me out of ice, stick me in a room with cameras behind the vents—real fucking original, by the way—give me liquor i can’t open, and now you bring me a secretary.” soldier boy scoffs.
“liaison.” edgar corrects.
“do i look like i give a fuck?”
you smile. it’s not a nice smile, but it’s small enough to pass inspection.
soldier boy catches it. his attention returns to you, sharper now. “something funny, doll?”
edgar looks at you. not with warning exactly, but close enough that you let your smile become professional. “no.”
“no,” soldier boy repeats, tasting the lie. his gaze drops again. “hell, she can stay.” he doesn’t sit. instead, he takes a step closer. “as long as she starts wearing nicer shirts. something that shows off the rack.”
there’s a silence. not shock. this is vought. that is soldier boy. and hardly anything that happens inside this building would shock those inside it for longer than 24 hours. still, the air tightens.
you raise your brows. there’s no gasp. no lecture. no blush. no trembling outrage for him to chew on. just your brows, your still mouth, and a look that says you’ve met men who thought they were funnier.
soldier boy’s smile widens. he’s pleased with himself. of course he is.
“your liaison’s wardrobe is not within your purview,” edgar says.
“shame.”
“neither is her body.”
soldier boy looks at him. “you’ve always been a bore.”
“consistency.”
soldier boy’s jaw tightens. for one second, something in his chest seems to draw in, not visibly glowing, but the room reacts anyway. the guards tense. the legal man takes half a step behind edgar, which is so pathetic you almost feel bad for him.
edgar remains still. the two look at each other across the room: one a relic with fists, the other a knife in a suit.
then edgar turns slightly toward you. “you have the preliminary schedule.”
it takes you half a breath too long to answer. “yes.”
“begin with the briefing. nothing external until i approve it.”
he means homelander. he knows soldier boy might ask. you dread it. but still, you simply nod. “of course.”
soldier boy looks between you. “you leaving her here?”
“yes.”
“alone?”
edgar’s eyes settle on him. “is that a problem?”
it’s a challenge, but wrapped so neatly that anyone with less ego might miss it. soldier boy, unfortunately, doesn’t.
his expression shifts into something ugly and entertained. “not for me.”
edgar turns for the door. “try not to make her first day unnecessarily difficult.”
stan edgar doesn’t wait for soldier boy’s response. he doesn’t even care if he had one. he’s already turning on his heel and heading for the door. the legal man practically evaporates after him. the guards follow but slower, reluctant, staying just outside as the door begins to close. you watch the gap narrow. for one stupid second, the survival part of your brain screams at you to step through it. go. go now. tell them you changed your mind. tell them anything. but the door shuts. the locks click back into place.
one. two. three. and you’re alone with soldier boy. not completely alone. there are cameras, guards beyond the wall, panic buttons you have been told exist but not shown exactly where to find them nor how to use them. you’re alone in the ways that matter.
soldier boy looks at the door. then at you. “well, this is fucking stupid.”
you let out a slow breath through your nose and walk to the table. not too fast. not timid. you set your folder down, place the tablet beside it, and take one second to straighten both because if your hands are busy, maybe they won’t shake.
then you look at him. “let’s get something clear—”
his eyebrows lift. oh, he enjoys that. immediately. the bastard. “that how you talk to your boss?”
your brow lifts right back. there are cameras watching. you're aware of them. the one in the vents over your head. the mirror looks suspiciously large. still, you keep talking. “—my ‘rack’, any other physical attribute, and my wardrobe are not up for debate.”
soldier boy watches you for a second. then another. it’d be easier if he looked angry. but he looks amused in that lazy, cruel way men get when they find a boundary cute because they’re going to step on it just to hear the sound.
his eyes drop again, slower this time. “your rack’s better than your ass anyway.”
for one long second, you say nothing. mostly because every normal professional response leaves your head at once. just empties out. your communications degree, your onboarding modules, the entire section of your employee handbook about maintaining workplace composure during high-stress interpersonal events. gone. burned. reduced to ash by the sheer prehistoric audacity of the man standing in front of you.
he smiles wider, pleased with whatever microscopic twitch he thinks he’s found on your face. “knew you had a look under all that secretary paint.”
you inhale once. just enough to keep yourself from saying something that gets you escorted out of the building before lunch. then you tilt your head. “are you finished?”
his smile remains intact. “with what?”
