#keep that capitalist shit away from me

[horce-divorce]

It's wild watching someone who used to be self aware (or at least, who didn't want to be like their parents) become entitled to things like avoidance. And children. Often simultaneously

[thebibliosphere]

I both believe "poor people deserve art" and "artists deserve food", but it's hard to reconcile those beliefs. I blame capitalism. And I suppose it mostly matters who you're stealing from?

I don't mean to question you at all, I'm against people pirating your stories. I guess I was just wondering if you had more thoughts regarding the reconciliation the two beliefs I quoted above.

I think the reconciliation is working toward a future where things are better, and authors and artists don't have to beg people not to steal from them because they think every author is Stephen King, who wouldn't notice if you stole the pennies found under his couch when in reality most of us are hunting for spare change down the back of the couch because we are earning below minimum wage.

We need people to embrace the idea that art belongs to the working class, both in terms of consumption but also creation.

If you don't support the working-class creators, you'll only end up with rich fucks with no scope of the world beyond their own narrow view of privilege.

Indie creators are actually working very hard to change the way the industry works, and the publishing industry is shitting itself over it. They don't like the success some of us are having. It's why they keep upping prices while slashing corners on their own production (while never affecting the man at the top) to try and stay competitive within the rat race they've created.

They're not interested in the proliferation of art. They're not interested in making sure their authors can afford to live. They don't want more diversity. They don't want inclusion. They want profit at whatever the cost.

And while indie creators very much need to get paid because we live in a capitalistic society and everything is burning down around us, and a carton of eggs now costs more than what I earn per hour, our creativity is directly at odds with the type of profiteering big publishers want.

The money should go to the writers. Not the CEOs. The money should go to the workers in the print houses. Not the CEOs. No one needs the kind of wealth these people have. It's obscene. We need direct action against these conglomerates. We need unionization. We need a means to fight back so that we can make art and make it accessible.

So, how do we do that? I don't know. I'm just a very tired, disabled creator doing my best to keep my head above water. But I think getting people to realize that art and books are worth saving up for would be a good start.

That putting money in the pockets of creators is just as important as your own enjoyment of their art. Because if there aren't any artists, you've got nothing.

Getting them involved with their local libraries would also be a great start. Educating them on how the industry works is part of that. The number of people telling me they had no idea libraries paid authors is staggering. And that's intentional. It's a by-product of right-wing propaganda to make you think libraries are worthless and just sap taxpayers' money.

They're not.

If they were, the fash wouldn't be trying so hard to take them away.

Basically, we need working-class solidarity and for certain people on the left to rid themselves of the idea that just because something isn't borne of manual labor, it doesn't have worth. We need the artists and the dreamers as much as we need to bricklayers and the craftsmen. Otherwise, what's the fucking point of it all?

[imfinereallyy]

hummingbirds

Steve’s crying on the porch of his parents' house, with a duffel bag and baseball bat, when Eddie pulls into the driveway.

“Jesus, Steve, what happened?” Eddie crouches down to get eye level with Steve. Despite being dark out, the sun set long ago, and the outdoor lights weren’t on. Steve turns to look at his parents' car in the driveway and thinks back to when the lock had distinctly turned shut on the front door. They were around to switch the lights on; they just didn’t care anymore to do so.

Steve is grateful for the moonlight, as he can see the pretty lines on Eddie’s face. Even if they currently curve into a frown.

“Hey Eds.” Steve’s voice cracks.

“Stevie…what happened?” Eddie asks again, this time it’s gently. It cradles Steve and holds him softly. He wishes Eddie’s hands would do the same.

“Did you know hummingbirds are the only birds that can fly backward?” Steve sniffles.

Eddie’s face scrunches in confusion, “What? Birds? You lost me.”

Steve pushes past Eddie’s confused face. “They are the only birds to fly backward. Surprisingly, it wasn’t Dustin to teach me that out of the munchkins. It was actually El. She’s apparently going through a bird phase. And I don’t think the others are very interested. So I try to pay attention when she talks about it. And she taught me about hummingbirds.”

Eddie settles on his knees, “That’s great, man and those little shits should listen to her more, but I’m not sure what that has to do with what’s wrong. You called me to come pick you up and hung up before I could even answer.”

Steve bites his lip, “Sorry, my dad clicked the phone off.” Eddie’s face shows surprise, but Steve keeps talking before he can interrupt. “And well, I guess hummingbirds have nothing to do with anything. It’s stupid, really.”

“No, no. It’s not stupid. Tell me about the birds, Stevie.” Eddie’s hand finally reaches out to Steve. He brushes the fallen hair out of his face, and something in Steve just sets him off.

“You see, they can fly backward. And well, no, I’m getting ahead of myself. You see, my cousin Tucker is here to visit. And let me tell you, he is the worst. Like Eddie, you would hate him. Conservative, capitalist enthusiast, real bootlicker kind of guy.”

“Sounds like the worst. Especially if he made you use the big words.” Eddie’s hand falls away, and Steve mourns the loss. Normally, when people make jokes about his intelligence, it stings. It makes him feel small. But when Eddie does it, it isn’t mean or a poke at how stupid Steve is. With Eddie, it’s almost like he’s reminding Steve that he is smart. That maybe Steve is the one making himself small.

He is.

“Anyway, he’s visiting, right? So my parents come home. And I haven’t seen them in months, since before spring break. It’s nearly October, and I haven’t seen them, and I can’t tell if I’m excited or dreading their arrival. It’s always a fight when they are around, how I’m not good enough, how I should be more. Their visits always end up being cut short, and me feeling like shit. But this stupid, stupid part of me was hoping it would be different this time. They haven’t seen me since the “earthquakes.” Surely they’ll be happy to see I’m okay, right?”

Eddie stays silent, his face revealing nothing.

“Of course, it’s not. They only came home because my cousin Tucker was in town. All the way from Indy cause it’s so far. And my mom ‘made’ dinner, as in she ordered it and pretended she made it. It wasn’t even that good, but we all pretended it was the best thing ever made. Cause that’s what they do, pretend. And the dinner is fine, boring. Most of it is just me staying silent while my dad and Tucker talk about the business. Tucker runs the Indy office while my dad is in New York. Ya see, Tucker has been gunning to take over for my dad when he retires, which is another word for dies—“ Steve let’s put a bitter laugh; he wonders if his parents are listening. He doubts it.

“—and they are going on for the whole meal, and I’m almost through the home stretch when my dad brings up me, coming to work for him.”

Eddie reacts finally, “You’re going to New York?” His voice is strained, like he is trying very hard not to yell, not at Steve, but at anyone who will listen. Steve is quick to correct.

“No, no, I’m not. This was news to me to Eds. I have no interest in my dad's business, and as far as I was concerned, he didn’t want me a part of it either. Guess that has changed. Has? Had? I don’t know…” Steve trails off.

“Harrington.”

“Don’t call me that. It makes me think you’re mad at me. Besides, it doesn’t fit me anymore.” Steve bites.

“Sorry, Steve. I’m not mad. I promise. Just, what do you mean?” Eddie’s head tilts to the side, his curls cascading down his shoulder. It reminds Steve of a river, dark water rippling in the moonlight.

“I was so shocked, Eds. When he said that. That I was quiet, I should have corrected him, maybe. Maybe I could have fixed it. But Tucker was so quick to act. He was pissed. He knows my working for my dad means me being set up to take over. And Tucker, he’s worked too hard to make sure he does get the business. But instead of yelling, he just gets this concerned look on his face. And he…”

“He what?”

Steve wrenches his eyes shut as he recalls the rest. As he recalls the way Tucker’s face faked worry as he struck. Like he has been waiting for the right moment to ruin Steve. He manages to open his eyes eventually, only to see Eddie’s face once again. The honest look on his face is enough to push Steve on.

“In the summer, Robin was feeling sad. This was before you guys knew about each other, and I was the only one who knew about her. And she was sad cause nothing had happened with Vicky and she felt so alone. And I hated seeing her like that. And so, so I took her to Indy. And, and—“ Steve starts to hyperventilate.

Eddie takes him by the shoulders. “Breathe for me, Steve. Come on, baby, match my breaths. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Steve matches Eddie’s breath. Ignores how the word baby calms him down instantly. “Tucker told my dad that he saw me in Indy. That he saw me come out of a gay club, Eddie. And he went on about how they should focus more on getting me help, than putting me in a power position, again Eds, which I don’t even want! And how I would be a bad look for the company. How would it look if a company whose whole image is family values, only successor, turned out to be gay.”

Eddie flinches a bit, but doesn’t let go of him. Steve feels instant regret. “That isn’t what I meant, Eddie.”

Eddie shushes him, “I know, sweetheart. You’re just upset. I know. Did you tell him that you weren’t there for you? Or maybe that Rick was mistaken; it was a regular club?”

Steve rubs a hand down his face, “And what? Tell him that my two best friends in the entire world are gay? So that I can be shipped off to New York and never see them again? Yeah right. I’d rather face the bats again than be removed from you two. And I’m not going to out you guys like that.”

Something warm crosses Eddie’s face, “So, you lied then?”

“Before I could say anything my dad reacted.”

Eddie freezes, a darkness swims in his eyes. “He put his hands on you?”

“No, no!” Steve panics, and he purposely leaves out the ‘not this time.’ Eddie isn’t necessarily a violent person. But he does have a protective streak. As admirable as it is, Steve doesn’t want him to get hurt.

Eddie relaxes but only slightly.

