st-armand

[st-armand]

Celebrating my return to fanfic writing on my sideblog @st-armand by announcing my Sylus/Rafayel/Non-MC!Reader fic inspired by @/obligated_art on X illustrations of Rafayel with Sylus....

It was also inspired by the enabling of Charli XCX's coke use and kinda a deepdive on party drugs, coping mechanisms, and addiction.

I'm basically gunna spend my spring break fleshing out the dynamics, locations, and other story specific parts before actually writing the first few chapters

TW: Drug Use, Blood

[st-armand]

I want to revive this blog to write for LADS.............

[st-armand]

Resistance continues by the Palestinians in the Israeli occupied territories. United States, Canada, New Zealand, Australia, South Africa: your days are numbered too. Settler colonialism will be defeated internationally. This is only the beginning.

[st-armand]

[st-armand]

Since I seen a shit post about Hobie’s politics, i BEG you to read before spewing pro fascist propaganda against leftists

Hobie Brown & Anarchism: A Discussion Pt 2 (Race)

Authors Note: This is my dissertation for the discourse about Hobie’s politics being misrepresented as your friendly community radical leftist

Warnings: Political Ideologies, mentions of violence and oppression

Hobie’s politics are intertwined deeply with his race, as previously stated in my random headcanons post I talked about Hobie being a Jamaican Brit, he has a lot of great analysis on colonization and imperialism, living in a colonized state of New London

(Again I’ve headcanoned Hobie to live in Lenapehoking **New York/Brooklyn and the surrounding areas** that was recolonized by the British Government and renamed New London, I’ll say he was raised in Camden but he relocated to New London when his family decided to leave due to many poor people being displaced to the new settlement. He still exists in the 70s for the most part but sometimes I do set it in modern times, there are some books ill add that are after Hobie’s time period)

Hobie is in touch with his Caribbean roots, a roadman, but an islander at heart, his grandparents raised him very similarly to their own upbringing in Jamaica, he’s well versed in the liberative politics of the Caribbean, keeping track of coupes, falsely installed leaders, environmental activism, labor strikes and organizations, and queer liberation movements, he knows he’s unable to support their struggle physically but as Spiderman he’s vocal about the efforts of those overseas fighting against settler colonialism.

There are often times where there a diaspora groups who have movements in the colonial lands for their homelands, and those are instances where he can be present to fight, and protect.

Hobie is a dark skinned black man, he’s spent his life navigating colorism and antiblackness, whether you headcanon him as other, he still has existed in spaces where black men and women trans and cis have faced antiblackness, misogynoir and trans-misognynoir, from his family, himself and his community.

For many years he spent time witnessing these acts from people around him (Like how many of us know what family members to trust with our identities and politics because of how lax and unaware the adults we were raised with speak), I don’t see him as the person to spew hate, but he has had to unlearn constructs around colorism and his social political understanding of the world, first through lived experience, then through learned information, and then through community action—praxis.

I’d personally headcanon him as possibly genderqueer and asexual (like myself) due to how often he’s the receiving end of unwanted sexual attention, he enjoys sex, but sees it as an intimate act with people he needs to trust. Saying this he still had to navigate being queer in homophobic and transphobic in black spaces, (This is for all my black trans friends, white trans people please don’t use this as a reason to be anti-Black, this is a intracommunity conversation.)

He was lucky to have an expanse of siblings with varying gender expressions and sexuality so his home was a safe space, but he still wasn’t immune to facing this violence.

He goes hard for dark skinned black people, and black people who aren’t conventionally attractive, he knows he has privilege with his looks and how that bends people in his favor, but regardless of that Hobie wants people to KNOW him on a deep level, and isn’t shy about deep emotional connections and emotional maturity, he knows people intimately, in ways where people expose their inner most turmoil to him and he accepts them as they are, and asks before offering advice.

Considering his feelings on treating people with respect regardless of appearance this is best shown with the way he interacts with houseless people on the street, he doesn’t shirk away from the smell or their appearance, he is knowing and emphatic to the circumstances they’ve been forced into, he isn’t deterred by their delusions, hallucinations of breakdowns, and he is an expert at deescalate them when they’re having a mental health crisis. He doesn’t openly antagonize people (for the most part) but he kinda has this aquarian way of showing his authority through his intellectual capacity and cool demeanor, he does speak down to people who are treating people in a discriminating fashion, he’s very shady.

Like lets say he’s in a group of people and their spewing colorist remarks he’ll dramatically sigh and rub his temples and say shit like,

“Ya don’t really read do you?”

“C’me off it mate”

“Someone’s new ‘ere”

And if the person or conversation continues in that direction, he’ll openly state his opinions instead of making the tension palpable with his shade.

“Y’know ‘s quite simple innit? Dark skinned black people are the lowest on colonial racial pillers, dark skinned women navigate it the hardest, having to live in the confines of racialized ideas of beauty and attraction.”

If the person is open to learning he’ll continue to teach them in a nuanced fashion, taking his time to explain and highlight the histories and how they connect with modern social standards, but if they aren’t he just continues to be annoyed and exasperated, usually before that happens his group ushers them away, their space isn’t for people who want to debate the livelihood of other people.

As a taste of the romance and platonic parts,

Hobie finds all people attractive, he sees past their physical traits, and focuses on the content of their character, their morals, their personal goals and aspirations, that is where he finds beauty in people, sexually or romantically? As I stated before he has to know you before initiating a relationship like that, but he does recognize that there are beautiful people, he prefers to get into relationships with black people or non-black people of color only if they are willing to navigate antiblackness alongside him and for the safety of other black people, and don’t expect him to stay in a relationship with someone who’s family is racists or discriminatory especially if you don’t verbally set boundaries and hold the defensive.

He does have non conventional ideas of romance, but he gives and shows love in all kinds of way that it makes it worth feeling insecure in the basis of the relationship, I don’t believe that his consistency joke was meant to be understood as jumping between person to person, or manipulating you into a relationship with no future goal in mind, he doesn’t mind spending the rest of his life alone, especially taking into consideration his role as Spiderman, but he wants to have someone who will anchor him in the chaotic inconsistent world, that the roles they play in love are adaptable, a giver, a provider, a support system, a friend, a comrade he plays all those roles effortlessly and knows which you need and when. He isn’t devastated by moving on from someone he loves, he recognizes that people are in your life for a reason for a certain period of time, short term and long term, and he doesn’t fight the change when the tides of life are moving against him.

I got all yalls request imma reply so you know I see them, will work on them in the next few weeks since application deadlines are coming up <33

[st-armand]

Hobie Brown & Anarchism: A Discussion Pt 2 (Race)

Authors Note: This is my dissertation for the discourse about Hobie’s politics being misrepresented as your friendly community radical leftist

Warnings: Political Ideologies, mentions of violence and oppression

Hobie’s politics are intertwined deeply with his race, as previously stated in my random headcanons post I talked about Hobie being a Jamaican Brit, he has a lot of great analysis on colonization and imperialism, living in a colonized state of New London

(Again I’ve headcanoned Hobie to live in Lenapehoking **New York/Brooklyn and the surrounding areas** that was recolonized by the British Government and renamed New London, I’ll say he was raised in Camden but he relocated to New London when his family decided to leave due to many poor people being displaced to the new settlement. He still exists in the 70s for the most part but sometimes I do set it in modern times, there are some books ill add that are after Hobie’s time period)

Hobie is in touch with his Caribbean roots, a roadman, but an islander at heart, his grandparents raised him very similarly to their own upbringing in Jamaica, he’s well versed in the liberative politics of the Caribbean, keeping track of coupes, falsely installed leaders, environmental activism, labor strikes and organizations, and queer liberation movements, he knows he’s unable to support their struggle physically but as Spiderman he’s vocal about the efforts of those overseas fighting against settler colonialism.

There are often times where there a diaspora groups who have movements in the colonial lands for their homelands, and those are instances where he can be present to fight, and protect.

Hobie is a dark skinned black man, he’s spent his life navigating colorism and antiblackness, whether you headcanon him as other, he still has existed in spaces where black men and women trans and cis have faced antiblackness, misogynoir and trans-misognynoir, from his family, himself and his community.

For many years he spent time witnessing these acts from people around him (Like how many of us know what family members to trust with our identities and politics because of how lax and unaware the adults we were raised with speak), I don’t see him as the person to spew hate, but he has had to unlearn constructs around colorism and his social political understanding of the world, first through lived experience, then through learned information, and then through community action—praxis.

I’d personally headcanon him as possibly genderqueer and asexual (like myself) due to how often he’s the receiving end of unwanted sexual attention, he enjoys sex, but sees it as an intimate act with people he needs to trust. Saying this he still had to navigate being queer in homophobic and transphobic in black spaces, (This is for all my black trans friends, white trans people please don’t use this as a reason to be anti-Black, this is a intracommunity conversation.)

