[urdinosaurs]

𝗗𝗢𝗡'𝗧 𝗪𝗢𝗥𝗥𝗬. 𝗪𝗘'𝗟𝗟 𝗧𝗔𝗞𝗘 𝗜𝗧 𝗙𝗥𝗢𝗠 𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘 .ᐟ

₊˚⊹౨ৎ ₊˚⊹ LYLA. she/her. adult. on hiatus. spiderverse (hobie) ecentric.

𝗖𝗢𝗠𝗘 𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗔 𝗖𝗟𝗢𝗦𝗘𝗥 𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗞 !! requests: closed || inbox: open || this blog contains explict and dark content, minors be warned || RULES || M.LISTS

MOST POPULAR:

𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐑 || 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐏𝐓 𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐄 || 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐑 || ft. hobie brown

©urdinosaurs. do not copy, translate, modify, or repost my content onto other sites without my permission

[urdinosaurs]

-ˏˋ 𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗦 ˊˎ

my posts are organized by the tags I use! here is a directory of where each tag goes to and what it does to better organize my blog!

🦕 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝓁𝓎𝓁𝒶 𝓌𝓇𝒾𝓉𝑒𝓈 - fanfiction

💌 - 𝓁𝓎𝓁𝒶'𝓈 𝒶𝓈𝓀𝓈 ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ - what people send in my inbox

📓🖋- 𝓁𝓎𝓁𝒶'𝓈 𝒹𝒾𝒶𝓇𝓎 ₊˚⊹ - questions, thoughts, spam, polls, etc that I post

🪩 - 𝓁𝓎𝓁𝒶'𝓈 𝓊𝓃𝒸𝒶𝓉𝑒𝑔𝑜𝓇𝒾𝓏𝑒𝒹 ⋆ ˚｡ - fanfiction that does not have a m.list

📍🗺️ - 𝓁𝓎𝓁𝒶'𝓈 𝓃𝒶𝓋 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ - my navaigation posts

©urdinosaurs. do not copy, translate, modify, or repost my content onto other sites without my permission

[urdinosaurs]

-ˏˋ 𝗣𝗘𝗗𝗥𝗢 𝗣𝗔𝗦𝗖𝗔𝗟 ˊˎ

₊˚⊹౨ৎ ₊˚⊹ FANFICTION OF PEDRO PASCAL'S CHARACTERS

𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐒 - unnamed thoughts 1k or less.

©urdinosaurs. do not copy, translate, modify, or repost my content onto other sites without my permission

[urdinosaurs]

-ˏˋ 𝗖𝗔𝗟𝗟 𝗢𝗙 𝗗𝗨𝗧𝗬 ˊˎ

₊˚⊹౨ৎ ₊˚⊹ 𝗦𝗜𝗠𝗢𝗡 𝗚𝗛𝗢𝗦𝗧 𝗥𝗜𝗟𝗘𝗬

𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐇𝐂 - ideal dates with simon and civilian reader.

𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐒 - unnamed thoughts 1k or less.

©urdinosaurs. do not copy, translate, modify, or repost my content onto other sites without my permission

[urdinosaurs]

-ˏˋ 𝗥𝗨𝗟𝗘𝗦 ˊˎ

hey! you! please take a minute to read this before continuing further on my page!

BLOG RULES/WARNINGS

DNI if your racist, misogynistic, islamophobic, homophobic, zionistic, or spread any kind of hate or violence. you will be blocked and reported.

i don't care if minors interact with my non nsfw posts, just please don't be weird about it. the posts will be tagged that way, and warnings will always be there to let you know if it's safe or not. (spice is considered NSFW in my book)

however, do not expect the same treatment for NSFW works. if i see ageless/minor blogs interacting with my smut, reblogged smut, or anything NSFW, your blocked. i have warnings on every post, and by now, you should have seen it on enough of nsfw posts to know that minors aren't allowed.

I may write about mature or heavy topics such as alcohol, drugs, smoking, mental health, etc... please read the warnings and use your discretion. i would recommend that only adults read it, but ultimately, it's your choice. don't blame me.

this is a secondary blog so i can not be your mutual, sorry :(

if you take any kind of inspiration or use any of my characters from my work please credit me! fanfiction takes a lot of time and effort and if your using anything of mine, i would like to be properly acknowledged.

INBOX RULES

do not by any means bring up topics such as rape, pedophilia, incest, etc...(you get the picture). 

i may write about mental health issues, but that does not mean i want discussions about it. tagging, sending, or texting in my inbox about big trigger topics like suicide, self-harm, eating disorders, and intrusive thoughts is a big no. 

politics and religion, personal questions, or venting are not permitted in my inbox. 

that said, i do very much enjoy interaction and would love to communicate with you all more, so please don't be shy!