“trying to make me feel small.” you gesture lightly between the two of you. “because if that was your opening act, i should warn you, i’ve worked for men that would bleed if they got shot and had better material.”
“i think i’m employed.” you pick up your tablet and tap the screen awake, because looking busy gives your body something to do besides remember that he could fold the table in half and you with it. “and i think you’re mistaking me for temporary.”
“you walked in here with edgar and a folder. what the hell else are you?”
“the person currently standing between you and a lot of consequences.”
he lets out a short laugh. “consequences.”
“yes.”
“from you?”
“no.” you glance at him. “from the company that thawed you out and locked you in a luxury cage with tagged liquor.”
his face changes. it isn’t much. with another man, you might miss it. with him, it feels like someone pulled a wire tight in the walls. the amusement doesn’t disappear completely, but it hardens. something old and ugly moves under it, something less performative than the comments about your chest.
“you can call me whatever you want in your head. secretary, babysitter, doll… whatever makes the century less confusing for you. but out loud, you’re going to use my name, or you’re going to use my title, and you’re going to keep your thoughts about my boobs and my ass buried wherever you keep the rest of your outdated opinions.”
his mouth curves again, but it’s thinner now. “or what?”
you knew he’d ask. men like him always do. they don’t believe in fences unless they’ve personally thrown themselves against the wood and learned how much pressure it takes to crack.
you set the tablet down. “or they replace me.”
he blinks once. that’s not the answer he expected.
you smile, sharper than anything you’ve worn today. “that’s the part you’re not understanding. i’m not here because vought thinks i’m special. i’m here because the position is available and i’m qualified.”
he stares at you, the amusement slowly dripping out of him.
“if i don’t last, they’ll find someone else. and if that person doesn’t last, they’ll find another one. and after enough assistants quit, cry, file complaints, or get carried out of here with a concussion, someone upstairs is going to decide that this,” you gesture around the room, the expensive wood, the sealed windows, the cameras pretending not to exist, him. “is too much work.”
the air feels different now. you can hear the building hum. maybe it was always doing that. maybe you only notice because soldier boy’s gone very still.
“and when vought decides you’re too much work,” you continue, softer, cleaner, meaner, “they won’t build you a bigger room. they won’t give you more freedom. they won’t sit you down and ask about your feelings…”
his jaw ticks.
you hold his gaze. “they’ll put you back in the freezer.”
for the first time since edgar left, soldier boy doesn’t have an immediate comeback.
that should feel good. expect… it doesn’t. it feels like standing too close to a bomb you’ve just realized could go off.
his eyes stay on yours, green and flat and bright with something you’re very, very smart not to name. the room seems to shrink around him. no movement, no glow, no dramatic crack in the floor. only the sudden knowledge that the cameras in the vents and the guards behind the door aren’t in here with you.
you force yourself not to recoil. your body wants to. every old animal part of you wants distance. but your face stays still, because if you give him fear right now, he’ll use it.
soldier boy takes one step closer. measured. testing. “you threatening me?” his voice is lower now.
you swallow, and hate that you have to. “no.”
“sounds like a threat.”
“it’s an explanation of your current employment conditions.”
his nostrils flare. for a second, you think he might laugh. for another, you think he might put his hand through the table. he does neither. he just looks at you, and something in his expression shifts again. not softening. god, no. nothing that generous. more like a door inside him opens half an inch, not to let you in, but to check whether you’re worth locking out properly.
“employment conditions,” he repeats. his eyebrows lift and the corner of his mouth moves before he can decide whether to stop it. quick. unwilling. almost a smile. “you got a mouth on you.”
“i’ve been told.”
“by men who lived?”