He was lucky to have an expanse of siblings with varying gender expressions and sexuality so his home was a safe space, but he still wasn’t immune to facing this violence.

He goes hard for dark skinned black people, and black people who aren’t conventionally attractive, he knows he has privilege with his looks and how that bends people in his favor, but regardless of that Hobie wants people to KNOW him on a deep level, and isn’t shy about deep emotional connections and emotional maturity, he knows people intimately, in ways where people expose their inner most turmoil to him and he accepts them as they are, and asks before offering advice.

Considering his feelings on treating people with respect regardless of appearance this is best shown with the way he interacts with houseless people on the street, he doesn’t shirk away from the smell or their appearance, he is knowing and emphatic to the circumstances they’ve been forced into, he isn’t deterred by their delusions, hallucinations of breakdowns, and he is an expert at deescalate them when they’re having a mental health crisis. He doesn’t openly antagonize people (for the most part) but he kinda has this aquarian way of showing his authority through his intellectual capacity and cool demeanor, he does speak down to people who are treating people in a discriminating fashion, he’s very shady.

Like lets say he’s in a group of people and their spewing colorist remarks he’ll dramatically sigh and rub his temples and say shit like,

“Ya don’t really read do you?”

“C’me off it mate”

“Someone’s new ‘ere”

And if the person or conversation continues in that direction, he’ll openly state his opinions instead of making the tension palpable with his shade.

“Y’know ‘s quite simple innit? Dark skinned black people are the lowest on colonial racial pillers, dark skinned women navigate it the hardest, having to live in the confines of racialized ideas of beauty and attraction.”

If the person is open to learning he’ll continue to teach them in a nuanced fashion, taking his time to explain and highlight the histories and how they connect with modern social standards, but if they aren’t he just continues to be annoyed and exasperated, usually before that happens his group ushers them away, their space isn’t for people who want to debate the livelihood of other people.

As a taste of the romance and platonic parts,

Hobie finds all people attractive, he sees past their physical traits, and focuses on the content of their character, their morals, their personal goals and aspirations, that is where he finds beauty in people, sexually or romantically? As I stated before he has to know you before initiating a relationship like that, but he does recognize that there are beautiful people, he prefers to get into relationships with black people or non-black people of color only if they are willing to navigate antiblackness alongside him and for the safety of other black people, and don’t expect him to stay in a relationship with someone who’s family is racists or discriminatory especially if you don’t verbally set boundaries and hold the defensive.

He does have non conventional ideas of romance, but he gives and shows love in all kinds of way that it makes it worth feeling insecure in the basis of the relationship, I don’t believe that his consistency joke was meant to be understood as jumping between person to person, or manipulating you into a relationship with no future goal in mind, he doesn’t mind spending the rest of his life alone, especially taking into consideration his role as Spiderman, but he wants to have someone who will anchor him in the chaotic inconsistent world, that the roles they play in love are adaptable, a giver, a provider, a support system, a friend, a comrade he plays all those roles effortlessly and knows which you need and when. He isn’t devastated by moving on from someone he loves, he recognizes that people are in your life for a reason for a certain period of time, short term and long term, and he doesn’t fight the change when the tides of life are moving against him.

I got all yalls request imma reply so you know I see them, will work on them in the next few weeks since application deadlines are coming up <33

[st-armand]

Pixel Play

( Reposted from @armands-sanctum ) Author’s Note: Request from @blueberry-soda57​ <3 Shout out to all my raccoons in the club, after finishing this I WILL be playing Maplestory, I kinda rushed it but everything i write can get multiple parts so :P

Content Warnings: Pre-established relationship, suggestive, being a basement dweller. Not proofread (yet ill get to it in the morning)

Word Count: 1.3K

Masterlist

Hobie doesn’t like the word ‘Loser’ he feels that insults like that are always based in ableism, and as an autistic person (He’s sensory seeking) very wary of words rooted in ableist histories.

That being said he CHORTLES when you call yourself a ‘Loser Gamer’, he definitely sees why.

Early on in your relationship before he disclosed his identity as Spider-Man, he would text you before and after patrols, like at 4 AM

“Luv you awake?”

“Wanna crash a’ your flat for a bit?”

A beat in time, a few moments, and then a response would be received on his end, sat on the roof of a random building, leaning lazily on the fire escape, mask dripping sweat down his neck.

“K”

“Doors unlocked, busy rn”

Busy..? 

When he’s seen you during the day he has to PHYSICALLY force you to attend events; shows, galleries, demonstrations and protests, and you fight him off like a feral cat being trapped for a spay and neuter.

Your preferred way to spend your day, is sleeping, to the point where you would jump up at 4 PM, haven’t eaten anything or taken your meds. Hobie would watch the hours of the day pass by waiting for you to wake up, like Beth and Mary of Nazareth waiting for the resurrection of Lazarus.

He would take the initiative to get up (Usually 12-1 he’s a late riser too, but he pales in comparison to you) before you, feed your pets and make a quick breakfast or lunch, setting them aside for when you would arise later.

You always wake up in a daze, going in and out of sleep for an hour before fully getting up, and even then you made no plans to go outside and do anything, preferring the isolated 4 walls of your space, a sanctuary in the frenzied world of Earth-138.

In the hours you sleep he admires (snoops around) your space, gingerly looking at the figurines that grace your desks and shelves, animated characters in alternative outfits, and meticulously designed platforms, or looking over your multitudes of gaming consoles.

You don’t let him use them without explicit permission, you definitely don’t want Hobie to mess with your save data, he’s a genius but he never got the chance to be acquainted with gaming in his formative years because he was too busy surviving homelessness.

Hobie’s favorite aspect of your home is your computer setup, Hobie is a genius but he’s always blown away by the determination and time you put into modifying your setup.

Hard drives, Processors, Logic Board strewn about, cables interwoven between each other sloppily, making the small space even smaller and cramped, bed planted right next to your set up so you can wake and be connected onto the Wired as easy it is to breathe. (think the computer setup Lain had towards the end of the anime)

“Ya enjoyin’ yourself in your ‘obbit hole?”

“All connected yeah?”

When he does stagger his way to your place, you’re wide awake, furiously inputting on your keyboard or controller, cursing and hissing into your headset.

Brows furrowed in concentration as you quickly input combos, blocks, grabs.

Maybe you join parties with people on MMOs, your on call with them screaming and sniggering at the actions of the pixels that represent you and your friends, trying to complete obstacles, puzzles, and defeat bosses.

The sounds of your fingers clicking and pressing reverberate the walls from the sheer force, legs lifted up into your lap, in the most uncomfortable posture possible as you ignore the aches in your muscles to get one last game in, one last match, or a few hundred more mobs.

Hobie sits down softly on the bed beside you, watching you intently as you completely disregard his presence (he learns soon that this isn’t on purpose, you're just concentrated on your daily quests and bosses)

When you finally notice there’s something in the space with you, your take a slight glance behind you and scream, eyes not adjusted to the dark room from the searing LEDs of your multiple monitors, your eyes can’t register its Hobie.

“Oy pretty ‘s me, don’t go yellin’ like that someone’s gunna think youre dead”

“Oh fuck Hobie, I thought you were a ghost or something…”

At this point he’s fucking exhausted, and he really wants to snuggle, so he whines like a child trying to get you off the game, or gets an attitude at you when you say, 

“Please Hobie, baby, one more game and I’ll be off” 

cue the sun coming up as your still playing and Hobie knocked out drooling into one of your pillows, wicks splayed out and bent around because he couldn’t be bothered to put on a headscarf or a bonnet. 

(its giving those videos where gfs/wives unplug consoles so their partner pays attention to tasks around the house, except Hobie doesn’t know which chord does what and he doesn’t want to break anything considering it means so much to you.)

Currently in your relationship, Hobie (who can be quite creepy) after patrol likes to take off his heavy docs on your fire-escape, he will watch you game from outside the window, waiting for the perfect opportunity to… SLAM on your window, sending you flying 5 inches into the air, and cowering into your bed, abandoning your game and dying in the process.

After you’ve calmed down, he’ll slink into the room laughing hysterically,

“Shoulda seen your face luv, scared shitless!”

“Hobie the next time you make me die in a game; I’m letting you bleed out on my fire escape.”

You also act as his ‘person in the chair’, keeping track of coordinates, or structural plans to buildings in the city, digging through archives as he brings webbed justice done onto the heads of villains and criminals of all sorts, frantically hacking into CCTV cameras to keep track of his fights and warn him of sneak attacks or other assailants entering the quarrel. Desk littered with snacks, crumbs, and empty soda cans like “Valley Mist”.

Hobie sometimes gets shit from acquaintances at bars or venues who tease him about your appearance.