WRITING RULES 

right now requests are closed but thirsts are welcome, and if i'm feeling it, i may write something for it, but please don't expect it

my writing is mainly directed toward female or afab readers. I will occasionally do gender-neutral. 

i would like not to write the reader with a specific race, religion, disorder, etc...

i may and will write for characters who are minors, but i will never age them up to write smut about them

i don't write about any hate, daddy kink, scat, vomiting, hard bdsm, vore, feet, gore involved in sex (no blood at all), noncon, incest, pedophilia, piss, raceplay, ageplay, sado-masochism, gunplay, etc... if your unsure whether to send it or not, if it's hardcore or involves some form of violence i probably wouldn't send it! 

if you don't see me currently talking about a fandom, then i am probably not a part of it and have no interest in writing it. 

please remember that i have a life outside of tumblr and i have had requests take months before. patience is all i ask of you. if i can't get to it or for whatever reason can't do it i will pm you or if you're an anon, post it on my blog so you know and can ask another writer if you want.  

however don't send the same request to multiple blogs. i've had it happen before. it's shitty. don't do it. 

that's it! if you have any questions feel free to ask! thank you for reading and i hope you enjoy my blog!

©urdinosaurs. do not copy, translate, modify, or repost my content onto other sites without my permission

[writeforfandoms]

This is a gentle reminder that your favorite writers are busy. Many of us have jobs, families, school, outside responsibilities that pull us in a lot of directions. If you're eager for more of a story, a comment like "update pls" or "update soon!!!" does not actually help. If you want to get the creative juices flowing, come ask us questions! I promise you your fave is going to be so happy that you show interest and reach out.

Remember, we are doing this for fun. Help make it fun for everyone involved. Including the writer.

Sincerely,

A very tired writer

[urdinosaurs]

WAR IS OVER TUMBLR DID IT

I CAN COMMENT AS MY SECONDARY BLOG

[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, platonic relationship between all the characters, 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]

╰┈➤ ❝ 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]

could you make a fic where hobie n his variants are a band together and they take reader backstage for some “private time”? if not thats okay im js obsessed w them all😭

i already did a fic kind of like that here, but would any of you be interested in me doing another one?

more hobie variants?

yesss please omg

i'm good

other...

Voting ended onOct 21, 2023

[urdinosaurs]

Hihi!! I wanted to tell u that group sex fic with hobie and the band members had me limping afterwards, it was like I was the one getting railed 😩

always happy to deliver my friend 🙏

i'm really glad you enjoyed it though, if it felt like you were the reader instead of the reader being its own character it means i did my job as a fanfic writer and that makes me so happy. messages like these make my day so ty sm for all your support ily bunches and bunches

(also i'm not sure if this is you, but in case it is, i saw your request and while it says on my pinned masterlist that i'm not doing them i like your idea so i will. but in the future that's where you can find it! however after the fic i'm gonna post tomorrow i will be taking a small break just because these last couple of posts have exhausted me, so it will not get done right away but i'll work on it. thanks)

[10083348-deactivated20150720]

You ever read smut that was so well written it had you feelin like you the one that got fucked

[halfofmysoulsblog]

Yes🤣

[flawlessglamazon]

Me after reading some of @darkficsyouneveraskedfor ’s handy work

[suckthatskittlebiiitch]

Me when I read @cevansbrat0007 fics

[milknhonies-old-account-deactiv]

Me when I read @littlefreya and @ellethespaceunicorn fics

[littlefreya]

Thank you, babe 🖤🖤🖤

[dreamfaerye]

@cherienymphe @xsapphirescrollsx @straywords @angrythingstarlight @stargazingfangirl18 @boxofbonesfic @navybrat817 @syntheticavenger

[uzumaki-rebellion]

Sometimes I read my own fics and think, “Sploosh.”

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

@uzumaki-rebellion girlllll you have me feeling it through my phone! 😂😍

[blissdoutbyattuma]

Yes let me tag the gang

Black Panther

@yaachtynoboat711 @muse-of-mbaku @sonofnjobu @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @uzumaki-rebellion @wakandan-flowerz @kumkaniudaku @hearteyes-for-killmonger @killmongerdispussy @abenomeiiii @maxipad032 @madamslayyy @lostgalaxies @eerythingisshaka I miss yall so much 🫶🏾

Wakanda Forever

@pilesofpillows @sphinx @xblackreader @karimk2 @theeblackmedusa @mickimomo @cyb3rscoups @tvreadsandsleep @feasibilities @attoye

ATSV

@cherryredstars @tarjapearce @cultrise @messylustt @drefear @luvjunie @hobies-princealbert @oharahive @whorexis @urdinosaurs @theficplug

Trevante Rhodes

@l-auteuse @artsninspo @theblackandgold-series

Anime

@punkologist @cu7ie @ginger4sugar @bbyleiah @halfrican-heat @pwncez @rimaiahwrites @lingeriae @iplayghoul @sincerlycas @lou2smexi

Please don’t be hold it against me if I missed anyone I try to remember everyone I could love yall 🩷🫶🏾

[urdinosaurs]

omggggg ty sm im honored to have been included!!!! <333

[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 🫣

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]

guys this fic ended up being over 7k words, easily my longest fic yet and i realize while editing it that it isn't as good as i thought....

[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." 

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."

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

TAGLIST: @alicefallsintotherabbithole

[urdinosaurs]

@crionicandshit since i can't reply to comments (i'm a secondary blog) i'll reply here. your absolutely right and that's my bad. i'm so used to putting afab because i'm a smut writer mainly, and write the reader with a vagina, so it's just easiest to put that. i however, neglected to think about how that would need to change since there is no bodily descriptions. so that's my bad and i fixed it, but thank you for bringing it to my attention, ur amazing <3