“a few of them.”
this time, he does laugh. not much. barely more than air through his nose. but it breaks something in the room that had started to tighten too far. he turns away first, which feels like a victory until you realize your pulse’s trying to climb out through your neck.
he walks to the sideboard and picks up one of the liquor bottles. the electronic tag flashes red under his fingers. he looks down at it with pure disgust.
he twists the bottle once, testing the cap. the tag blinks again. somewhere outside the room, someone’s probably seeing an alert. maybe they can put subject attempted emotional support bourbon in the file.
“you gonna report everything i say?” he asks.
you pick up the tablet again. professional mode slides back over you, not because it fits perfectly, but because it’s safer than being here with your nerves showing. “depends.”
“on?”
“whether it’s necessary.”
that earns another look. less amused than before. more attentive. you decide not to enjoy it. enjoying things in this room feels like how people end up with preventable injuries.
you tap open the schedule. “your schedule will resume tomorrow morning. briefing is at nine.”
“not going.”
“you don’t know what it is.”
“don’t need to.”
“medical evaluation at ten-thirty.”
“definitely not going.”
“wardrobe fitting at noon.”
his head turns. “wardrobe fitting?”
“reintegration wardrobe review.”
“what the hell does that mean?”
“it means someone in branding wants to know whether you’ll still test well in green.”
his face does something deeply offended. “the suit tested fine.”
“in 1984, maybe.”
he points at you with the bottle. “watch it.”
you look at the bottle. “you’re threatening me with tagged bourbon. it’s not as intimidating as you think.”
he lowers it, but the ghost of amusement is there again, tucked meanly at the edge of his mouth.
you keep scrolling. “media training is tentatively scheduled for friday.”
“no.”
“that one wasn’t a question.”
“make it one.”
“fine. would you like to attend media training voluntarily, or would you like me to write that you refused because structured conversation frightens you?”
his smile comes back, wider this time. “you always this annoying?”
“only when i’m doing my job well.”
“you think this is doing your job well?”
you look up at him. “you haven’t broken anything since i got here.”
that one nearly gets you. not because it’s funny, though it is, but because his expression goes through three things too quickly to name. insult. anger. something almost like recognition. then he settles on a sneer.
he holds your stare.
you hold his.
the room hums around you. the city glitters beyond sealed glass. somewhere outside this door, stan edgar’s people are listening, waiting to see if the new hire survives her first unsupervised conversation with the company’s most expensive liability.
finally, soldier boy drops onto the leather couch with a heavy, irritated sprawl, one arm thrown across the back, knees apart, all arrogance and muscle and wounded pride arranged like he invented furniture. “fine. talk.”
you blink, completely caught off guard by the sudden surrender.
he sees it and looks pleased again, which is unbearable. “what?” he asks. “you wanted to go over my little list of to-dos, didn’t you?”
you lift your tablet a little higher, putting the screen between his face and whatever your expression might be doing. “yes.”
“then go on.” he settles deeper into the couch, watching you like he’s decided the meeting might not be a total waste after all. “orient me.”
you hate that he makes the word sound dirty. you hate more that your mouth almost twitches. instead, you square your shoulders, clear your throat, and let the résumé girl crawl neatly back into place.
“tomorrow,” you begin, voice smooth enough to invoice, “the briefing will start with behavioral compliance expectations.”
soldier boy grins. slow. mean. entertained. “can’t wait.”
Me opening the Soldier Boy x reader tag hoping to find a decent and normal fic only to come across Fauxcest and non-con/dub-con elements in most fics. I JUST WANT TO READ NORMAL SOLDIER BOY FICS. I KNOW DESPITE HIM AS PERSON, HE ASKS FOR CONSENT.
I imagine young Dean loved riding shotgun, talking hunts and cars with his dad, feeling all grownup and whatnot. But some days he'd let Sammy have the front seat, would cramp himself into the back, listen to that latest Led Zeppelin album and watch nature go by :>
I know you said you don’t usually take requests but don’t mind gushing over common interests cuz I’m also down bad for hobie. i cant stop imagining doing the iconic Spider-Man kiss where you lift their mask just over their mouth to kiss them can you imagine spider punk saving you again and again and you decide to thank him with that kiss I’m just UGH RAHAGAHEDSSHAHAHHhz
Hobie saving y/n the first time, saving her from whatever the anomaly had done. Both thinking it’ll be the last time they’ll meet
Hobie saving y/n again from an attempted robbery, this time remembering her. Still both think it’ll be the last time.