“Hobie, my bro, they’re just so plain, they just don’t have the look”

Comments like this piss Hobie off so much, some people don’t have the energy to perform beauty, some people just don’t want to and they shouldn’t have to, no matter which category you fall in or between.

Plus regardless he thinks you look adorable, hair strewn about from waking up at 3 PM, a treasure trove of comfortable sweats, adidas track sets, slides and comfy slippers.

But when you do perform beauty, a strike of pleasure ripples down his spine, you can’t blame him, he does forget how good you look sometimes.

“All dolled up, what’s the occasion, yeah?”

“Lookin’ bare leng today”

On days he’s feeling especially needy, he wraps his arms around your torso while playing, pinching and groping at your chest, trying to annoy you enough to the point where you stop playing and give him some kind of attention.

When you don’t he’ll resort to sucking deep purple bruises into your neck and shoulders that has you whimpering and crying softly at the pain, you immediately mute yourself in the game call.

If not that, he’ll stand next to you,

“Lemme ‘ave at it luv, wanna see whats goin’ on in this thing.”

(I play MMOs, Maplestory specifically so this is geared towards that)

You don’t let Hobie play on your characters where your key bindings are specified by class or fighting type, you let him choose his class and make a fresh character, he’ll start playing, frustrated at the boring leveling in the beginning.

He quits cause it’s so time consuming, but you end up grinding his levels a tad after every time he plays so he has new quests and areas to explore.

Regardless he loves his partner no matter what eccentricities they have, he takes every part of the package and values every piece of the puzzle.

[st-armand]

Across Lands and Seas

( Reposted from @armands-sanctum ) Summary: Headcanons for Hobie Brown and Afro-Latine!Reader

Author's Notes: More like an analysis on colonization with Hobie in it im sorry.... CW: political language and ideas, mentions of white supremacy, mentions of racial hierarchies.

Masterlist

I talked a bit with ellie anon about this, and this is for them so <3

Hobie is a culturally literate man, he absorbs history like a sponge, constantly learning and engaging with new material that intrigues him about things he already knows or new information brought to him, that being said I think that Hobie is extremely culturally intelligent ESPECIALLY as a black man, there is no room for arguments about colorism, or privilege around him, and he shuts down someone with vile opinions quickly.

“Mate you don’t really know what you’re talking about yeah?”

Hobie with an Afro Latine significant other is like having a living encyclopedia, he knows so much not just from what he’s read but lived experience with people in his communities.

If you’re estranged from your culture due to the diaspora and colonization Hobie make it his personal goal to help you build a found family with the Afro Latinxs in his punk circles, taking you to festivals and markets with them, they excitedly talk about their country specific dishes, who makes the better variants of food, linguistic similarities between each other, conversations about gender expression within each country and how indigenous beliefs shaped the land and it’s people even when colonization has deemed them eradicated and nonexistent.

You know how people say “Show me your friends and it’ll show me who you are”? Hobie is that kind of person, he holds his friends in high regard and holds them to standards he knows they are capable of, his Latino friends are amazing, they hold no judgement if you can’t speak Spanish, reminding you that the language was enforced on you all as a means of control and to diminish the histories of the indigenous tribes who lived in tandem with the earth, they are all gender diverse, all sorts of familial backgrounds. They sit and help you navigate your culture like a family would, and after a year of being with Hobie and adopted into his friend group, they are your family.

On certain weekends, even when Hobie is gone off being Spiderman, his friends crowd your space, or host in their own homes, spending all the light hours of the day prepping all sorts of dishes, and walking your through the preparation, the ingredients and the cooking, the place fills with laughter and chatter like a home filled with love and care.

Hobie is the kind of person who knows everyone, so don’t be shocked when you’re going about your day and by the time the evening hits your arms are filled with treats old women give you just because Hobie showed them a picture of you in passing and has been flooding them with all sorts of conversations about you, and like any good maternal figure that comes with all kinds of tasty snacks, elotes, small servings of baked chicken with rice and peas, fresh tortillas and empanadas, so much that when you do return home and Hobie sees the mountain of food you obtain all he can say is, “We better get to eatin’ huh? Can’t let ‘his all go to waste”

On one summer afternoon while downtown he sees another elderly woman he enjoys helping serving icees on the corner, he’s already scrounged up a few dollars to purchase, but she INSISTS on giving you both a large cup of lemon and mango icee just because Hobie had repaired helped repair her cart, and intimidate some cops who were pressing her about a ‘food license’ which makes a small child whine about how they wanted a cup that big, Hobie would kneel to the child and offer to buy them as many cones they want, even to their parents displeasure.

Culture has a symbiotic relationship to the land and it’s people, you can displace the people from the land but the culture doesn’t die, it simmers and brews in the belly of the people, forced to uproot themselves due to the violent nature of colonization and white supremacy, and Hobie helps you navigate these circumstances everyday like a lighthouse leads sailors through turbulent stormy waters.

Hobie shares with you information about the anti-colonial pro-indigenous movements in Latin America, reminding you that there are people fighting every day for reparations and liberation, when your blackness is seen as a contested subject amongst other Latinos especially those who are anti-black or colorist Hobie has no issue leaping up from his spot to go on the defensive.

“Black people exist everywhere bruv, that don’t make them any less Latine.”

He brings you all kinds of gifts, I like to think his favorite is jewelry, beaded ornamentation he acquired as payments for odd jobs and favors around the neighborhood, some of them are more alternative, and others are just crafts made with expert precision from their indigenous crafters, he even brings you to these shops so you can learn beadwork, or just to watch them work in a somber calmness.

As a Jamaican one of the things you two share in common is a taste for plantain, he buys plantain chips in bulk, but sometimes maybe after a day of spending time with Grandma Brown (who often complains about the youth losing touch with their roots) he’ll take you to the Caribbean market to buy sweet and ripe plantains, you spend all day frying them and eating them freshly hot and crunchy out the oil, until there isn’t much left after you’re done cooking.

On especially hard nights while you reminisce about family, Hobie will rest your head on his chest, stroking your head softly, conversing with you in hushed tones about how hard it is to be an immigrant, living in a diaspora and feeling disconnected from your traditions, or not feeling acclimated to your culture, he's quick to remind you about how you're living proof of your ancestors determination, that years of slavery and colonization couldn't keep you from being alive, that you existing is revolutionary enough, he traces your facial features, kissing your lips, your eyes your nose, reminding you that you're the product of their resilience.

My last headcanon is that Hobie goes only to queer people of color for tattoos and piercings, they are indigenous arts after all! He doesn’t get cultural tattoos but he loves showing off their work to other people of color, especially considering how white alt dominated body modification has become especially in the west. He pushes you to try and get some, he doesn’t press you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with but he does support you, and if getting a body modification can help you feel a bit closer to your roots, he’s your number 1 supporter.

[st-armand]

Disco Demolition

( Reposted from @armands-sanctum ) Summary: You're in a disco group, performing for your first time at a rock music festival as a special guest, you meet Hobie amidst the fray.

Author's Notes: Request for @barkbarkbo <3, not a song fic but definitely seems like one, I feel like this couldve been better but I've been sitting on it for days and I'm still getting used to writing and flushing out characters in each piece. CW: Fem!Reader, reader is the keyboardist and sometimes lead singer, the band is coded to be Chic and A Taste of Honey. Not beta read but ill be re-reading it after posting

Word Count: 1.9K Masterlist

People everywhere, and expectation hanging in the air. The music bellows through the street blocks, reverberating through the cement jungle. Bodies expertly navigating the space through music stands and merchandise booths.

Hobie’s band the Spider Slayers have already finished their seat, sweat drips from his scalp and down the nape of his neck, getting caught inside of his leather choker, causing the cow hide to slip around mindlessly and uncomfortably. Reeling from the high of guiding droves of people to an auditory paradise of striking chords, and vexed riffs, giving them all he can give, them taking it—and bestowing their adoration, an offering to their melodious liberators. The Spider-Slayer set ends, the dust settles, and everyone sobers from the experience, ready to participate in another. The groups boots thud together in a dulled tandem to the breakneck drumming of the other performers. They take in the goods offered at the festival, perusing street foods, festal drinks and garments. All in joyous moods, and aching limbs, ready to immerse themselves as the participants.

Two young adults stand in the fray of people, freshly printed, high glossed sheets in hand.

“ ‘IN VOGUE’ First performance Set D 12:30 Come get a taste of aural honey”

They stand out amongst the droves of punks and other alternative people— chic mini skirts, tailored satins, high waisted extravagant flares, that painfully snatch the small of the waist, sequenced gems, thick platformed boots, heels worn down from walking and dancing in place. A pair of rhythmic dancefloor idols amongst a cohort of hardcore fanatics. But regardless you all shared the space considerately, anticipating the cultural exchange of synths and shreds.