“He was actually pretty calm, which is even more terrifying. I expected him to yell, throw things. But instead he just turns and says, ‘Is this true, Steven?’. And what gets me is they didn’t even question why my cousin was anywhere near that club in the first place. Why did he see me there? Instead, he just asks me if it’s true. And it’s the first time in a long time, if ever, that my dad asks me this. He always just assumes I’ve fucked up. And this time, he really asked me about the truth. And I couldn’t, I couldn’t lie. I don’t know why, but it felt wrong to. So I didn’t. I just told him, ‘Yes. It’s true.’”

“Stevie…”

Steve throws out a bitter laugh, “And you know what? He still doesn’t freak out. He just tells me I have five minutes to get my shit and get out. That I needed to call a ride because the car was under the name Steve Harrington, and I was no longer a Harrington. And he was so calm. And my mom just sat there, and I just listened. I didn’t fight. I am so tired of fighting.”

“Steve, why not just tell them the truth? Tell them you were there for a friend?” Eddie’s tone isn’t scolding, only curious.

“See, that’s because I started thinking about hummingbirds, Eddie. I started thinking about how they fly forwards and backward and how they are the only ones that can do that. Isn’t that fascinating? These small birds are so strong and interesting, and can do something no one else can do. But no other birds understand; the rest of them just fly forwards Eds. And I—I feel like that sometimes. That I’m not flying in one direction, ya know?”

Steve feels like he isn’t making much sense, but then Eddie nods and looks at Steve. Like really looks at Steve, and sees him. And Steve feels raw, stripped of his skin, exposed, and it should hurt, but it feels so fucking good. And Eddie stares deep into Steve’s eyes and says, “Yea, I know.”

“I didn’t want to lie. Because even though Tucker was wrong, he was also right. I wasn’t there for me, but I think I needed to be there. To get it. And I think that I’m flying backward, Eds. And I’m worried it’s wrong of me, that it shouldn’t be allowed. And that there is no purpose to me flying backward if I can just go forwards. If I can just fly with the rest of them. But I don’t think, I don’t think I’ve ever really taken flight before. Not before I understood I could also go backward.”

It’s in this moment, where Steve is covered in tears and snot that Eddie finally takes his hands and cradles Steve’s face. Steve’s never felt safer.

“Listen to me, sweetheart; there is nothing wrong with you. Okay? Nothing wrong with you. Just because you can fly forwards doesn’t mean you have to, doesn’t mean you should. Sometimes you’re going to have to fly backward; you’re not going to have a choice. It’s just the direction you’re fast, huge, hummingbird heart takes you. And it might take you a bit to learn that. To understand that, but I will make sure that you do. Because you, Steve Harrington, are fucking fearless and fucking beautiful, and I am so goddamn proud of you.”

Steve finally reaches his breaking point and collapses in Eddie’s arms. Full body, ugly sobs wreck Steve. He is sure that he is soaking Eddie’s favorite Black Sabbath t-shirt to the bone, but he can’t find it himself to care. His fingers dig into Eddie’s back as he clutches tighter as his breathing picks up.

“Breathe, baby, breathe. Remember that. I got you. I got you.” Eddie whispers into Steve’s ear.

Steve picks his head up when he finally calms down, and looks at Eddie. “You.”

“What’s that?” Eddie says softly, rubbing circles through Steve’s polo.

“I called you. Because, I think—no, I know, that I’ve been flying backward, to you. For a while now. And I knew that, even if you weren’t too, you’d still show up. And I just—just need you to know that. I am so grateful you showed up.”

Steve knows he should feel nervous telling Eddie all this, but he isn’t. He strangely feels like his dad at this moment, calm and unmoving. Steve doesn’t understand many things in this world, but he understands that even if Eddie doesn’t love him like that, Eddie still loves Steve in plenty of other ways.

It’s still nice, though, when Eddie leans forward and kisses Steve’s forehead. Steve closes his eyes and releases a breath.

Eddie slides his head down slightly so their foreheads are pushed together affectionately. “Stevie, I’ll always fly backward to you.”

Although it’s awful how they got here, Steve can’t help but feel happy at this moment. He also can’t help the silly giggle that comes out of him, “I think we have just lost all meaning to this metaphor at this point.”

Eddie snorts, “Oh, have we? And here I thought we were having a nice moment, a poetic one at that, telling each other ‘I love you.’”

Steve blinks at him, “You love me?”

Eddie frown lines finally turn upwards, “Yea baby, I love you.”

“I—“

Eddie cuts Steve off. “Tell me in the morning. When your tears have dried, and I’ve woken up with you in my arms. I want to hear it in the daylight. Okay? Let’s go home.” Eddie stands, offering a hand to Steve.

“Home?”

“Yea home, got to fly back to our nest.”

Steve can’t help the snort he releases, “Dork.”

Eddie just smiles, “Thought I told you to save the ‘I love you’ til the morning.”

Steve smiles back as he takes Eddie’s hand, “I didn’t…”

Eddie squeezes Steve’s fingers, “Yea, ya did.”

****

I’m back, not dead, and in my feelings. Thinking about expanding on this one. I hope you guys like it. 🧡🧡

[hbdttg]

“Hold the elevator!”

The elevator doors are mere inches from closing, but Steve dutifully shoots a hand out to stop them. They slide back open, revealing a flustered-looking man about Steve’s age on the other side.

He’s dressed head to toe in black, decked out in a simple black pullover with a modest V-neck, snug black jeans, and all-black leather Chucks with a messenger bag slung across his chest. The messenger bag is, unsurprisingly, also black, but covered in a collection of tough-looking patches and pins in varying shades of—well, it’s mostly red, dark red, white, and some yellows, but the pops of color still stand out against his otherwise monochrome ensemble.

His dark, curly hair reaches a little past his shoulders and he’s got this frankly outdated fringe that, despite its very 80’s vibe, frames his face perfectly. His eyes are large and expressive, and he’s got this frantic energy about him that reminds Steve of a live wire. He’s nothing like the buttoned-up suits Steve usually shares his elevator rides with each morning, and it’s a refreshing change of pace.

The man gives Steve a thankful look before stepping into the elevator and leaning against the side wall. “Thanks,” he says, a little distractedly. He’s got a pair big of headphones on and Steve realizes he’s in the middle of a phone call when he adds, “No, not you, Gare, I was thanking the guy who held the elevator for me. Yeah, this building’s crazy. There’s a whole-ass sixtieth floor—guess I’m kind of a big deal now.” He lets out a small, self-deprecating chuckle, reaching for the panel beside him.

As the doors close and the elevator starts to slowly ascend, Steve notices the man pressed the button for the floor above his. Both the fifty-second and fifty-third floor buttons are lit in a halo of green.

“You know I didn’t want to leave you guys,” the man continues, a bit more quietly now that he and Steve are sharing the same small space, “but shit, I couldn’t turn down the pay.” He scoffs. “Ugh, listen to me, just another cog in the capitalist machine. Man, if high school me could see me now. High school Eddie used to talk big about forced conformity and rising up against the man, and now here I am—”

Steve tries not to listen to the one-sided conversation going on beside him, but it’s difficult when a moment later, he hears his own name.

“—clocking in for my first day at fuckin’ Harrington Hargrove Hagan. The pretentious bastards can’t even shorten it to an acronym or something. God forbid they have to miss out on the sound of their own names.”

Steve manages to hold in the obnoxious snort that threatens to escape him. He’s starting to think he might like this guy—Eddie, his mind supplies helpfully—but Eddie’s next words have him freezing in place.

“And it’s nepo baby central. Yeah, pretty sure all the H kiddies are hotshot brokers with the company. All the biggest accounts—gee, I wonder why.”

Steve can feel the back of his neck burning hot with a mixture of annoyance and shame as Eddie cracks a caustic joke about silver spoons and trust funds.

“You’re kidding, one of them works at this branch? Damn, I guess I’ll just keep an eye out for the guy who most looks like he’s got a giant stick up his ass.”

This is quickly becoming the longest elevator ride of Steve’s life. He grits his teeth and stares fixedly at the floor display panel above the elevator doors, watching the numbers climb higher and higher. Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight.

“Listen, I should go, but let’s grab a drink at the Hideout later. Cool, see you then. Bye.”

Forty-one. Forty-two.

Eddie removes his headphones and shoves them into his bag, angling slightly toward Steve. “Sorry about that, man.”

“You’re good,” Steve says shortly, not looking away from the changing numbers. They reach the forty-seventh floor, and all the while, he feels Eddie’s gaze on him.

It’s not like he’s openly staring, but there’s a certain weight to his furtive glances that completely counteracts his attempts at subtlety. It’s the type of gaze Steve’s familiar with, one that he’s been on the receiving end of since his sophomore year of high school when he hit a growth spurt and actually learned how to style his hair. Assessing. Appreciative. Interested.

And in any other situation, Steve would gladly engage. He’d turn on the charm, quirk the corner of his lip up in that way Robin always rolls her eyes at but reluctantly acknowledges as ‘passably effective’, and maybe even make up an excuse to sidle a bit closer.

But he’s not giving this guy his A-game.

Instead, Steve waits in stifling silence until the fifty-second floor is announced and the doors slide open. He steps forward to exit, but at the very last moment stops in the doorway.

He initially wasn’t going to say anything—though, a past version of himself would have definitely spat something biting and bitchy to Eddie about his snark, would have snootily told him to take his little assumptions and shove them where the sun don’t shine—but sooner or later Eddie’s going to realize he and Steve are colleagues, and he’s going to remember shit-talking him in an elevator on his first day of work, and it’s going to be awkward and uncomfortable.

Steve’s just speeding up the timeline, pushing for the sooner rather than the later, when he decides to spin around and fully face Eddie.