The THIRD time?? “Now I’m startin’ to think ya stalkin’ me, love.”- Both already on the first name basis, y/n gets embarrass everytime thay the only way they meet is some sort of criminal situation.
Fourth???- this girl must be behind this heinous act—
“Ya know, not trying to be kleptocracy but I might need payment now everytime I save ya”- he jokes, hanging upside down in an alleyway in front of her.
Y/n who DOES take it seriously, unexpectedly gives Hobie a goddamn nervous peck through his mask.
Hobie who has to register what she had done.
Somehow y/n keeps getting tangled in shit-ass situations?? Yet hobie and y/n are getting more comfortable with each other each time they meet.
AND THE BOLDER HER KISSES GET FROM EACH SAVE?!?!
full make out sessions at Hobie’s place AFTER SAVING HER THE 10TH TIME.
watching Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse and knowing Hobie Brown has gotten me feral. Could not stop thinking about being that man’s lover and oh the things he could do. Jesus.
AN: a bit older y/n from another dimension, some smut, fluff, cussing, nicknames, semi age gap, the works.
W: I apologize if I’ve made any mistakes, English is not my first language.
Minors, ageless blogs do NOT interact.
>> Long read ahead
“Oh, I bet you think your honey taste like sugar. But honey, sugar don’t taste that bitter~ Baby, you ain’t sweet. Look at what you did to me~…” y/n sings to the lyrics, tapping her foot on the floor. The music blaring from her headphones, getting distracted from doing homework infront of her.
She adjusted the frames of her glasses, licking her lips and continued humming to the tone. Failing to notice the flashes of bright, sharp lights beaming through the bedroom window behind her.
It was heavily pouring outside, the shut window slowly rutted opened. Slim fingers appeared on the frame, pulling a bit more force Til the figure could come through the window.
The masked vigilante made his way inside, patting off droplets of rain. He took off his mask, letting his full blown hair pop up.
He smirked at the sight of y/n, sitting infront of her desk, Clueless about this presence. The music she was listening and the loudness of the rain made y/n unaware of Hobie approaching her.
Hobie posed finger gun on his right hand, pressing the tips of his fingers on y/n’s upper back.
“Hands where I came see em’ lil’ lady” he jokes, feeling her tensed.
Y/n quickly pulled off her headphones and spun around, looking at a chuckling Hobie in disbelief.
“You ass,” she glared at him, pushing him off.
“You’re gonna get robbed easily love, I won’t be around you for that.” He holds his hands up in defense.
“Luckily, we’ve got another Spider-Man here huh, what’re you doing here anyways?” She questions, crossing her legs on the office chair she was sitting.
Hobie plopped down on her bed, wincing a bit when he noticed a small stain of blood on his shirt on the left side where his ribs lie.
“Shit.” He cussed, pulling off his leathered spiked jacket.
“What’s wrong?” Y/n stood up concerned, slowly made her way towards him and sat beside him.
“Just a graze, don’t worry. Must’ve gotten caught a crossfire between these crime families back home, what nasty lil’ shits.”
“And you didn’t feel that until now? You must’ve been in a load of adrenaline, It must be wearing off.” y/n sighs, kneeling down beside the bed and pulled out a storage box. She took out a first aid kit and sat back again beside Hobie.
“You’re cute when you’re concerned doll, it’s like you’re forgetting I have massive pain tolerance.” He couldn’t take his eyes off of her, feeling her worry for him a bit made his heart swell.
He always kept his heart up on his sleeve, meeting y/n months ago somehow changed that despite they’re still friends. He also knew that she was older than him, two years older in fact and it must’ve set her back.