The two adults dance subtly to the high energy chords that decorate time and agitate their eardrums. You tumble back a bit, trying to comfortably balance in your platforms after a long period of standing, brushing your hip into an obscured figure. Before you can even croak out an apology, you watch your band member and best friend Zera perk up with some unrecognizable expression.

“Hey! Tall, dark and, handsome! Yeah you!”

Hobie doesn’t even register that you’ve bumped into him, so accustomed to people tripping over his streetlight frame, but he does pull a furrowed pierced brow to the call of your friend, he maneuvers through the rat-king of people, towards you and Zera, band close to his heels.

When your gazes locked, you’re drawn into a ruse of inaudibility, overtaken by the unnamed man’s beauty. Silver metal glinting and casting a bright shine into your eyes, a lopsided grin perfect to meld your lips into, and free emergent hair that shades you from the devastating gleam of the sun. You’re taken in by the strong undercurrent of his countenance, senses drowned in the visage of a god amongst men, like Mary of Magdalene taking in the image of her benevolent savior as she’s primed to be stoned. A punk prophet coming to liberate you from the pop music hoax.

“What’s all this then?”

Zera notices the trance Hobie coaxes you into and leads the conversation.

“We’re IN VOGUE, performing for the first time tonight!”

“You should come see us handsome, huh? Bet my friend would really like that,”

Hobie’s eyes rake down your form leisurely and thoughtlessly, consuming you in your exaltation a Venusian image of a human, body rocking and swaying, dancing effortlessly, heeled feet coordinating to every chord and hit of the drum. You draw him into a melodic perplexity of movement he didn’t know could be concocted from the heavy guitar, and you do so instinctively.

“Names ‘obie, ‘obie Brown, but you can keep calling me handsome.”

Zera, Hobie and his bandmates chat amongst each other as you come down from the veil of delusion the tall man cast over you, as you return to your senses Hobie glances between the two of you noting the lack of musical instruments in your space.

“Don’t see yall wit’ any instruments?”

“I play the bass, my friend plays the synthesizer, but we all play a lil’ bit of everything.”

And that was the truth, depending on the songs played, others would take up a classical approach playing strings, or horns, other times you’d be the only instrument working the synth keyboard with your hands like a blue collared machinist while everyone else creates a vocal concoction alongside the electronic harmony.

“Alright, we’ll stay to see you play, good luck by the way!”

The group waves their goodbyes after a few more rounds of congratulations and good lucks to the first time performers, you watch the band saunter off, being eaten by the sea of other attendees.

Zera turns to you with a shit eating grin, “Sexy seemed to be real interested in you huh? The others look good too, I’ve got my eye on the drummer.”

As the evening settles into the night, time decorated with eardrum rattling rock music, In Vogue prepares backstage for their first performance, harmonizing, hydrating, cracking jokes, and gossiping about the inhumanely attractive members of the Spider Slayers, everyone is hyped to preform. But the most prominent thought on the minds of the band was the reality they were in, forced to perform at a rock music festival considering the climate of the Disco scene, criminally oversaturated with nepotism babies, industry plants, and drug bemused performers more concerned with the high than the art of musical conception. In Vogue stood out amongst their peers as a group of young adults consecrated with the talents of auditory synthesis and a certainty in their sound.

As the curtain call ends for another set of performers, In Vogue prepares for their entrance, being ushered in by the host,

“And today we have a special performance, a disco delusion, ready to get us all ‘jive’ to their rhythm, for their first performance ever we welcome, In Vogue.”

The crowd cheers, but some members seem disinterested at the idea of a pop music group performing at their festival, but luckily all are kind enough to give them an opportunity to grace their ears with something out of their normal.

You and your band step onstage, your respective instruments awaiting you, Zera takes her position on bass, and you take your position at the pair of synthesizer keyboards, fingers glossing over the worn keys preparing yourself mentally to give parts of you you’ve never given to anyone, to an entire maritime of people.

Zera the most extroverted is the first to speak into the mic, “We know we’re not the usual crowd of folks to preform, but today let us guide you through an aural mediation of funk!”

And with that, the high beam stage lights wash over you all like a summer rainfall, and you bask in it for a moment before you lead the group with the first hit of your key and an opening bassline.

The crowd begins to move and sway to the movement of the baseline and the synths until you all sing in accord,

“Oh, what, wow, he’s the greatest dancer!” “Oh, what, wow, that I’ve ever seen!”

Your eyes scan the crowd for a particular punk and his band, you mentally dedicate the song to him even when you can’t immediately make him out in the mass of battle jackets and plaid.

You move closer to the mic to sing, “One night in a disco on the outskirts of Frisco, I was cruising’ with my favorite gang,” “The place was so borin’ filled with out-of-towners tourin’ I knew that it wasn’t my thing.” “I really wasn’t carin’, but I felt my eyes starin’ at a guy who stuck out in the crowd.”

The viewers still seem to be assessing the performance before showing any negative or positive emotion, taking the music as it’s given to them raw. “He had the kind of body that would shame Adonis, and a face that would make any man proud.”

The crowd starts getting more excited at the tonal capacities you all hold, dancing to the drum snares and kicks, letting In Vogue conduct them through the aural honey of disco they’ve advertised, discothèque mystics mediating the movements of a sea of breakneck thrashers and moshers. Amongst the dancing alternatives, you finally find Hobie, in his Herculean beauty, dancing and swaying in tandem to song, your eyes lock onto each other, a lightening strike of excitement and a wave of inspiration furthers you to dance more, to sing harder, and to offer yourself as a sacrificial lamb to your audience. Zera smirks, watching the epiphany that graces you the moment you catch sight of Hobie.

“The champion of dance, his moves will put you in a trance, and he never leaves the disco alone.” “Arrogance but not conceit, as a man he’s complete, my crème d’ la crème, please take me home.”

Hobie looks upon you like a child being embraced by the tenderness of Christ, to him you’re an choral seraphim, bringing him to rapture and into a salvation from the punk rock everyday he experience. Hobie loves all music, especially made by black people, and today is a culmination of that, letting his body groove freely in a way he hasn’t done since dancing with his grandparents in the sanctuary of his childhood home while perusing their dust-stained records.

“He wears the finest clothes, the best designers heaven knows,” “Ooh~ from his head down to his toes,” “Halston, Gucci, Fiorucci, he looks like a still, that man is dressed to kill.”

As you preform, you’re experiencing a oneness that you’ve never felt before alongside your group, despite being friends for years the idea of creating a band was something sloppily put together, a smorgasbord of creatives looking to imprint space and time with their own colors, but today you feel like In Vogue, like this was something meant to happen, like the way the stars and the sun move in accordance with each other to create a surplus of astrological alignments.

“Oh, what, wow, he’s the greatest dancer!” “Oh, what, wow, that I’ve ever seen!”

“Oh, what, wow, he’s the greatest dancer!” “Oh, what, wow, that I’ve ever seen!”

As the song ends with a few more minutes of instrumentals, the perfect time for you all to focus on getting as funky as your viewers, dancing and jiving, a few members abandon their original instruments to pick up violins, shredding the strings with shrill melodic cries before everyone else’s instruments return to the skirmish. You all play until there are no more notes, and no more lyrics to be offered, you all hold a breathe to wait for their reaction. And the audience’s response doesn’t disappoint, they whoop and cheer for you, the grueling work is over, and there is celebration to be had after the hard work.

“Thank you everyone for allowing us into your space tonight, we’re all happy to have a cultural exchange of music!”

You walk off stage, attendants lugging your instruments behind your group.

As you wade backstage while another group goes to perform, heavy footfalls shake you out of your reverie. And there stands Adonis himself, Hobie, his eyes glazed over, and a wide grin etched onto his marble features.

“Did p’etty damn good out there ‘f I do say so myself!”

Zera takes the time to introduce the groups to each other, as they chatter amongst themselves Hobie pulls you aside, a piece of paper with something sloppily scrawled onto it, he urges it into your hand with a telling twinkle in his eye.

“Maybe next time we can all groove together, yeah?” “Yeah I’d love that.”

[st-armand]

Dancefloor Divination

( Reposted from @armands-sanctum ) Summary: Hobie meets you at a club he's going to for the first time, amongst a sea of dazed partiers

Authors Note: Ye asked and ye shall receive. Theres a lot imagery I LOVE to use like planets. Content Warnings: Suggestive and sensual dancing, description of bodies, revealing clothing, fem reader, explicit language, Black!Reader, reader wears a wig (?) (Sorry guys I wear wigs and that’s the only hair I can write rn, also I never see any representation for wig wearers and Hobie, and baby I wear luxurious bundles), bad british slang but I always take criticism and pointers.

Masterlist

Hobie doesn’t often go to dance clubs, he prefers his underground rock shows, or grungy basements filled with listeners thrashing about each other in unison. But that doesn’t mean he shits on clubs, he enjoys all genres, especially by black artists and he’s always down to give anything a listen once or twice.