“I think you pressed the wrong button,” he says, all sweet and helpful like he’s talking to Dustin’s mom over a sink full of soapy dishes. “Couldn’t help but overhear that you work at Harrington Hargrove Hagan. It’s on the fifty-second floor, not the fifty-third.” Then he takes a small step backward, moving out into the carpeted hallway.

“Oh.” Eddie scrambles for his phone, unlocking it and scrolling quickly until he finds something that has him straightening up and smiling gratefully at Steve. “I guess I remembered it wrong. Thank you.” He pushes away from the wall, takes a step forward to follow Steve out, but then stops dead in his tracks.

Steve gleefully notes the line of Eddie’s gaze, how it lingers at the breast pocket of his shirt, where, clipped to a retractable badge reel, his building keycard hangs. Eddie evidently hadn’t noticed it during the elevator ride up, but he’s certainly fixated on it now.

Perhaps on the abstract yet easily recognizable Harrington Hargrove Hagan logo in the top right corner.

But more likely, based on the positively mortified look growing on Eddie’s face, on the name clearly printed underneath Steve’s photo in bold, black lettering: STEVE HARRINGTON.

Slowly, Eddie drags his eyes back up to Steve’s face. He stares in silence, eyes bugging nearly out of his head, face turning a concerning shade of pink, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, and his reaction is extreme enough that a small part of Steve is almost inclined to take pity on the guy and laugh it all off.

Unfortunately for Eddie, a bigger part of Steve thinks Eddie looks kind of cute all red-faced and embarrassed like this. So he glances down at himself thoughtfully before turning his attention back on Eddie. “Wow,” he says with exaggerated astonishment, “now that you mention it, I guess I do look like I’ve got a giant stick up my ass.”

As if on cue, the elevator chimes in warning. The doors begin to close, but Eddie just remains rooted in place with that same wide-eyed, horrified expression.

When it becomes clear he has no intentions of actually exiting the elevator, Steve chuckles and wiggles his fingers in a cheeky little wave. “Welcome to the team,” he says airily, before Eddie’s still-blushing face disappears behind the elevator doors.

/ Now with a Part 2!

[apocalypse-shuffle]

HOBIE BROWN | SPIDER-PUNK (atsv)

─────────────────

─────────────────

“Brand New Metal” (Hobie Brown & Fem!Reader)

| Hobie helps you pierce your nose.

| SFW, piercing description, needles

| Featuring almost the entirety of my own piercing experience. (Pic source: Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse (2023) movie)

You pull away for what feels like the hundredth time in five minutes and Hobie’s hand moves outta the way even faster, barely a blur of movement before it’s back within his bubble of space.

“C’mon, Mama, I can’t do this if you keep jumpin’ away from me.”

You shift in place where your butt is planted beside the hard water stained sink. Shoulders dropping you rub your hands down your face.

“I know that,” you grumble.

Problem was, knowing barely qualified as a quarter of the issue, and whoever said knowing was half the battle clearly hadn’t been staring down the point of the thickest needle you’d ever seen in person.

You wave your hand to the metal rod with a grimace. “But look at the size of that thing, Hobes. That’s gotta be overkill.”

Hobie’s accent seems to get thicker as he hits you with a deadpan tone, full brows shading his eyes.

“This’s a twenty gauge needle. I’ve seen you ’old your guts inside you and still make time to bash in some fascists, this’s nothin’.”

In response you flip him off but Hobie - perfectly unfazed - only starts twirling the needle around two latex glad fingers.

His own piercings - of which there were plenty - glint off of the dim yellow lighting of his bathroom like a taunt. Or at least it feels like that to you.

“Look, I already told you piercings ain’t some crucial part of the scene, Mama. You don’t have ta do any of this. It’s all just boxes and labels, the lot of it,” Hobie points the blunt side of the needle at you. “And you know I hate labels.”

“Yeah, Hobes, the whole of Camden knows. Besides, I want it cause I think it looks nice not cause of capitalism’s agenda to make us buy shit instead of looking at whatever human right of the day they’re doing away with,” you shrug and Hobie’s mouth twists to the side for a second before he’s shrugging too.

“Great. Point’s been made then. Pick a struggle.”

“Fuck your struggle,” you frown. “It’ll hurt.”

“Hn,” he scoffs and shakes his head. He’s giving you this narrow look like he’d let you keep this back and forth up for the rest of the day without any complaints though. “Fake ones exist for a reason.”

“Fake ones won’t give me the satisfaction of a real piercing though.”

“The lie that we need to feel pain in order to be worthy of livin’ is also capitalistic propaganda, Luv.”

Now it’s your turn to give him a look; face dropping and one brow rising.

Hobie chuckles.

“Fine.” He grins, sharp. “We both know I know exactly what it is you’re sayin’. I just can’t tell if being an accomplice to yer masochism is fair to me.”

“You wouldn’t deny a woman her creative outlet, would you?”

“S’pose not,” Hobie agrees, taking another alcohol swab and disinfecting the needle again for extra measure.

He eyes you up and down and you smile, fluttering your lashes at him and kicking your heels into his cabinet doors. You needed Hobie to be the one to do this. For one, because you were not going to be able to do this yourself, and for two, because he was really the only person you trusted to puncture a literal hole in your body.

You take a deep breath, now if only you could chill the hell out.

Hobie shakes his head, wicks flopping around and knocking into each other languidly.

“Yer one ‘elluva reluctant participant to this for someone agreein’ they’re a masochist,” he nods to the needle while brandishing it like a knife. He knows you're full of shit, but he’s not about to make your decision for you. “You gotta stop flinching every time light just glints off the needle if you really want this.”

You lock eyes with him, sitting up to your full height and trying not to back away from the metal rod. “Maybe I’m just waiting for the adrenaline rush to kick in.”

“Pretty sure that happens after the pain, yeh?

A huff and your fingers curl over the edge of the counter and squeeze.

“Just…get it over with, Hobie.” You take a deep breath. “Please?”

“Alright alright, don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Hobie eases a hand around your jaw and raises the needle. “You know I’ve got you. Now keep still.”

Another deep breath from you and Hobie meets your eye for a second time.

“On three,” he grunts. With your head in his grasp you can’t physically nod so you use your eyes to convey your agreement.

Hobie takes a breath to start the countdown and you inhale with him. You’ve gotten your ears pierced before, you could do this. It was fine. Plus you’ll have a few seconds to prep yourself before he gets to number three. You got this. You both exhale.

“Three,” he states.

Without a second to spare the needle pierces through the squishy cartilage of your nose and your breath catches in your throat. Instantly tears well in your eyes and your face heats up something fierce - like somebody’s holding a blow dryer on the highest setting up to it with zero mercy. Your joints pop, grasp on the counter growing tighter in your attempt to keep yourself from jerking out of Hobie’s hold. The sheer need to not garner an actual injury from the metal is almost solely what keeps you in place.

This wasn’t like an ear piercing at fucking all. Fuck this septum piercing and fuck Hobie too. What the fuck?

“Ow! You motherfucker!”

NOTES: Hope you enjoyed!! I only wrote his accent clearly some of the time; you’ll have to forgive me. I was confusing my damn self, okay? I did my best.

Also what I said about how adrenaline works isn’t really correct so don’t take that as gospel.

Edit: Had this labeled gn!reader on accident at first y’all, that’s my bad. Sorry for any confusion.

btw: if you’d like to leave a comment I’d very much appreciate it. this is a sideblog tho so I won’t respond.

[weebsinstash]

Really like the idea of a yandere Vox who is so ride or die for his overconsumerist capitalist Musk-esque lifestyle UNTIL he sees it negatively affecting his darling and does a complete 180

like take that poly red string soulmate Vox x Reader x Alastor concept and, you've got Alastor KINDA warming up to technology and willing to watch TV and do other things with you but he's still not a fan of you being on your phone constantly and some of the video games and movies you consume. He's on the couch reading a paper and (affectionately) rolling his eyes as you and Vox take turns headshotting each other in a video game and hollering "hell yeah, suck my fucking dick!!"

Meanwhile Vox is just 200% chronically online and loving it until one day he asks you why you wear baggy clothes all the time and you're ever so casually replying "because my body is fucking icky, duh" and Vox has absolutely no idea what you're talking about until you break down on a tangent about it

I was watching a clip the other day where someone was pointing out that Marilyn Monroe was considered the 50s icon of beauty and there are plenty of photos with her with thick thighs or a visible belly pooch and, imagine Vox sitting there, the disbelieving 'are you joking?' smile falling off of his face as you just, go OFF, "why would I wear anything other than sweatpants? I have fucking CELLULITE VOX, I'll NEVER have leggings legs no matter how thin I am, and look at my hip dips, they're so fucking GROSS, and my butt isn't shaped right, I have banana rolls, and, do I have siren eyes or doe eyes?! Am I bunny cute or am I frog cute?! And look at how bad my facial balancing is! Ugh, where's my gua sha?! I'm so tired of being UGLY!!"