They met when he and Gwen came to her dimension, looking for their villain of the week that somehow skipped across dimensions and landed on hers. She was a med student, walked in a parking lot alone at a convenience store. Not knowing she was being followed a creep whom Hobie took action on.
The rest was history.
“Putting your schooling in good use aye?” He jokes again, taking off his shirt after seeing her getting crossed.
Thou shall not poke a pissed off y/n.
“Glad you find this funny, what would happen if you got hit somewhere serious huh Hobie?” She clicked her tongue, throughly disinfecting his flesh wound.
“Relax, you’re forgetting who you’re talking to.”
Hobie’s relentless teasing didn’t lighten the situation, it just made y/n worry more whenever he’s not around. She would never really know the next time he’ll come back.
He felt it, she was always the worrywart. Somehow he could read what was going on through her pretty little head.
“I’ll always come back to you, my love. So please stop worrying, I’m here with you right now and I promise you I’d want to go through everything for you.” His voice softens, his gaze never leaving hers.
He leaned just a bit closer, caught a whiff of her lavender shampoo and declared that it was his favorite scent.
“Hobs…” she quietly says, feeling the tension between them. Her eyes meeting his, couldn’t help but noticed he kept glancing on her lips.
“Mhm, yes mamas?” He couldn’t help but inch a bit closer, grazing his lip on hers.
Just a lil bit of tease.
The slight cold of his steel lip ring had made y/n’s skin crawl with goosebumps. His rough, firm hand radiated a lot of warmth on hers. Yet his thumb caressing the top of hers made something stir up inside her.
The new nickname he gave her wasn’t helping, she felt a bit guilty she wanted to hear it more from his lips.
He was waiting for her, he didn’t want to freak her out if he was too forward. But he was too damn excited, he’s been wanting to kiss her for a while now.
It was eating him up inside.
y/n closed the distance, letting her lips connected to his but it was only quick and subtle. She was nervous as hell, the last time she kissed someone was her ex-boyfriend a year ago.
“Babe that’s not enough, not enough at all.” His voice was heavy with need, in need of her.
Hobie raised his left hand, enclosing his slender fingers on her jawline. Grasping it softly and pulled her closer, wrapping his other hand around her waist to pull her on top of him.
Y/n squeaked In surprised, Instinctively holding on to his broad shoulders.
“Hobs-”
His lips immediately crashing to hers, he loved how soft it felt and the taste of earl grey tea still lingered on her tongue.
y/n moaned on his mouth, it was music to his ears and he wanted to listen to it more.
The kiss was sloppy, y/n was struggling to keep up. Her nails dug into his skin, making him grow excited beneath her. She surely felt it and subconsciously started to grind on it through his leathered pants.
“Mm mas, You’re making it hard to stop,” he says in between kisses.
She grew too fond of it, she didn’t care if her lips had start to swell or bruised. It was addicting to make out with Hobie Brown.
“Mmm,” were the only sounds she left out. Taking the lip ring between her teeth and pulled slowly.
Hobie’s grip on her waist and thighs got tighter when she did it, almost made him cum on that spot. He swore this woman was gonna be the death of him if she keeps it up.
y/n’s hands started to trail, from his shoulders to his chest. Feeling every detail of him, how warm he was despite the nonchalance he always gives off to most people.
She reached right above his pants, Hobie was sensitive to what she has touched.
y/n dragged a finger over the tent, her wetness grew at the feeling of how hard he was of her.
They both finally pulled away, heavy breathing. Hobie leaned against the headboard, still not loosening his vice on her as if she were to disappear any moment.
Looking at her all disheveled and swollen lips, her eyes kept screaming at him to just take her then and there.
“Love, I’d want you to shoot me in the head if I ever say no to you but have you even done it before? I wouldn’t want to rush you to something you’re not comfortable with.” He reassures in a soft voice despite his lustful gaze.
y/n couldn’t care less anymore, she had too much pent up frustration. She was still a virgin, the only farthest thing she had done with her ex was giving and receiving oral sex.
“Hobs, if you won’t fuck the living daylights out of me- I will be putting a lock on that window the minute you leave.” she huffs, palming his hardness.