In this instance, one of Hobie’s bandmates’ partner was desperate to go out, and since they couldn’t find anyone else to accompany them, the band decided to join, plus it would be a change of pace for them all.

Spending an hour ‘pregaming’ (He didn’t know that was a thing usually getting shitfaced at a pub or bar he never thought to get piss drunk before going out,) with his mates and their significant others, smoking up Hobie’s apartment, (He’s always the designated host, always welcoming his peers into his home, no matter the occurrence, and he has piles of clothing from and for his friends so they can comfortably exist in the space.) animated laughs and hushed whispers of gossip echo through its brick walls, garments thrown about as everyone deliberates their outfits.

But the real party begins when they arrive at the nightclub. Encompassed by neon lights and tinted glass, the deeply reverberating bass rocking the concrete below their feet and ringing in their ears. This alone causes Hobie’s blood to rush in his veins, he’s feeling very excited and is only spurred on by the gaggles of people waiting in line and loitering outside the joint, many in awe at the punks, despite it being a normal fashion style in their world, the club goers don’t often get punks at their venues, maybe the occasional goth, especially cyber goths.

Most people are more concerned with entering the venue on time to reach their friends, others are on the prowl for a late night conquest and a sultry dance partner for the rest of the night, flocking to the few single members of the band, like Hobie, similar to moths to a hot and bright flame.

“Hey sexy lemme take you home tonight,” “Looking so damn fine tonight baby…”

But amongst adoring, screaming, fainting fans at his shows, and intriguing invitations for ending the night to end in a cosmic collision of passion, Hobie was in his element, a super-giant compared to the smaller stars around him, they all revolved in unison, and science knows that those with the most gravitational pulls crush all underneath their force.

At the recognition Hobie pulls on his impish smirk, letting his tongue hook into his lip piercing, languidly swiping his tongue over his full lips.

“One at a ‘ime, don’t crowd, yea?”“ You’ll all ‘et a piece of me soon, I promise”

Hobie loves the attention, he is innately cool, but his look and presence was something he had to create with time, his mask was the anchor to the role of spiderman—the seabond vessel, keeping him grounded against the turbulent waters of life, Hobie himself being the captain.

Despite loving the attention and basking in the crowd, he is very particular about the people he allows in his life, watching others with a keen eye.

He may seem overbearing, aloof, and boisterous, he takes on these roles to adapt to the environments he’s in, but Hobie always keeps his best cards last, and close to his chest, the type of person to step in and defend the helpless, but let his adversaries tear each other to shreds.

But as all the conversations, the music, and Hobie’s thoughts settles into the space, a car pulls up onto the curb of the sidewalk, crunching the loose pavement underneath its tires. Hobie glances in the direction of the sleek black car, a group of confident young adults leaving the vehicle. Their strides are self-assured, a practiced strut around the car, and onto the sidewalk.

But amongst them all is you, another super-giant celestial entering the interstellar fray of the nightlife, you radiate an authority that rivals his.

Apathetic expression, lidded eyes, pristinely styled hair tickling your back, exposed in the most tormenting way, by the skin tight midnight black dress, strings of pearls anchoring the dress to your body. Hobie is intrigued, but his curiosity is broken as he’s being ushered into the club.

He also doesn’t mind shamelessly swiveling his head to get a last look, as you and your friends advance into the venue without a breath in the direction of the line. The inside of the club was filled with moving bodies in every foreseeable crevice, a hand on his shoulder guides him to the space his mates have decided to occupy, a standing table.

Your scent has heads whipping in your direction, gracing them with your domineering presence, the crowds of people part like the Red Sea for Moses—like it’s god’s will for them to make space for you all like an assembly of dance club diviners.

You seem disinterested in the acts of the others around you, in their drunken and high hazes, senses melding into each other in a cocktail of euphoria.

Hobie’s dark eyes lose your form amongst the animated crowd, when he does start to get a clearer image of your body and hair in the crowd as you make your way to the dancefloor. Your hips bumping and rolling in rhythmic movements.

You and your friends crowd around each other, playfully grabbing and dancing with each other, hands lingering on each other’s forms, with giggles and laughs that roll your head back.

Hobie is enthralled at the way your neck lolls to the side, your hair rustling from the nape your neck to the bottom of your hips.

Amongst the rest of the rest of the crowd, who is equally as fascinated by the group dancing, they allow more space for the lights on the ceiling to fully illuminate their features.

With the oceanic mob of bodies, limbs and hips moving in tandem to each other to the music, not in complete sync, but enough to feel an overwhelming sense of understanding with your peers amongst the music, breathing ragged, figures moving, grinding, swaying, rocking.

And with them, you look like a prophet, amongst her people, guiding them through a sacramental disco.

He wants to join the ritual too, and be led by your body in the midst of the haze.

He departs from the table with his friends with an, “Oy ‘m leavin’ gunna go check out the dancefloor”

He lets his body guide him, swaying lightly to the tempo (He can’t dance, but he knows how to work his body a bit). He approaches slowly, letting the wave of people direct him to the center to find you. The closer he gets to your back, one of your friends excitedly gestures her hands ‘behind you, BUT don’t look’ and whispers, “Sexy roguish guy approaching you at 6 o’clock”

The whole group buzzes with excitement, and you all increase the authority behind your movements, sultrier, more enticing, a spectacle of your splendor. If one friend found a dance partner, the others will too, keeping a close distance to each friend, and to make sure no creeps slide in between dance partners.

You let Hobie descend onto you, you’ve already been given the heads up, a brush of hair teases your neck and the side of your face, before a glint of metal grazes your ear as Hobie leans to whisper,

“Hope you don’ mind me sliding in here real quick?”

He asks you genuinely making sure you’re interested in dance with him, you cheekily turn your body to face him, letting your hair fall to one side of your shoulder.

You take his countenance in, tall, dark skinned, and gorgeous, eyes holding an immeasurable depth to its warmth, you could easily drown in, and impish smirk on his face, full lips with a ring that scuffed your ear prior.

Hobie stands at full attention, looking down at you in all his mischievous punk brilliance, looking at you expectantly and considerately.

Your words fail you, but that’s fine, your mask is still unbreakable, this is your domain, and you live amongst it with ease, evolved to be fully adapted to your environment.

You flash a smile that allows for a chaste peak at your canines, turning back into your regular position to dance, and letting Hobie’s hands slot your bodies together.

Now you’re no dancer (unless you are) but dancing like this with a man that looks as good as Hobie, you NEED to slow it down, you want him to feel every inch of your body grinding against him with the music, you do just that.

Hobie’s hands glide their way along your hips, holding the fat of your thighs tightly, drawing your closer to his lower half.

Your hips roll in against his front, ticking them every so often to snares or high hats just to throw him off, which results in a deep rumbled laugh bubbling in his chest that reverberates through your body, causing you to smile widely.

Hobie is inebriated off the impression of your body, and the languid circles your small waist whines in, the way your skin and the contrast of the fabric of your outfit feels drives him to senselessness, the second-hand high and lingers of alcohol on his tongue consume his senses, and his reserves.

Hobie takes a gentle hand to scoop a handful of your long tresses, twirling them at its ends to drape the bundles away from your back so he has an unobstructed view of the bare skin, you tense at the feeling, alarmed that he is touching your hair.

"Don' worry luv, 'm being careful, don't want ya hair getting ruined right beautiful?”

“Garms makin’ you look too good”"I'll be gentle wit' ya, be real sweet on you too."

The other hand moves from your hips to your waist, urging you to move faster, grind harder, to take him faster to his breaking point, eyes pried to the shape of your muscles constrict and releasing with every movement, a sheen of sweat covering the exposed skin from the heady, steamy air.

His lithe fingers cloak your flesh, finding exhilaration in gripping your body as he pleases, moving you just how he wants along his body, and you make no contests to letting him lead your figure as he saw fit, melding into each other’s form.

Your friends acknowledge the sensual dance between you and Hobie, cheering you on and sharing knowing giggles between dancing with their own partners.

“Go bestie!”“Ooh~ You’re enjoying yourself huh?”“That’s my bestie dancing on a fine ass guy”

The longer the dance goes, as songs change, the dance between the two of you grows heavier, lingering caresses, soft whines, hushed whispers “Movin’ so sexy f’ me”“Look s’ good whining on me like that,”“Can I dance wit’ ya for the rest of the night?”

With time as the two of you are absorbed in each other, the club occupants dwindle and trickle out of the party.

You and Hobie cease your dancing soon to regroup with your respective friends, but the tension is lingering, even your friends notice this, so they linger back with each other, the parties colliding into fits of laughter, and conversations of their two peers who seem to be magnetized to each other.