Later that week Alastor is looking up from his paper to see Vox just, slowly entering the room, sloooooowly shutting the door behind him, looking to his old friend, "so hey! Funny idea, stop me if you've heard this one before but, I was thinking we could uh, maybe take their phone away annnnnnnnnnd... not give it back?" and here's Alastor, "oh, funny story! So earlier today they asked me if I 'wouldn't like them anymore' if they got COSMETIC SURGERY, yeah, ON THEIR FACE BELIEVE IT OR NOT, so, naturally, I'm already one step ahead of you :)" as he just casually gestures to the smashed wifi router in the garbage can in the corner of the room

You just get home from work one day and Vox has his CRT head back on and you're told 'if you want to look something up online, you can use the desktop in the computer room, and only 3 hours of screen time' and it all but blasts you 15 years into the past 💀 no more nights where you're gaming for 5+ hours straight and ruining your sleep. No more skipping meals because you're hyperfocused and binge-watching an anime while also playing an idle game on your phone. No more Alastor and Vox finding out you're just smoking bowls for hours literally nonstop because you need some sort of extra stimulation while you doomscroll and watch 3 hour long roast reviews for shows you've never watched

Alastor catches you swiping through an app and you get a divisive video thrown in your face from some alpha dude bro podcast, "yeah, a real man knows how to protect his lady! She should be at home cooking and keeping the house clean, not running around like a tramp and doing dumb chick stuff! All women need to focus on is marriage and being good wives, you know, a TRADITIONAL relationship!" and Alastor is just, swiping that shit out of your hand, "he DOES have a bit of a point, repulsive as he is! I suppose I'll have to start looking at potential dwellings that can fit you, me, and, I SUPPOSE Vox too 🙄" and little do you know he's already got a cute little home in the 'burbs set up already. He's just... you know! Waiting for the right moment to let you and the annoying TV bastard know that you'll be moving! Maybe he'll just... wait until the day of! Nothing beats a fun surprise, right? ^^ he doesn't want either of you... trying to run away or anything after all haha!

[bad-and-drawn-that-way]

HEAR ME OUT- DUMBIFICATION, DEGRADATION AND PRAISE WITH VOX

THOUGHTS??

I also have a headcanon request that I'll do separately in list form! This is actually a scene from a scrapped multi-chapter fic idea I had for a secretary reader. As to why it was scrapped, I didn't know how to finish it so I ✨gave up! ✨

Ngl this is actually only half of the scene, there's scraps of this whole extra kinky round-two thing with some casual exhibitionism, but we'll see how this does first. That being said, enjoy!

At Your Service [Vox x Secretary Reader] NSFW AS FUCK

(NSFW writing under the cut. Minors stay away <3)

It was an early morning like any other. Vox is sitting at his desk, looking over the paperwork he had from yesterday. It’s far too early and his bougie oversized office offered little comfort as you sleepily walked in. Hearing the door open, Vox looked up and smirked as he noticed the coffee in your hand.

"Good morning." he greeted you, motioning to a chair for you to take a seat.

"Morning," you smile a bit tiredly as you enter the room. You were never much of a morning person. Once the initial adrenaline of stepping out of your house had burned out, you needed the extra caffeine boost to keep your energy going.

A yawn slipped past your lips as you sat in the chair across from his desk.

"Wimp," Vox chuckled, poking fun at your inability to start a morning as early as him. It had become a regular topic of banter that started most of your work mornings together.

"Capitalist cocksucker," you wave him off. "Not everyone can be up at the ass crack of dawn in a freshly pressed suit, Sir. A few more sips of this stuff and I'll be good to go." You say as you lift your coffee to your lips.

You hum and lick some foam off your lip as you pull out your laptop. "Any changes to today's agenda I need to know about?" you ask him.

Vox smirked, rolling his eyes as he pulled up one of the hundreds of tabs he had open on his computer. "I can tell you're still a bit tired, but if you're sure... " he paused for a moment, glancing over his schedule."Yes, actually. There has been a small change to the overall plan. We're going to be running a new campaign today, so I'll need you to be ready to assist with that."

"What would you like me to oversee?

"I want you to be over on the promotion side for this new campaign," he said as he looked up from his paperwork. "Make sure that we get maximum visibility on this. The security system may have been a spur-of-the-moment idea, but it could bring in huge fucking numbers if we pull it off. I want as many people as possible to know about it and twice as many sales as views minimum.”

You nod, take notes, and start writing an email draft to get meetings scheduled. "Do you want the visual hypnosis team to work on the campaign or the auditory team?" It was common knowledge that Vox had hypnotic abilities, but it was less common to know how it had been incorporated throughout his entire company. Inductions were slipped into nearly every advertisement, program, and product that the company made.

"Have both of the hypnosis teams work on it," he answered. "We'll have the visual team focus primarily on the advertising for the campaign, and the audial team will work on creating the sounds and audio to slip in. We want this to be a very effective campaign, so the more hypnotic technology we can put into work, the better."

You stop typing, looking up at him incredulously. “Are you sure? The last time we doubled down on inductions we had to do that whole cover story to explain why half of hell turned into braindead zombies for a week.”

“It’ll be fine,” Vox waved off your concerns. “That was years ago and we’re better at this shit now. We can always blame it on Alastor somehow if shit goes wrong.”

You nod along, "If you’re sure. I've personally been incredibly susceptible to the combination, so forgive me if I don’t watch any of your programs for the next month," you say idly without thinking.

You didn’t notice as Vox paused. You didn’t notice the toothy grin that could have prepared you for what was to come either. "How susceptible were you previously to hypnosis?"

You nod along, not listening to his question as you finish sending the email to the hypnosis teams. Your brain catches up with you as you hit send and you freeze like a deer in the headlights. The look on your flushed face was priceless and Vox would have burst out laughing if he wasn’t so invested in hearing your answer. "I, uh.." you look away from him, "I was focused and said too much out loud. You weren't supposed to hear that."

His eyes were still on you, a clear look of curiosity flashing across his expression.

"You're right, I wasn't supposed to hear that,” He grinned. “But you said it and you’re not getting out of this that easily. You said that you are quite susceptible?"

You cringe, knowing you couldn't dodge a direct question from your boss. Even if he was an ass and an absolute man-child. "I..." you bite your lip curling in on yourself and crossing your legs as you take a sudden great interest in your laptop. "Yeah, I may have... experimented a bit."

His eyebrows raised, and he leaned slightly over to get a better look at you.

"Experiments?" he spoke softly. "What type of experiments?"

You sputter, your entire body flushing as you stammer out a panicked reply, "I, ah, um.. don't know if that would be a-appropriate to um.."

He chuckled slightly, now seeming rather amused by your reaction. "I assure you, I've heard much worse than whatever you may be worried about telling me."

"E-even so," you try to reason. "It's embarrassing. It's one thing to do it, it's another to tell your boss about it."

His eyebrows raised further. "You've done hypnotic experiments on yourself, and you're embarrassed to tell me about it?” He chuckles and rests his screen on his hand. “Yeah, no. You’re not getting out of this. What exactly did you do?"

You stare at him, before sighing and opening up a blank document. It was too mortifying to say out loud. He may have the power to squeeze the information out of you for his entertainment, but you’d be damned if you gave him the satisfaction of saying it out loud. You silently type up that you've tried being hypnotized both sober and when high and how you had done free-use edging with a group while high and hypnotized. Without a word you turn the laptop around so he can read it, your face on fire as you look anywhere but at him.

He had been expecting something a bit more tame, but now he was intrigued. It seemed that you had quite the mind on you to explore such risky topics. When he finished reading it, he raised his eyebrows even further, seemingly somewhat impressed.

"Well, I'll be damned," he commented. "That's not what I expected... What made you wanna try such things?"

"I like the feeling of it," you muttered as you turned the laptop around and promptly deleted the damning text.

His eyebrows raised a bit, intrigued. "You like the feeling of being hypnotized? You like letting someone else be in control of you?"

You pressed your lips together, blushing hard as he asked his question.

"Is that a yes then?" he inquired, his grin growing as the pixels under his mouth went dead. "You don't want to give me a straight answer, but the way you're stuttering and blushing makes it pretty clear that you do."

"S-Shut up," you bite back at his call-out as you finally look back at him.

Vox laughs as he just keeps winning the game he’d caught you in. "I think I hit the nail on the head, didn't I?"

"Y-Yes, sir." You say, cringing as you realize that sounded completely different given the topic compared to when you usually called him that during work hours.

He chuckled again, finding your response more than a bit amusing. "Well then, I take it that you have no issues with me being in complete control over you, then?"

You would combust into flames if you could. Your legs clenched together as you took in his question. You looked down at your laptop, stammering as you felt yourself quickly slipping into his grasp. "T-The campaign-"

"Yes, yes, yes," he interrupts you, seeming rather amused by this. "We'll talk about the campaign after that. I'm more interested in how much control you're willing to give up to me right here and now."

"I..." you pause, staring down at your hands clenched on top of your laptop. Were you really about to do this? Fuck it.

You look up at him and nod.

A grin appeared on his face as you nodded, even more amused now that this little bit was going exactly the way he had hoped. The two of you had flirted here and there, but never anything more than the occasional passing comment. If anything, it had just been a part of the playful and teasing game you’d be playing together for the past few months with you as his assistant.

He had no idea if you had ever truly noticed his advances or the way he’d stare at your ass in that pencil skirt you always wore during meeting days. But now he had the chance to unravel every last secret that’d been out of reach. Vox was nothing if not an opportunist.

"Good girl," he said softly. "Are you ready for me to control you now?"

You stand, going to place your phone and laptop on a nearby table. You stop and take a shaky breath, smoothing out your pencil skirt. You turn and walk back to him, this time hesitating instead of simply sitting in the chair across from his desk.

"Yes."

He smiles at your obedience and hesitation, noting the way that you smoothed down your skirt. You had already given up quite a lot of control to him, and it seemed that it was just going to be even easier from this point on.

"Then come here," he said softly, motioning for you to do so.

Your heart was pounding hard in your chest and you felt how hot your cheeks were as you stepped forward and moved to stand before him. His attention had been on every part of you, taking in every inch of you. He didn’t have to sneak in glances like before, he could just take it all in on his own time. He was enjoying the way that he seemed to be able to control you with a seemingly simple command. And to think he’d barely lifted a finger.