“Damn mamas alright, I’ll take that as a yes.” He chuckles, both of his hands crawling their way to her ass. A bit frustrated that she was still covered in shorts and a baggy shirt, it may look cute on her but Hobie preferred much that she wore close to nothing at all.
“Gonna need these off first,” he mumbles, burying his face on her neck, leaving lazy kisses and soft bites.
“Couldn’t agree more,” she replied, closing her eyes and biting her lip to moan out loud.
Hobie ripped out her shorts, tugging the cloths away and was surprised to feel her wearing a thong.
“Jesus, love.” He smiles against her neck, immediately groping her cheeks and slapping the right.
He pulled on her thong, making her wet slit grind against the thin fabric.
“Fuck, Hobs…”
“You’ve been wearing this kind of panties around me all this time?” Another slap on her right cheek.
“Mmm sometimes,” y/n started to enjoy this too much.
Another slap before his firm fingers started to spread her cheeks apart, groping and gripping them all around.
Without warning, Hobie pushed her over on her back. Making them switch sides. He was on top, wouldn’t even stop smiling at her.
“Do you know how many times I keep thinking about you being underneath me?” He caresses her cheek, placing a peck.
He lowered himself more, placing more and more small yet sweet kisses. Raising the disruptive shirt to her chest til her breasts were on full view to his pleasure.
Hobie already loves them, they were perfect to him. They weren’t too small nor too big, mouth started to salivate at the size of her areolas.
Letting one arm to support himself, he cupped one of her breast and kneed on the erected bud. Licking her lips for another neediness.
“Something tells me it’s gonna be more than once,” y/n managed to whimper out, Hobie taking the whole bud in his mouth.
His hand caresses it’s way to her swollen pussy lips, eating the thin line of cloth. He could feel how needy and wet she was for him, and God she was soaked.
She squirmed, bucking her hips for more of his fingers. Meanwhile, Hobie’s mouth was occupied- switching between one tit to another.
His fingers itched to plunge deep inside her ache, he pulled the thong to the side and started rubbing her clit.
“Hobs… fuck, that feels good,” she mewed, kept on squirming.
Hobie hummed in pleasure, feeling her wither from his touch made him smirk.
Y/n’s body jerked when she felt a sharp and pleasurable pain when Hobie softly hit one of her nipples.
“Hobie!” He chuckles, licking the aching nub soothingly.
“If you’ll let me mas, I need to taste you. Need to fill my hunger for you right now.” He left her chest, licking and biting his way down to her abdomen. Leaving so much marks, he’s gotten too proud and wanted to mark her more.
She couldn’t say anything but whimpers. She nodded her head in response, but this only wanted Hobie to tease her more.
Without warning, both of his fingers plunged inside her. Feeling the walls tightening around him, it was so warm- he started imagining how amazing it must feel if it were his cock.
“Use your big girl words, love.” He curled his fingers, hitting that spot that made y/n grip her hands all over his body.
“Hobs- eat me out please,”
Hobie didn’t waste any time, he’d gotten too needy- placing his lips on her sex. It reeked of desperation.
Both his left hand and mouth enjoyed giving y/n too much pleasure, His right gripping on her inner thigh to keep her open for him. Y/n still kept on squirming, her legs begging to close in on his head.
It was too much.
She bit her bottom lip too hard, she swore she was already seeing stars as Hobie kept on abusing her pussy with the combo. She couldn’t help but let her moans out, a few cusses and whimpers of “Hobs” kept escaping from her mouth.
She felt this wave, this urge for release.
“Wait Hobs- Hobie! I’m gonna pee- stop,” she started to pull away, gripping on the sheets as if it were to help her.
Hobie didn’t say anything but looked at her, meeting her eyes but didn’t stop. He went faster, flicking his tongue all over her wet sex and fucking it with his fingers.
“Hobi- Hobie,” she couldn’t escape, Hobie kept on pulling her back. The more she struggled- the closer the release.
“Hobie” her toes curled, letting the wave overcome her.