Your groups walk to the exit and onto the pavement, legs sore, heels abandoned and nestled into bags and arms, complaints for water and food, Hobie turns you to flashing another smile, his lip ring reflecting the neon nights and the purple hue of dawn approaching in a few hours.

“Wanna spend the rest of the night with us, me even?”

[st-armand]

Plug!Hobie x Fem!Reader Part 2

Authors Note: Vomited this out because I couldnt stop thinking about him <3, I was going to add perverted hobie a touch in there but opted to save it for another time.

Content Warnings: black reader, fem reader, drug use, use of the n word once, weed smoking, suggestive

Masterlist • Part 1

You message Hobie within the hour,

“Hey punk boy pull up here to get your food and shit.”

“Punk boy?” “Alright I’ll be ‘here soon”

You gave him the location of a train station a block away from your home, Hobie has no issues with not knowing your place, he’s seen the neighborhood, one that was here before the V.E.N.O.M. occupation, a remnant of old NYC.

Hobie arrives quicker than expected, not only because he can carelessly swing throughout the city, but he’s embarrassingly excited to get the chance to talk to you alone.

When Hobie throws you a text that he’s here, you jump up anxiously assuming you’d have a bit more time to get acclimated.

You throw on some slides and your adidas track pants to hurry to the station with a reusable shopping bag carrying 4 containers of food and the cash nestled inside a cute baggie you found lingering in your home.

He’s trying to be as inconspicuous as he can despite the fact the sticks out like a sore thumb, a random punk, and while he is black and easily fits into the community racially and ethnically, he knows he can be seen as an easy lick, especially to petty criminals and gang members who think they can size him up, he doesn’t want to get pressed with weed on him, even if he’s prepared to fight it’s still inconvenient for him. He leans on a bus stop pole (You know the exact lean I’m talking about too) back pressed and slightly arched, shirt riding up his abdomen.

When you do finally spot his lanky ass you’re mesmerized by his effortless persona, you wonder if you could ever have a mask as unshakable as his. He does see you staring, his eyes find you easily in at the busy intersection filled with food carts, fruit and vegetable stands, and of course elderly Latinas selling snacks, and all kind of cold treats for the muggy day.

When you do come up to him you’re not too sure how to break the ice, every possible starter interaction feels forced, uncomfortable or uptight, but you try anyway, you want your weed, you want to go home, and you kind of want him, but that can be explored on another day, you always get the people you’ve set your sights on and now Hobie is added to that arsenal.

“Hey punk boy, got your treats,”

“Well ‘bout time you showed up, feels like I been waitin’ forever”

He hasn’t, you both know that, he especially so consider it took only 20 minutes to swing to the area, but you don’t need to know that or his alternative identity as the protector of formerly NYC, New London.

You hand over the shopping bag with the food and money, and expectantly hold your hand out in a handshake (I do this with my plug, he dabs me up and we exchange the weed through our hands like that).

He looks at you confused, and instead rummages through his sling bag (I headcanon that very few of his pants have fully functional pockets, so he makes all kinds of accessorized bags to carry his stuff ) to give you a brown paper bag, a mason jar inside of it.

You look at it, then him as he’s looking over the meals you’ve packed, not even bothering to count the cash, he knows a person like you wouldn’t short him, especially with how desperate you looked for some bud earlier.

You inspect the mason jar, and gawk.

The slick bastard gave you and OUNCE, not even comparable to the food and money you’ve given him, there must be a catch.

“This ain’t what I paid for nigga.”

Another boisterous laughs ripples through him, “Consider it a welcomin’ gift, gotta watch over the community and hotties like you in it right? I always give freebies, plus it looked like you really needed it.”

You’re shocked by his generosity but it doesn’t fully absolve the apprehension you have.

The next few times you keep the same routine until one day you’re feeling extra bold, in an especially eye-catching outfit, you invite him to your apartment.

“Wanna come over to smoke with me for a bit?”

Hobie knows he has patrol in a few hours, and he prefers to not be inebriated while acting as Spiderman, but fuck he wants to be in your apartment draped in your scent, and letting the space fill with the earthy smell of marijuana, he wonders if he can keep your perfume on his body all night just by being your vicinity. Its safe to say he’s a bit smitten, and your unreadable personality draws him in the learn more about you.

“Yeah sure let me check if ‘m free” Hobie doesn’t check shit, just closes his eyes letting a few beats in time pass before opening them again. “Yeah I don’ have anyt’ing else to do.” You don’t call him out for his actions, you roll your eyes and huff in annoyance, but nevertheless you lead the way back to your place.

Hobie lingers behind you, taking in the surroundings of the generationally inhabited homes, some of them extremely derelict compared to the freshly renovated and constructed luxury apartments that the bourgeois New Londoners occupy a few blocks over, a blatant exhibition on poverty and gentrification.

He also can’t complain about the view of your hips as they switch with every firm step, or the way with certain moves over cracked pavements, causes your thong to peek out from the waistband of your jeans.

The pair of you finally make it back to your own family-owned home, he lets you take the lead to unlock the doors and usher him in, you hesitate, you want to tell him to get comfy but you hate when people except you sit on the old furniture with outside clothes on.

But Hobie is an extremely considerate house guest, he takes of his heavy doc martens.

(Yes I know about the N*zi history, but I also think that Jewish people and alternative folks who actively protect the their communities from white supremacy can reclaim them, also they’re great for stomping people out, I know from experience…)

And he makes no complaints when you lay a blanket over the sectional to cover the worn-down furniture. He rolls up wordlessly once seated (as any real man does, girls and gays don’t roll for themselves).

He doesn’t ask you to lick the papers sealant this time, but you wished he did so you can make an entire theatrical performance of it, especially when his gangly legs are parted so wide, tray in his studded lap—resonating clanks when the metal rolling tray hits them with every shuffle of his body, or how his pierced eyebrows furrow in concentrating, gnawing at the inside of his lip ring, you could get used to this sight.

You dawdle around the apartment, getting your own weed, straightening up any stray clothes including a few pairs of underwear that were strewn about within the piles, clearing the coffee table before sitting down on the other side of the couch causing it to sink around your weight.

“Thanks for rolling Hobie”

“You should never have to roll your own weed, ‘orgeous”

Now this you can get used to, you may not be entirely interested in a partner right now, but having a personal roller seems like an awfully great idea, especially if your rolling machine is Hobie.

Hobie silently hands you the first blunt, lets you light it, keeping close watch to the way you inhale, one, two, three puffs before opening your lips for the air to cool the vapor before inhaling it sharply.

You don’t cough, nor do you choke, an experienced smoker like himself he notes, mesmerized by your reddened heavy-lidded eyes, smoke billowing around you.

Hobie rolls his head along the back of the sectional, inhaling, holding the searing vapor in his throat, long neck and adam’s apple on display, the protrusion bobbing with every flex his throat, a slow exhale of weed smoke from his full, lipstick-stained lips swells in the space.

You’re spellbound by his neck and lips you want to litter his body in bruises and bites, and the high makes the urge to lick and pull at the sterling metal of his lip piercing, drawing his mouth closer to her own, but that was a fantasy for now.

In ambient space of your living room you talk about your ideas, and goals, rambling on about the mundane daily occurrences you both. Hobie adores the fact that you have similar politics to him, maybe you’re more a bit more rigid like a Maoist or a Marxist, or even unlabeled in the work you do political, you might have disagreements over how the world should look post revolution, but you confide in him that you feel protected with a figure like Spiderman handling N*zis and fascists, capitalist and villains of all kinds.

Hobie swells at the compliment, but he chooses to nod eagerly and gauge you more about Spiderman.

“You make the bloke seem p’etty cool, ya know?”

“Have you seen his outfit, Spiderman radiates cool! And he keeps crime to a minimum, despite the infrastructural damage afterwards” you’d laugh.

These visits start happening more regularly, both of your mind’s filled with lingering thoughts of each other and texts compiling of political discourse online, or news of other revolutionaries around the world burrowing through trenches, or with guerilla warfare, taking their freedom by their own means.

You love to send him photos of you smoking the weed you buy from him, lightly dimmed room, puffy lips with a line of soot from the joint marking them up, eyes glossed over, face illuminated by the selfie cameras flash.

He hoards these photos on a locked album in his gallery, but he’s recently taken to bringing along a film camera to snap a few shots of you lounging around the living room, light casting a glint across your irises that drape down your figure in a golden sliver of light, he can’t help but to engrain that visage of you into his brain, even if that means hanging it with his other captured memories.

(Remember my random headcanon about trinkets, I think when Hobie starts getting an influx of film photos he keeps them in a laminated photo album that he flips through when he’s feeling melancholy about his duties as Spiderman, it helps him ground him to the feeling of why he does it, and why he sacrifices his body everyday.)