His eyes moved downwards as you stood in front of him, and his expression became a bit more serious than mere amusement.

"Let your skirt fall to your ankles," he instructed.

You practically shivered at the command, screaming internally at how embarrassed you felt and yet squirming at how just a short command from him was enough to send sparks through your body.

Your face flushed as you slowly undid the zipper on the side of your hip, taking a sharp breath before letting the fabric fall to the floor. You hugged yourself as you looked to the side, stepping out of your skirt and standing half-exposed in front of him.

He couldn't help but smirk as you did exactly as he commanded. Your legs were now exposed, and he noted how they were quivering slightly.

"Good girl," he smirked. "Now, let's step this up."

"But you’re still wearing too much. Let’s move on to your top next, shall we?" he suggested with a spark of playful amusement.

Oh god, was he really going to make you do this? It would have been one thing if he had been the one undressing you, but the fact he was making you do it for him like this was going to be the double death of you. You shakily undo the buttons of your blouse, trying to keep your heart rate under control as you pull it over your head and let it fall to the floor by your skirt.

You look at Vox, hoping he’d finally have some mercy and touch you himself, but he only lazily drags his gaze over your body with a hum of approval. "And finally?"

You were only left in your bra, underwear, sheer black thigh-high tights, and your heels. You felt incredibly vulnerable in his large office. Anyone could come in through the door and the windows that overlooked the city suddenly felt far more exposing than they ever had before.

You could see the spark of excitement begin to rise in him as you bit your lip and paused. Your hesitation was only making this a bit more exciting for him. He could hardly keep up the playful mask when his claws were threatening to tear into the armrest of his chair.

"Go on... " he said softly and slowly, his voice now beginning to become a bit huskier.

You took another shaky breath as you slowly reached back to unclasp your bra. You shook just knowing he was looking at you. That he was pursuing this. It made you hyper-aware in every way as you tossed the garment to the side and then finally stepped out of your underwear.

His gaze on your body was intense once more, seeming to take in every inch of you. He could not stop himself from being intrigued by your body and by just how vulnerable you were right now.

Your shaking was making it even more enticing to him. "Good girl," he said softly. You move to undo the garter and roll down your tights, when he stops you. Leave those. They’re perfect.” The dead pixels under his mouth might as well have been drool with the way his eyes hungrily took in the sight of the tights pressing into your skin so perfectly. 

“Are you ready to move on to the last step?"

You take a deep breath before lowering to your knees in front of him and nodding. You'd never done anything like this with a single person, finding it so much easier in a group. His lone, laser focus on you made you feel every twitch and spark and overwhelmed you in the best of ways.

"Yes, Sir."

He looked down at you once more, this time taking in all of your body as you were now kneeling, your hands resting on his chair.

"Now..." he said quietly as he reached down in a rare moment of tenderness as he lifted your chin. "I want to ask you a very simple question, but you must answer honestly. Do you enjoy this? Do you enjoy giving up your control to me?"

The smallest moan slips past your lips without your permission. Despite your embarrassment, you answer truthfully. “Yes. I love it a lot, actually.."

He smirked at the moan and the truth in your words. You were enjoying this... he could tell. You truly loved giving up your control to him. And he loved taking it.

"Good girl," he said with a soft chuckle at your veracity. "Very, very good girl. You enjoy letting me take c̶o̸m̶p̴l̶e̵t̵e̵ control of you, don't you?"

You take a deep breath, feeling your body relax a bit as you feel a bit of yourself give into him as you finally gather the nerve to look him in the eye. "Yes, Sir."

His expression seemed to shift a bit as you gave in even more. His amusement was more apparent now, as he now had you exactly where he wanted you.

"I love that you enjoy this so much," he said softly. "Does it make it more fun for you to know that you are pleasing me?"

You nod, shifting on your knees. "It does," you say earnestly. "Your approval isn't something easy to earn."

The slight shift you made was enough to cause him to smirk once more. Every time you moved, he would find something new about you that appealed to him.

"I approve of this tremendously," he grinned. "It is obvious that you enjoy giving up your control over me and letting me take control of you. It is clear that you enjoy giving me pleasure."

You let out a hot breath, your eyes darting down to between his legs as he mentioned giving him pleasure. You weren’t subtle about it either. Vox chuckled, amused more now than any other time during the interactions you two have had so far. You whine, your fists clenching where they rested on top of your thighs. Your chest shifted with every movement as you waited for his instruction.

"So eager," he breathed. He reached down and tucked your hair behind your ear as he committed the view to memory. "Go on, then,” he purred. “Show me what you’re willing to do for this.”

"I'm happy to give you a demonstration," you say to him with a smirk. Vox chuckled, happy to see some of your usual sass seep into the moment. He just knew you had a bratty side to you. The duality of how eager you seemed to submit and that bit of knowledge filled him with anticipation for all the different sides of you he wanted to see.

You scoot forward and reach for the zipper of his slacks. You chuckle as his breath hitches when you slowly pull down. He moans softly as your hand only continues following a path down as you palm him slowly over his slacks. There was already a bulge formed there that made you twitch with delight.

Looking up, you see Vox watching you with wide eyes. The smirk on his face only grew larger as you slowly pulled down his slacks and boxers You could feel the heat of his gaze on you, his breath becoming more and more audible with every slow movement.

You hum with pleasure as you focus your attention on his half-hard cock in your hand. It was easier to let go and forget your insecurities when you had him in front of you like this. For as much as you’d fantasized about him, you had never dared to dream you’d find yourself in this situation with him. You lean down and use your hand to slowly pump him before you lock eyes with him and lick a trail across the underside of his cock.

“F̷̮͛u̷̞͗c̵̹̈́k̸̝̎i̷̝͝n̶̗̎g̷̭͒ hell,” Vox swore, his grip on his chair tightening. His breath got increasingly more audible, his throat hoarse from his attempts at restraining any noise he might make. He’d been dreaming of this for far too long. He had you pegged all wrong. He always thought you were innocent. Flirty, but he couldn’t truly imagine you’d have a side like this. You always seemed too pure despite your sass. How happy was he, to be proven wrong.

"Good girl," Vox huskily breathed as his fingers tangled in your hair.

You lower down to press a kiss to the head of his cock. He hissed as you sucked lightly and collected his pre-cum on your tongue. You let your tongue loll out for a moment to show him before you lower yourself and take him in your mouth. Your tongue swirls around the tip of him and your fingers dig into his thighs as you bob your head shallowly. You tease him with subtle motions before you start to take his length down your throat in earnest.

Every movement you made only increased the heat of the situation exponentially and Vox found his cool demeanor quickly fading as he panted above you. “F̷̰͠u̵͕̅c̵̠̓k̸̞͊i̵̢͊n̵͓̅g̷̤̃ ̶̠̋ḫ̵̑e̵̩̾l̶̦͋l̶̩͆,” he gasped as your tongue lapped at the base of his cock. How the fuck were you doing that when he was jammed past your non-existent gag reflex? 

You hummed around him, your eyes watering as you choked on him. He could see the mirth in your eyes and he knew you’d be teasing him with a snarky remark if you weren’t too busy drooling on his dick like a goddamn champ.

Vox lets out a stuttering breath. As hot as it was, he wasn’t going to let you just get away with keeping your attitude intact. Out of selfish pleasure, he let you continue your ministrations for a moment longer before his fingers tugged at your hair, bringing your attention back to him.

You let him pull you off of his member, your tongue hanging out as you catch your breath and smile dumbly at him. His expression remained very much one of satisfaction and admiration as he observed you. That dumbly, innocent smile of yours was rather endearing to him, as it went hand in hand with the way you were acting.

"You really are quite the little showstopper, aren’t you?" he said quietly as he took in your porn-quality face. He idly wondered how the hell you ended up working for him and not Valentino. He was not about to complain about the unexpected victory.

You hummed happily, letting yourself go more for him. It was such a stark contrast to how tense you were when you were working. He'd never seen this side of you before and he hadn't even hypnotized you yet.

He had now realized just why you got so tense when he approached you with that offer. You enjoyed this in such a way that it was almost intoxicating, that it was almost addictive. It was a stark contrast to the version of you he knew that strived for greatness and top results at all times. You must have been so wound up from it all that you just whiplashed into the complete opposite frame of mind to release.

If you were already like this in front of him, then what would you be like after he had you completely under his control?

You nod, smirking as some drool fell to your chest from when you had your mouth on him moments ago.” What can I say?” you say teasingly. “Oral fixations keep a girl eager.”

Vox grinned with the look of a hungry predator as his eyes roamed all over you. Every god damned inch.

“You actually want this, don’t you?” He chuckled. “You want me to turn you into a brain-dead d̶͈͊ȍ̴̪l̵̺͊ḽ̸̏.”

"Please," you whisper as you look up at him with pleading eyes.

You could see the hunger within his eyes as you said that single fucking word. It didn’t take lifting a single finger for you to desperately plead for his control. You’d been wanting this just as bad as he had. The whole goddamned time. Vox buried his face in his hands and you looked at him with concern. You couldn’t see the way he grinned or feel how his body trembled slightly. You could only gasp as your vision was filled with black and red spirals when he lowered his hands and looked at you with a wicked grin.

You sit back on your knees, your eyelids growing heavy as your mouth falls open. Your body felt like it was floating and it was enough to make you feel like you were high. The hypnotic effect of his demonic abilities was how he'd reached the powerful position of an overlord. Even if you hadn't been so susceptible, you would have been powerless under his gaze as a normal person. 