It came in spurs, she started squirting all over his mouth and face. Hobie immediately started lapping her up, trying to drink every little drop.
That’s a first, even my ex wasn’t able to do that with me. Her chest was heaving, thighs still trembling from the aftermath.
“If I knew you tasted this good, I would’ve done this sooner.” He smiles, giving her pussy one last kiss before kissing her lips a few times.
“Mmm- sorry, I made a mess on your face,” she breathes out, pussy still sensitive as Hobie’s huge girth was pressing against it.
Hobie unzipped his pants, quickly taking it off and freed his aching cock from his boxers.
“You’re gonna have to make another mess, mas. Whole lot more,” grinding the tip at her wetness, giving special attention to her swollen clit.
“Hobie… I just came,” she glanced nervously at his size, it was a good guess of 6-7 inches with a bit of a wide veiny girth.
“Better then, I’ll take care of you darling. Don’t worry, you’ll be wanting it more soon,” Hobie slowly pressed on his hips, the tip slowly making its way inside her folds.
As he leisurely pressed it inside, she could feel him stretching her out. Her walls adjusting to his size, but surprisingly she only felt a scale of 5/10 pain.
“You okay, my love?” Hobie asks, each of his hands holding her hands down. Kissing her cheek and neck to reassure her.
“Mhm, just keep going. Is it even fully in yet?” She groaned.
“Not even close, but fuck I’m only half way through- the tip’s kissing your cervix already.” He laughs a bit, then groaned at she kept gripping around him.
The pain started to retreat, and all she could feel how full she was of him, and he was right- she could feel his hard tip pressing on the entrance of her cervix.
“Hobie, move. Please.” She begged, looking at his pained expression.
“Mmm, love. You’re still adjusting,” Hobie groaned, hearing her say those words almost made him pound into her to oblivion.
“Please Hobs, start fucking me. I won’t say it again.” She says sternly, something inside her grew excited. Her nervousness soon started to diminish and was replaced with yearning.
He looked down on her, wringing her wrists together above her head and slinging his web- bounding them together.
“As you wish.”
He placed one of his hands under her ass, pulling her up a bit and started to pull his length out before plunging it back in her.
Y/n’s bound hands immediately placed themselves at the back of his neck. It was a slow pounding but she was hitting it too deep, the tip pounding her cervix at every thrust.
The squelching noise that both of their sexes made overwhelmed their senses, their animalistic groans filled the room. Both couldn’t care less if their neighbors could hear them fucking away.
Their sweats began to mix, everything what they’re doing made them intertwine with one another. Y/n’s wetness was already covering Hobie’s cock, pummeling her has gotten easier and more of his length disappeared in her.
“Shit, mas, Your pussy’s swallowing me. I can’t stop.” Hobie gritted his teeth, being inside her made him addicted.
She felt that familiar urge again, but it was stronger. Hobie’s merciless pummeling edged her closer.
“Hobs,” she whimpered.
“I know, I know love. Cum all over me, make a mess.” He connected his lips to hers, muffling her loud moans as she let herself succumbed to his commands. Her whole body bucked and quiver against his.
Hobie hissed, sensed he was nearing to his end. But he wanted to finish feeling all of her crumbling first, then pulled out. Just barely, spurs of his hot cum landed on her stomach.
It took them a moment, giving them both time to come back to the real world.
Hobie plopped himself on top of her, she didn’t mind the weight. It was rather comforting, feeling him against her.
Hobie placed himself beside her on the bed, pulling her in- not caring they were both buck naked. Ripping off the web on her knotted hands.
She snuggled closer to him, knowing there was no turning back after what they’ve done.
“I know I’ve said I don’t believe in labels and consistency but, I’d prefer to make an exception for you, my love. Only you. I want this to be real for us,” Hobie broke the silence, playing with the strands of her hair and caressing her back.
“You better keep your word, Hobs. I have liked you for quite some time now.” Y/n started to trace her fingers on his chest, savoring each moment they have.
“I think we’ve gone way past using “like” love, doesn’t really match the way you’ve been needing me earlier.” He teases, groping an ass cheek.
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