He even lets you borrow the camera to snap portraits of him too, which he’s surprised your incredibly good at when he receives the final print from a friend who works at a film development studio. He gives you these photos and only a few of the copious he shoots of you, and you don’t pry about what he does with them either, when he hands you a few of the ones you took of him he says a quip like,

“Always wan’ you think’ about me luv” Or “ You ‘et see my ‘andsome face every day huh?”

Over time a friendship cultivates between the two of you, but who will push the boundaries between platonic to something more romantic, and possibly very sensual. Maybe the sensual part before the romantic, just to test the waters first.

[st-armand]

Plug!Hobie x Fem!Reader Part 1

( Reposted from @armands-sanctum ) Authors Note: All fanfictions I make for Hobie are in the worldbuilding of him living in New London, a re-colonized NYC by British V.E.N.O.M. operatives. This is more like a vomit of words then a headcanon but all of my headcanons are like that. Might make the move to AO3 if I keep getting banned

CW: Weed smoking, suggestive imagery, detailed descriptions of a specific body types, fem!reader, terrible black british slang, not beta read

Word Count: 1.5k

Masterlist • Part 2

Plug!Hobie who you meet on a particularly sweltering day, relaxing with a group of alternatives smoking outside—your sweet perfumes and oils blending in with the droplets sweat that bead on your skin.You’re frustrated with work/school/life and all you need is a quick high, a joint, especially after going about your day smelling other people smoke, now you’re craving it bad, so bad in fact you lose all inhibitions towards going up to strangers and asking them to sell you drugs.

He's done up in dreadfully low waisted, tight black jeans—ripped and littered with patches, that compliment his long-limbed body, intricate belts that you know have to be a pain in the ass to take off when peeing, and a cropped band tee ‘Black Liver’— on summer days like this Hobie would exclaim, “ T’ hot to be all done up” opting for the easiest outfits, like a Nike tech-wear, or a pair of adidas sweats that you gifted him, since you despise the look of Nike clothing, he chided on you about buying from corporative fast fashion, you retort, “Hobie you KNOW I only thrift things, please don’t start that now.”

Upon that first conversation, or even the moment his eyes caught onto your figure, he’d fallen, well…into lust, head first, dead upon impact.Hobie is attractive, interacts with other hot people, but he can’t help but be particularly fascinated with your figure—from your equally as low waisted and tight jeans, so tight they fit like a second skin on your legs, a sliver of your midriff exposed from the cut of your top giving him unlimited access to the slopes of your stomach, and the natural arch in your back begging to be gripped, or the way your bra makes your shirt look exceptionally tight around your breasts, every step in your stride causes a ripple to glide through the supple flesh, and the best for last his favorite part of you, your ass, so large it’s almost disproportionate to your body shape, but your thighs constricted by the denim makes it fathomable you have an ass that large.

But your face makes your body look like a present wrapped in luxurious foils, with an intricate bow on top.

Now it’s uncomfortable for him to wear those skinny jeans.

Hobie watches you intently as you saunter your way through other pedestrians, fixated on a single goal, he thinks youre coming up to chat them up maybe giving him the chance to get your contacts, until he follows your line of sight—oh youre looking at his joint…

“Bro! You got any to spare? I need a joint so fucking bad, I have cash so I’ll happily buy some off you.”

He’s slightly put off by your ice breaker, “Why? You a pig?”

Now you’re fucking pissed, after a long arduous day, when you want the most is to smoke a flat blunt, and this beanstalk, bastard is calling you an opp.

“Get your head out of your ass, or ill do it for you.” You bite backThe group tenses, waiting for Hobie to speak—who cooly replies,

“ leng ting ‘ot a mouth on her,”

he LAUGHS boisterously in fact—his chest heaves and he slinks into himself with just how fucking hilarious he thinks this situation must be, you want weed and you want to go home.

“Got a lot t’ spare, actually, but I ‘otta go back t’ my flat.” Hobie drawls his replies, languidly letting the words slip through his tongue, slurred from the high, lean frame against the stoop of the store their loitering about, he gazes down at you to gauge your reaction.

“I ain’t going to back to your ‘flat’, so let’s compromise. How much can I get for $120, and a few containers of food?”

Hobie quirks a single pierced eyebrow, the sterling metals on his face reflecting the light, even under the shade making it hard to even focus on his face for too long—that and how attractive he is, it breaks your own mask of intimidation (He’ll break it more once you start developing a relationship with each other).

“ ‘pends on how good the food is luv.”

Hobie’s had a few people offer food in exchange for weed, so you’ve already gotten him with your proposition, even if you rejected the insinuation that he wanted you to come with him back to his place.Other people love to use favors of other kinds which he rejects, he’s finds it completely unnecessary, but he is still kind, a community-oriented person he doesn’t mind giving people weed for free.

But he DOES enjoy getting gifts from his peers for weed; trinkets, porcelain dolls, customized instruments, accessories, and clothing that they tailor for him—forcing him into their studios to get to measurements right, and letting Hobie customizing the clothing to the way he desires, with no interjections or complaints even. All these things are decorated precisely around his place, he might not clean the mess in his apartment but he will ALWAYS make sure these things are safe, and dust-free.

“It’s pretty damn good! Alright lemme get your number, I’ll tell you where we meet.” During the conversation you contemplated the best course of action, do you go to his apartment—no. Let him drop off at your place? You’d rather eat glass then let a strange man have your address. But you want weed so meeting around the corner can’t be the worst choice.

Hobie wastes no time whipping his phone out of his back pocket, you exchange contact information, and with nothing but a curt nod, walking away from the draining social interaction, before a firm, slightly sweaty, ringed hand on your shoulder, whipping your body around, you watch a slow impish smirk grace his facial features.

“See ya’ later ‘orgeous.”

You retained a deadpanned expression, but your mind races and it isn’t from the secondhand high your getting from being around them. Weak kneed but you don’t falter in your perfectly constructed veneer, this is why you stay 10 feet away from attractive men.

The conversation is over now, at least to you, you give him a thumbs up, but Hobie persists even knowing he will be seeing you later, and he has patrol immediately afterwards.

“Want a joint for the road? ‘s on me luv”

Now this perks you up exponentially, and you invade his space like a cat yearning for its meal early in the morning.He’s reeling from the closeness—inebriated from the sweet smell of your body oil, and the crisp red rose perfume you wear, even the smell of the sweat gathering on your skin has him shaky

(I also headcanon him as a huge pervert, im talking panty thief levels. If yall vote on it will be graciously provided.)

Try his bet to focus on letting his lithe fingers play the edges of the paper like he would his guitar, meticulously stuffing the herb into the folded valley of the parchment, before joining the ends together with quick reels.

Hobie places the semi wrapped joint in front of your lips, glancing down at you with an expectant look, your brows furrow, not entirely too sure what he’s gesturing you to do.

“Mind sealin’ it f’ me? Your joint after all”

You wordlessly comply, letting your tongue tease the laminated edge of the parchment activating the adhesive, your eyes wander to his for approval an ‘Is this good enough?’ kind.

But for Hobie the vision of your tinted eyes, and the moist muscled appendage carefully coating the sealant edge has his cock twitching in his jeans.

He tightened it into a cone-like shape, before twisting the end closed, lightly shaking the tip to stuff the herb down farther, then passing it into your hands.

With that you exit, giving a coy wave in their direction and a mischievous “See ya later.”

Comments, Concerns?? Im still looking for beta readers so message me if you're interested. Pushing this out for traction since my other blog got shadow-banned.

[st-armand]

Ill be reposting all my work from @armands-sanctum since my posts won’t show in tags there so please all be on the lookout even if its old shit <3

[st-armand]

Hobie Brown & Anarchism: A Discussion Pt 1

Authors Note: This is my dissertation for the discourse about Hobie’s politics being misrepresented as your friendly community radical leftist

Warnings: Political Ideologies, mentions of violence and oppression

Hobie Brown is an anarchist, he would be considered a radical leftist, not just by the ideological title of anarchism but by his own actions, he has killed cops, fascists, not just one, probably many considering the Oscorp and V.E.N.O.M worldbuilding where the police and military are symbiotes.

One of the primary bases for a fascist regime is a overly abundant police force, and the police worldwide are authoritarian figures meant to protect wealth and property not people.

Anarchists can go 70/40 on the violent revolutionary means discussion, but Hobart Brown is definitely pro revolutionary violence (we will define this later on), he doesn’t like violence in his everyday life but sees it as a measure to protect people, he also understands that not everyone’s place in the revolution is through armed liberation, but that all roles in the revolution violent or otherwise are all valuable to the end goal.

That being said a very contested discourse around radical leftist politics is the divide between Marxists/Maoists/Leninist etc vs Anarchists because Anarchists believe in a non-centralized, organizational systems, some anarchists can be anarcho-primitivists; they believe in a post-revolutionary society without the heavy industrialized civilization we have now I don’t think Hobie is, he enjoys technology too much to do so but he does believe in a social organization that is communally centralized, but regardless of his ideas of the organization of people post revolution he happily shares space and works in solidarity with leftists of other thinking and practices in the struggle and fight.