Any hypnosis you’d experienced before took many sessions of induction. It took a bond, trust, and a lot of mental bandwidth to be so vulnerable. But Vox could just drop you at a whim. And the pull of his tide dragging you under was stronger than anything you’d ever succumbed to before.

You were blissfully unaware as Vox’s expression shifted into feral joy. Your submission. This control. It was all his for the taking. You were giving him everything he’d ever craved and he could already tell that once he properly tasted this power, he’d never want to let go. He’d become an addict, for sure.

Your mind and body felt like they were floating. All you could see was Vox as your empty and needy self waited for his command. Your body felt almost weightless now, every sense and thought centered solely on him. His commands were all that you cared about now, his desires were now like law to you, and your body, empty as it was, only had one desire.

"I want you to do as I ask without question, do you understand?" he asked, his voice shaking with delight and raw hunger.

"Yes," you sigh, your every breath feeling heavy as you’re pulled deeper under his spell.

He had already gotten you to admit you were a submissive slut and he already got you to strip for him. All before he had even used his power on you. Now? Now, he could make you do or tell him anything he wanted. You were his.

"Good girl," he grinned. "I want you to stand up and walk over to that door over there," he said, pointing to one of the nearby doors to the room. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir," you say calmly. Whereas before your embarrassment left you feeling exposed, you now felt relaxed and light. Your embarrassment and insecurities didn’t exist under Vox’s control. There was only the need to satisfy him and be blessed with ecstasy in return.

You walked over to the door in nothing but your sheer thigh-high tights and heels. You place both of your hands on the door and stand with your hips out, waiting for Vox.

Vox glitched hard and admired the way that you followed these commands so easily. This was his. He found himself growing more addicted and possessive by the second. His mind was already buzzing with all the ways he could mold you to his every need and desire. He’d never felt so in control of another person like this and it satiated a dark craving in him.

"Now, I want you to take off those tights and throw them over to me."

You bend over in front of him, fully exposed, yet carefree as you peel off your tights and hand them to him with a relaxed look on your face. Vox sparked again as he got a full view of your need for him. Once your tights were off, you handed them over to him calmly.  All you could think about was pleasing him and satisfying him. Your anxiety and self-conscious tendencies were washed away.

Vox ordered you to put your hands behind your back. He grinned and tied your wrists together with one of the stockings. He snatched your underwear from the forgotten bundle of clothing by his desk and made you open your mouth for him. He stuffed them in and used the other stocking to tie around your mouth. 

Now that you were completely bound, your mind was completely free to focus on the feelings and sensations you were experiencing. He dropped the hypnotic spell on you and you gasped into your gag as your mind cleared and he pushed you forward so your face and tits were flush against the door. You shuddered hard and let out a broken moan as his palm rubbed against your leaking cunt.

Vox grinned and leaned down to speak by your ear as he slid his fingers in. “You have n̷͙̈o̷̹̎ idea how much I can’t wait to fucking d̷̲͆e̶̗͘s̴̳̈t̸͚̆r̷͎͒o̸͙͊ỹ̸̝ ̸̞̉y̷̰̓ǒ̵̦u̵̬͂.”

Your gasps and moans were muffled by the fabric in your mouth and you pushed against him as he roughly played with you. His hand slammed your head against the door and held you in place as his fingers curled and scissored inside of your sloppy heat. Tears pricked your eyes as your heart and mind raced. You were completely vulnerable to him, but now your embarrassment was rearing his head at the worst (b̴̼̊è̶͔s̶͜͝t̶̹̽) possible moment. 

The chance that there could be anyone on the other side of the door had you thrashing desperately against Vox’s ministrations. Vox delighted in your internal struggle and couldn’t help himself as his claws dug into the back of your hair so he could pull you back hard. “I’m going to make sure e̶͖͌v̷̞͐e̶͈̽r̶̡̂y̸̨͊o̵̤̚n̴̦̈́e̴̥͌ ̵͜͠k̵̜̔n̷̝̈́ǒ̷̮w̷͎̅s̸͓̈́ who̸̩͂ ̶͔̀y̸͎̐ő̸̳u̸̗͊ ̶̞̏f̶͎̔u̷̠̅ć̵͈k̶͙̚i̴̜̿n̸̘͐g̷̨̿ ̸͔̌ belong to,” he growled as he lifted one of your legs and slipped himself inside of you.

Your eyes rolled back and you screamed into your gag as he slipped in and out of you with ease. He’d been so hard from the build-up of it all and you were literally dripping for him by this point. Vox growled and lost control as he picked up the pace of his actions, moving you around to different areas of the office and fucking you in as many positions as possible. He wanted you exposed. He wanted you defenseless. He wanted you marked in the blood and bruises of his ownership. He wanted to ḋ̴̥ó̶̰m̵̯̕i̷̗͗n̴͈̽a̵̱̒t̶̤̎ȇ̸͚ you. And he would.

Neither of you could keep track of the amount of times you’d come. Your mixed desire was dripping from your cunt as he’d buried himself deep inside of you every time one of you peaked. This was all he wanted. That was all you wanted. No more thinking, no more emotions, just the sheer fucking pleasure.

Your eyes rolled back into your head as you cried from how good he made you feel. He knew how to unravel you into nothing more than a babbling mess with every clever touch and command. It was becoming too much and yet you felt like you wanted more of it. You were overwhelmed as you felt yourself quickly approaching an orgasm.

“That’s it,” Vox growled as he fucked you against his desk. He chuckled darkly as he smacked your ass. “Fucking do it, c̴͖͆o̵͕͋m̷̟̉ẽ̵̞.”

You threw your head back and screamed as your entire body convulsed around him. You couldn't do anything but take his relentless thrusts as he pounded you into the desk. Vox growled, nearly on the verge of cumming himself when he suddenly rips himself off of you. You let out a muffled sob as you clench around nothing.

Your entire world is suddenly filled with bright blue electricity as you feel everything shift suddenly. You almost fall, but are caught by Vox’s hands. You squint as your eyes adjust to the sudden change of lighting and Vox undoes the gag around your mouth as you realize you’re now in his surveillance room. 

Your eyes go wide and you gasp and you see yourself on the monitors with Vox crouched over you. Every screen was showing a live feed of you from several different angles, showing how vulnerable you were in this situation. The footage of you was quite an entertaining sight for Vox as his wires came out of nowhere and threw you onto his chair.

"V-Vox,” you gasp as you look up at him with wide eyes. The overlord’s grin stretches wide as he grabs onto your shaking legs.

It was the first time you'd actually used his name.

At work, you were professional. In his office, you were playful. However now that he had you in his lair, he would mark a new side of you… Here, you were your true self, fully and utterly submissive. Here was his favorite.

You couldn't help but moan shamelessly as he lifted you with his cables and sat in the chair beneath you. You threw your head back with a scream as he dropped you onto his cock and turned the chair so you had an eyeful of each and every monitor with your shameful display recorded. 

You moan as you bounce yourself on him, meeting every one of his feral thrusts. Your mind was completely gone. Every grunt and growl that slipped from his lips only fueled your need. The marks on your hips and back from where his sharp nails clawed in burned just as deliciously as the stretch of him inside you.

Pain and pleasure all in one were now filling your mind. His grunts and growls were becoming louder, as were yours. You couldn't control it. This situation was pushing you further and further toward the edge.

You leaned into him, gasping as he made you lose your mind.

"P-please." You begged.

"Beg for it," he said growled, "Beg f̸̼̑ó̶̙r̴̠̀ ̵̫́m̴̡̾è̸̼."

You moan low as you desperately plead with him. "Please Vox, plus fucking break me! Please please please, Sir, please I'll be good. I'll do anything, please, Sir, fucking please!"

"You'll do anything for me," he said, with a grin on his face as he saw you getting more desperate with your plea. The red recording symbol on all of the screens wasn’t enough to make you see the incoming danger. You were too overwhelmed with the pleasure quaking through your body as Vox pumped into your sloppy cunt.

Your entire body shook hard as his movements suddenly stopped. A long whine of frustration and the roll of your hips made Vox grin. You were so desperate for him in the moment, you didn't notice the gravity of the position you were in.

"Fucking please don’t stop, I'll do anything Vox, please," you begged as you desperately rutted against him.

"I'm going to give you exactly what you want," he grinned as he whispered in your ear. "If you do everything I say from now on, then I'll give you everything you want. Sound like a deal?"

You sob, nodding rapidly against him. "Fuck, please, yes! It's a deal, so please!"

Vox suddenly thrusts up into you hard, making you scream as the room flashes with electricity. The deal was made and the pact was sealed.

"Good girl," he said quietly and calmly, as he pet your hair.

His grin was downright sinister as he pulled your head back.

"You're mine now."

Your eyes went wide as you realized the gravity of what you had just done in the heat of the moment. "Wait, I-" you gasp as you're cut off as Vox starts to mercilessly pound into your heat.

"I heard what you said," he grins as his claws dig into your hips and draw blood. "I heard it a̸̩̎l̴͚͗l̷̖̓.. And I'm going to hold you to e̵̻̐v̶͎͌é̵͉r̶͕͊y̷̳̍ word of that agreement."

If you thought Vox was rough before, it was nothing compared to how he used you now. He tossed you around like a toy and you sobbed as he broke you.

Your eyes were crossed as you screamed and took everything he had to give you. "Vox, Vox, Sir, fucking please!" You babbled, practically worshipping how he destroyed you now that he owned your soul. It was too good to care about the consequences. It was too much. All you could think of was how badly you needed him.