What is armed revolution and revolutionary violence? Armed revolution is the act of taking arms through guerrilla warfare, community protection, clandestine operations. Revolutionary violence is pretty self-explanatory, but these two interconnects as an understanding that liberation won’t come from within the systems that oppress us, and to instead arm the people towards liberating themselves from fascism, and state sanctioned violence.

I head canon that Hobie as Spiderman works within a clandestine underground armed forces with mixed ideologies and skillset, they’re all civilians who act as an unassuming threat who focus on assassinations and bank robberies, through those victories they help Spiderman redistribute funds.

Hobie’s praxis doesn’t just extend to revolutionary violence, but he puts labor into community gardens, refurbishing abandoned lots and buildings to be used as clinics, or schools, or housing, his skills especially are shown through his engineering and technical capabilities, like siphoning electricity from higher class neighborhoods for their buildings for free, fixing heating systems, or adapting heating and water systems so that they’re controlled in the community rather than by heating and water conglomerates.

He's also a part of a group of boosters who donate and barter clothes, food and other necessities, they sell their spoils in the middle of the people’s market.

Hobie is also the best comrade during protests, he’s a human shield whether as Spiderman or as a civilian, he’s the kind of person to go head to head with five police officers to de-arrest people who get snatched during protests, he’s returned with so many broken bones and large purple bruises from being wailed on by cops, but however much they hurt him, he can return much worse, especially with his enhanced strength, its actually a pretty cool sight, he’s more likely to kills cops while masked as spiderman, he’s almost entirely focused on defensive and evasive methods as an alternative since he has many warrants out for his arrest as Hobart Brown, but Spiderman has a list of federal and international offensives that he can easily navigate with the obscured identity.

During protests he’s evacuating people to safe zones, distracting cops from looters, defending people from being arrested, creating evasive plans to destroy or disable V.E.N.O.M. technology and weapons, he’s especially adept at guerilla warfare, navigating the skyline, sewers, and alleys of New London to gain a territorial advantage because the cops can’t traverse the projects and slums as easily as someone who lives in the grime of New London.

Books I think Hobie would’ve read;

Anarchism and the Black Revolution – Lenzo Ervin

A Soldier’s Story – Kuwasi Balagoon

Black Jacobins – CLR James

Conquest and Bread – Kroptokin

Anarchy & At the Café – Malatesta

 More in the next parts! Platonic, Romance, Racial and Cultural

[st-armand]

My silly dissertation about Hobie’s politics. (Copying here since it won’t show in tags)

[st-armand]

Anyone willing to beta read the Plug!Hobie Brown x reader insert for me PLEASEE

Im willing to make a discord or a group chat for it I need another hobie lover’s eyes on this shit.

Please throw me a message if youre interested <3

[st-armand]

Holy shit yall 100 likes, im feeding yall grapes and giving you snacks for your support <3

Plug Hobie coming soon :3

Author’s Notes: Ha, yall thought that the Plug!Hobie fic was gunna be posted first, gotta keep yall on your toes. I finished this first so here it is <3 Also any content by me about Hobie his age is 21-24. Im also looking for people to beta read.

CWs: Mention of piercing gone wrong, suggestive, stealing, not beta read

 Random Hobie Brown Headcanons

He has/had more piercings, notably a pair of sub-clavicle piercings, a belly piercing and nipples piercings (I know other people headcanon him as having a prince albert, but god I know that shit hurts so we’ll be skipping for now). He took those out because they kept getting caught in the frayed fabrics of his clothing, and especially worse his spider suit.

His final straw was amidst fighting a foe, he sustained several injuries, but he was horrified looking at the ripped skin of his clavicle, frantically looking for the bar and the flesh still attached, he did, but it was deep in the crevices of his suit and didn’t find it until after repairing it.

That was enough to get rid of all his torso piercings.

Hobie is extremely anal retentive when it comes to the upkeep of his piercings though, every night, maybe except those he’s really incapacitated from battle. He spends so much time in the morning carefully soaking q-tips in saline to clean the puncture holes, if he can take the jewelry out to let it soak in peroxide for a few hours.

You both fight over the real estate of the sink and its mirror, until you ask (threaten) him to get you a vanity so you both can have space to get ready, he does and its gorgeous; a vintage one he found abandoned on a side street.

But this doesn’t stop him taking up vanity space.

“Feel pretty sitting here luv”

Hobie is of Jamaican heritage, I headcanon that his grandmother is his only living relative, and he dedicates so much time taking care of her in her old age, despite their arguments about Hobie being able to be free, and not held down by family. She knows she won’t have many years left, and she may want to embrace him in her love for these final years, but she also doesn’t want him to feel a great heartbreak at the loss.

That being said he visits her every few days, stopping by for some beef patties, jerk chicken, curries of all kind, taking home the bulk containers of sorrell and ginger beer, Grandma Brown doesn’t question how her lanky streetlight grandson has gotten so strong and fit over the last few years, or how he’s able to take the large crates back to his flat.


She has her suspicions and theories, but she would rather not pry if it could end in harm for the both of them.

When he’s off being spiderman, or doing shows and odd jobs, you take up the mantle, visiting Grandma Brown and aiding her around the home, Grandma Brown gets to sit back comfortably as you take over cleaning and seasoning the chicken, she trusts you to remember all the ingredients she uses to make Hobie feel like he’s still a child with how nostalgic the food makes him.

She genuinely loves having you around, but she also loves to tease her grandson, 
“Don’t know what you see in that boy, he should kiss the ground you walk on darling,”

 

And that’s not to say he doesn’t. The undercurrent of his unruffled attitude, is an adoration for you, he loves you in a way he can’t even put into words for his songs. He thanks whatever cosmic source there is for dropping you in his lap, like a starved dog given shelter, and cared for the rest of its life.

Sometimes you catch him staring at you deeply, teasing the inside of his lip piercing with his tongue causing it to wiggle around, youre locked into his penetrating gaze, you feel critically wounded by his affection, it always comes in sudden frothing sea waves, cooling your body, leaving you to yearn for the warmth of the sun that is his love.

 

Hobie isn’t the type of punk to wear sexually suggestive clothing, but he does use riskier photos of you or the both of you, faces obscured or cropped, and edited heavily with grain to make it look vintage, he takes them to a vendor he works with closely for band merch and has them screen print the design on shirts for the both of you, loves wearing them during concerts especially to ward off erratic fans.

 

You let Hobie pester you about getting a piercing, which you know you can’t handle the pain for, but you humor him.


“Luv ya need some metal on that leng face of yours” He’ll say every few weeks, despite knowing the answer, insanity is doing the same thing knowing the results won’t change, Hobie’s fine with being insane if it means maybe one day your resolve will crack and he can see you two with matching jewelry.


He often ponders about what gems and metals would look best, the color, the shape, the size, and how all these can complement that enticing face of yours.

 

Steals you clothes (duh not original, but considering my taste of clothes…), and I don’t mean a few pieces here and there, he actively searches for things that will compliment your wardrobe, and in the span of a few months together your closet has doubled in size.


One day you say you’re interested in latex, he’s going to barter with some craftsperson to get you a few items to experiment with, maybe a few gloves.

You say you want to be corporate goth (I don’t see people ever adding corp goth to their alternative reader fics) ? He’s nicking the most gorgeous pants and skirt suits he can find, getting accessories and sitting beside you as you customize the outfits together.

Like high fashion, Thierry Mugler or VW? He has no problems with linking up with Black Cat to get into stock warehouses and design studios to steal some, Black Cat teases him by saying ‘You owe me for this bug.’ But she gets compensation by nicking a bunch of clothes for herself.
After the fact they bound off in separate directions carrying webbed satchels of merchandise.

You know he stole them, in fact youre proud he was able to do it with ease.

(He doesn’t tell you Black Cat helped him, you wrongly assume they are attracted to each other, but Black Cat is actually a lesbian, he’s seen her in costume as a spectator of a dyke march parade under the guise of ‘watching out for the community’, he doesn’t tell her he’s seen her sneaking off into a civilian woman’s apartment, he’s happy to keep the city safe enough for everyone to nurture love.)

You wear these outfits with pride, sauntering down the street as an orchestra of gawks, and stares fills the area, blown away by the complexities of the outfit, and attention to detail to every complimentary aspects of the look, the essence of slay cunt one could say.


When Hobie’s there walking alongside you, he lets a hand glide to your lower back, urging you to walk faster, whispering into your ear,

“Walk faster luv, don’t you wanna give them a show?”

And scene. Hope yall enjoyed these, I aint great at british slang so be patient and give tips!

Comments, questions, criticisms? Let me know!

Request are OPEN