Your screams and moans were now all he could hear as you completely lost it. He was using everything that he could to break you and he seemed to enjoy every second of it. He was doing you dirty, but it was also exactly what you desired. All you wanted now was his approval, as he completely controlled and dominated you in body and spirit.

[seat-safety-switch]

If there's one thing that unites us all as people, it's the common practice of stringing along creditors until they go away. In a very real way, we are not carbon, but debt-based lifeforms. We can't help it: we just wanted to do impulsive, exciting things like "eat."

Here's the real magic. They don't even have to be our creditors! We can just call up some debt collectors at random and tell them to pound salt. Keeps them on their toes. Every hour they spend wondering which one of their "customers" it was who left the profane voicemail is an hour they don't spend harassing their actual victims. Phones work both ways, assholes.

You might think that this is rude. Aren't those venal, repellent, valueless bloodsuckers working in the shit-hole call centre of Hell Itself also brave workers, like me? Sure, but they're used to it. In this brave new future, some of them might even be robots, and those robots pay billionaires just to exist. If they learn a new swear, those robots might be able to slightly dent their profit margins, like when you are loudly working on your car when the daycare is open.

Fret not. There is a way to still feel good about being incredibly rude to total strangers just because of an inherently corrupt turbo-capitalistic system that wrote you a bad-faith loan. You should make your string of scatological insights confusing and funny, so it at least counts as entertainment. A little office joke. Maybe you'll even make it to the water-cooler conversation!

So take it from me: go ahead and call up the folks who keep bothering me to actually pay up on those nitrous kits they let me take for free. Apparently, they'll believe anything. And then once they've given up on me, I'll have a lot more free time to call your creditors and bug them on your behalf. It's just like that movie, Strangers on a Train. I never saw the end of it because Netflix kicked me out for having a stolen credit card, but I assume everything went well.

[royaltrashkin]

"How dare you paint your walls, you selfish piece of shit," says The New York Times, right before the obits. "Even if you own your home, you'll fucking die one day. Think of forty years from now; you know the trends won't stay. How dare you how dare you how dare you leave a mark. You shouldn't stay for decades; buy and sell, for profit is the point."

"How dare you collect those mugs, those plushies, or those books?" says the influencer paid by the view. "Collecting turns to hoarding, and hoarding is a sin. The only way to live is in beige and grey; unless it's essential, throw it away!"

"Daydreaming is maladaptive, and standing out is toxic," says the tiktoker who never saw a therapist but learned psychology from Buzzfeed headlines. "It isn't bullying; we are shaming you into being normal. If you don't mask, you're a danger!"

"Anything you enjoy is addiction," says ThrasherSlasherRedPillHacker. "Caffeine is crack, and sugar is the worst. Anything but work is Satan, and your phone will eat your soul."

"How dare you ask your friends for help; you are a goddamn drain," says someone who I've never met; someone who wants a post that makes the likes go high. "How dare you speak, how dare you laugh, how dare you even cry; friends are just for facebook dear, something to pass the time."

Blend in and work. Shut up and grind. Affording any pleasure is a sign of greed; paycheck to paycheck is the only way to be. Take some PTO? Whore, you make me laugh. Self care is peeling off your face and wearing Kim's instead. Hustle and mask; shut up and never live. Eat clean and keep spotless. Shut your children in. How dare they fly. How dare they scream. How dare you leave the home Miss; what are you, a capitalist? If you have pennies after bills, bitch don't you forget that in this household, we eat the rich. Everything's an illness dear; medicate and obey. Let your husbands rule you 'cause they've got bills to pay.

[buzzkillers]

WHITE HOUSE DOWN

Pairing: Hobie Brown x Black!Reader

Summary: You and Hobie fuck after he kills the President of the United States: Norman Osborne.

Tags|Warnings: Happy 4th of July (sarcastic), public oral sex, cum facials, enemies to enemies that fuck, exhibitionism, bratty reader, graphic violence, bad British slang, UNEDITED

WC:4k

In under an hour Fascism, Capitalism and President Norman Osborne died in the same way: pathetically and in a roaring beat of gunfire and raging anarchy.

It was so punk metal that Hobie reckoned he could've cried. 

Maybe even let out a blood curdling scream before he joined his mates in celebration; in a fight that continued to roar beyond the thick walls of this stupid building. Of the world's now fallen symbol of false freedom, colonization and white supremacy.

All of it was dead now anyway, all of it was gone. So yeah Hobie reckoned he should’ve cried; maybe he even was crying but he was too pent up on adrenaline and rock and roll to notice. Who fucking knew. Who fucking cared? 

What mattered was that Osborne’s head was detached, that his guitar was covered in guts and brain and enough idiocratic bullshit that it had clattered to the floor. 

His weapon stained against the fancy White House carpet. He didn’t mind though, it added to the decor. You didn’t seem to give a shit either. For you, blood still stained your locs and your lips stayed wrapped around his cock.

And well Hobie didn't follow rules. They were barely a suggestion in his radar. Yet apart of him knew this was off kilter, even for him. Even for Spider Punk. 

Spider Punk, the not-hero and the now killer who instead of killing capitalist and fighting corporate drones was here. Here with black nails that dug into your back and wicks that kissed the skin of your cheek. 

It felt good. 

This reward, you told him as you guided him towards the pigs desk. Your hands already at the buckle of his jeans before you looked up at him; eyes hazy and murderously dark. 

It reminded him of foggy London nights, of polluted air and days where he gasped for his inhaler. Something that tried to be something else. It made Hobe feel triumphant, out of breath.

And yet this was ‘His reward.’ You growled again as if this was normal and you weren't you but something different, something new.

At that, Hobie couldn’t help but laugh. It was a pretty comedy after all, a neat joke as your palm— shaking and slick with sweat wrapped itself around his cock and your knees dug into the floor. The blood stained floor. 

He inhaled sharply, either from the adrenaline or the genuine need to breathe before his smile slipped into something wide, dangerous. You shot a glare at him. 

"Something funny?" You mouthed, as if your eyes weren't muggy, as if there wasn't a revolution going on a wall away. Hobie of course simply looked down at you, his own eyes liquid dark, but alight with adrenaline and fire and everything that made a corporate pig like Osborne underestimate him. 

“Fuck yeah,” he rolled his hips up.

"Everything's a bit funny right now, love" 

Below him, you only scoffed as if what he said wasn’t sick given the circumstances. 

As if this was simply another one of those nights; those long nights where this would be your signal to leave. To keep your distance from Hobie Brown, the Spider Punk with too much venom on his tongue and righteous anger in his every word. But you didn’t, you simply looked at him, calculative, nervous. 

Around them, the war raged on and the sounds of corporate drones getting their ass beat made the floors vibrate. None of them aware of their leader's demise before his team crushed them into dust. Below him you sighed, that gleam still in your eyes. (murky puddles and polluted skylines.)

"Of course you'd make this hard," 

"Can't just let me suck you off and shut up huh, SP?" You muttered, and you see Hobie would respond. There was always an excuse to be barked, a word to be said. But music still thrummed through his veins, the air was singing (screaming) and you were here. 

Not with Osborne. Not in a lab, cooped up but here. 

He smiled. "I'm not known for consistency," 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," you rolled your eyes, "I've heard the speech,” 

"can't be consistent, can't be bought, can't shut up,"

Shut up?

He licked his lips and tasted the metal, the blood. 'Im gettin’ tired of your mouth, boy.’ Osborne had sneered before Hobie broke his face in.

Yeah, he didn't listen to him either. He shrugged his shoulders. "Nah, I don't think so,"

You rolled your eyes. “Spider-”

“Aw, am I ruining your fantasy love?" You cut him a look.

“Catchin me off guard like this, you must’ve planned it, no?”

Your grimace deepened. Which was cute. Very cute. “So you’re just gonna keep talking?” 

“—I mean I'm not against you knowin' your onions and all that, but between you being stuck in your lab and arguing with us who knew you had the time,” he whispered, before your eyes went sharp and your nails dug into his thighs. A warning, that only made his cock hard and his hands crack the lip of the desk. Cute. He thought again.  

So bloody cute that he blinked and his heart raced like a drum, like a rip of his pick against his guitar. 

‘Lay on your back’ you said, ‘drop the guitar.’ and he did.

You had demanded it with a trained nonchalance. Completely unbothered as if he didn't hear the way your lungs sharply inhaled when his guitar separated Osborne's head from his spine. Cartilage, tendons and a thick spinal cord crushed into dust beneath his rebellion before you pounced on him.

You gave him that same look now and it was wicked hot. He couldn't deny it. A fun mix of cheekiness and nerves before you cocked your head and, “You know what, fine,”

In a blink, his back was shoved harder against the desk. His hands twisted into your locs, while your mouth wet, hot and slick like honey, like blood enveloped him, turned him inside out and made him want to curl over and actually cry. 

Not cause it felt good or spectacular or amazing but because it was you. Only cause it was you.

Below him you sucked him off like you had something to prove. Like it was a challenge. It would be a crime to look away. To not match rebellion with rebellion, your hatred with his faux indifference while your lips remained dry, your handwork sloppy and your rhythm off. It was honestly the worst blowjob he’s ever had. 

But you were enthusiastic and you looked up at him as if you expected more. Like Hobie was supposed to fall to his knees and thank you. Of course, a flicker of frustration came out when he gave you the opposite: a slick smile and his eyes wide in wonder.

"Leave it to you too give someone an angry blow job," He cocked his head, "Reckon you’re overthinkin’ it, love?” 

You choked in response. Your mouth off his cock and looking as if you were about to spit on the floor before you paused and Hobie watched you swallow instead. Something hot shot in his core.

“Never,” you sneered as if this was just another part of the battle, your own personal fight.  

Hobie just snickered, a gleam in his eyes even as you went still, embarrassment hot on your face. 

“Yeah that's what I guessed," he whispered, before gloved hands gripped your jaw. Tight and restrictive.

“Quick tip? You’re too rough with it love, let me guess didn’t watch enough videos?”  he teased, before he realized where exactly his dick was.

You gave him a sharp smile, "want to repeat that?" No, not particularly. He rolled his shoulders.

“Slow down,” 

“Where's the rush,” he teased before there was a thump and a scream and oh, he guess they've found the bloke's head. Took them long enough. 

If Hobie remembered how hard he kicked it correctly; The fuckers skull was three rooms away with thick walls and flimsy doors in each of them.

His smile turned giddy, "We all the time in the world," 

"Please tell me you're joking," and there it was again, that look.  That need for order and propriety. Hobie patted your cheek.

"What, getting nervous?" Your eyes shot to the door. To the distant footsteps that only got closer to the currently unlocked room. 

"Hobie,"

"Fine," he shot the hinges up with webbing. It wouldn't last. But you didn't need to know that.

"See? Good,"

Quickly, your shoulders relaxed; your nape warm beneath his hand, prickled and covered in sweat till he gripped it harder, guiding you down until your mouth was on him again. He shuddered. 

“Make it wet,” you looked confused, your eyebrows twitching before your mouth went agape and he felt it. 

Something hot and sticky that dripped down his cock. Your lips were now sheen, a messy mix of precum, sweat and everything that would never normally be in a pretty mouth like that. 

Of course, you still managed to glare at him. And yeah nah, he wasn't gonna think about why that made his mouth dry before he angled his hips up and up until the tip of him was at the rim of your lips; he took a deep breath. 

“Grip the desk for me,” 

You frowned again, harder if that was possible. And Hobie couldn't have that. 

"Wh--" in a blink he's already bullied his thumb passed plush lips and sharp teeth. Expertly, rubbing his painted nails against the soft flesh of your cheek until drool and spit slicked down his wrist and, 

"That's wicked," he whispered.

"You’re so fucking pretty like this," You shot him a look. Your eyes still shakingly looking towards the door. The soldiers have gotten louder, they've must've bursted pass the first room. But Hobie only sighed, unbothered

“Is this why you've been so nice to me lately? Been wanting to give me this," he rambled, his eyes back on yours before his smile melted into a smirk. The last thing Osborne ever saw, before his head rolled down the stairs. 

Now, the funny thing about trying to tell a punk what to do was that you shouldn't actually expect them to listen. Osborne learned that the hard way. But you weren’t like the rest of them. No matter what the team said about you turning your back on your upbringing for the cause. You weren’t like them. Clean and simple. 

It was written in the cracks of your face, in the corners of your eyes. That want for order that battled with the need to rebel and make things right. 

 It's probably why you continued to look at him like that; your eyes slitted, red and angry.

You hated it but you wanted it too. Which meant that it took no effort to grip your jaw, keeping it still as you moved to chop your teeth onto his thumb. Light work. 

But it was another thing to dodge the whistle of your studded fist and the gleam of spikes on your knuckles before they're webbed to the dead Pigs desk. You were smart not to try again. Still your face stayed twisted in anger. 

 Hobie couldn't help but laugh again, all sharp teeth and youthful indignation in his voice. 

“I'm not good with mixed signals love, you hate me, you don't, you want to give me a reward about a job well done and then whine about it,” 

“This is still a reward right?” he whispered, his voice deep and molten. It dragged you into a spell, made you nod.  “Good,”

"Now, why don't we start stickin’ to our words, yeah," you made no room to reply, just continued to look up at him with that fire in your eyes that reminded him of madness, of a man whose body could be found in various parts of this makeshift castle. For the first time, Hobies face went stern, his body hands suddenly on your nape gripping tight. 

"Yeah?" He repeated. 

That madness in your eyes only take a moment to flicker, a moment to wick and out before your face twisted again, "Yeah," 

"There we go," 

You made no room to stop him. As his prodded his cock against your lips again, against that slick heat, hellfire, glory, his reward that was found in the tightens of your throat. "Good," 

He gripped the back of your neck tighter. “There we go,” 

“Breathe through your nose,” Then you squeezed your eyes shut, prepared to choke, for Hobie to bruise your throat, for your jaw to ache while he used you like you prepared to use him. 

Then he hummed, like a thrum of his guitar, like the flutter of a hummingbird. It was your only warning before he brought you down, slow, sluggish. He made you feel the weight of him, the way it pressed against your tongue, expanded your throat. 

You couldn’t help it really, the way your eyes closed. The hazy sensation that made your vision blur. Hobie fucked your throat as if he had all the time in the world. As if a world leader wasn’t rotting in the next room. 

And this would be a great time to joke. For Hobie to make you regret bringing him here and not give the secrets to ruining him but nah, this was better. This was more satisfying. Worth the shock in your eyes as you tried to keep them open. Your cunt not so subtly grinding against his boot. 

“Don't look so surprised love” 

“Let me guess, you expected me to go hard?” he whispered, voice ragged.

“Wanted me to bruise your pretty throat?” He dragged himself out again. Withdrew his hips, until your lips were once again at the tip of him. A thick residue of spit left behind.

Good.

Perfect even.

But below him you struggled to remain composed. Your mind was a fog that thickened, and your ears roared with the music that was Hobie Brown. The sounds of his shockwaves still in the air. On a better day, you'd remain aloof. You'd look at hobie with bored eyes and tell him to do his worse.

Clearly, that day wasn't today.

Your eyes were still closed after all, and the taste of him still stained your throat. You wanted more. You wanted-

His hand tightened on your neck. 

“Now when did I say you could do that?”  You blinked up, teary eyed with more of Hobie’s cock in your mouth than he previously allowed.

Suddenly, your cheeks burned and Hobie watched embarrassment wash over you. Watched you drown in it, in an attempt to cover up the desperate move before you just sat there, unable to go forward, unable to move back.  “Cute,” 

And then he jerked forward, cock hitting your throat until tears brimmed in your eyes and well Hobie was only a man at the end of the day. He unwebbed you, “Use your hands wrap them around me,” 

Quickly, you complied. “Yeah love like that,"

You didn’t need further instruction. You continued the slow tempo he set. And for a moment, it stayed like that: you swallowing him with a sloppy mouth and tears in your eyes, your hands now slick with well, everything. Snot, spit and tears. 

He laughed again, a bit more choked up and bit more delirious as your tongue dragged against the undervein of his cock. Sharp pleasure blinded him, he felt like it was too much, not enough. Like his heart was gonna burst from the adrenaline, the heat. 

For a moment, he craved something on his lips too. Something just as hot and slick and you. He reckoned you'd like that. Want to shut him up with your thighs locked around his head and your cunt slick on his studded tongue. If you were gonna do this, you might as well do it right, do it in the worst way possible while Osborne's corpse rotted in the next room. 

Below him, you gripped him tighter. Suckled your lips at the head of him until he shuddered and groaned. His palms slicked in blood gripping right at your face. If he knew this would be the reaction to winning the war— he'd bring Osborne back to life himself. 

Let you watch him kill him again, again and again if it meant you looked at him like that. Like a drunkard, like the feeling he got when he strummed his guitar just right, just perfectly against his pick. Until you were like this: your lips, tight and harsh. Sucking him off as if it was another fight, your eyes red hot with anger and tears.

He was close.

He couldn’t even be embarrassed, if they knew what a pretty picture you made no regular bloke  would be either before he felt it. That liquid hot build up; like something molten that grew and morphed and dripped in his belly before his thighs trembled, his fist cracked the desk and you looked marvelous. 

He tried to draw away, cause he was proper and raised right but he couldn't get far. Not against someone who looked like they wanted to prove something. You started this for a reason after all. So of course, your hands pressed into his hips, kept him still. Fucking brat.

Before the room became an echo chamber of gasps and whines and— he lurched forward, hands on your shoulders, a sharp cry of your name. 

 The orgasm was just as violent as the murder. It ripped through him and rearranged his insides until it felt painful, overwhelming. Like he was stuck in his own shockwave, pulled at the seams, the points of musical notes at his ears. 

Then he whimpered, sharp and inaudible. But it made your eyes glitter all the same before you pulled off him with a satisfying grin as the violence in him transcended to a soft shudder. 

Both of you didn't talk for a minute. Just let everything settle. Until slowly the world trickled back in and Hobie watched half amused and half delirious as across your face, emotions flickered too fast for him to dissect. 

What he did know was that you were looking at him, at the floor and then randomly at the door. Oh yeah, the goons. He should focus on that, but you were still on your knees, looking pretty and fucked out and well Hobie couldn't help it. He suddenly had the taste for something sweet.

"Up, c’mon" 

You looked at him, leg kneeled. "Fuck you,” you coughed, throat dry. “Where do you think I was doing?"

He shook his head, and with little effort, he towered over you. You looked up at him, eyes wide, lips plush and the corner of your mouth twinkling with beads of white and shit, shit. Hobie did not wait for you to get up. 

In a blur of red white and blue, the two of you switched places. It was like carrying a stack of paper, a bag of groceries before you plopped into the desk; your eyes wide, legs spread and cunt wet through your trousers.

 "Hobie come on—"  

His thumb dug into the seam of your jeans, ripped them in two until you were cunt hit cold air. You dripped on the desk. "Don't be selfish,”

“I thought this was a reward,” And then hobie’s tongue was on you, desperate and hot. 

Studded fingers pressed into your hips, digging,digging and  "Hobie, what-”  Hobie pressed you further into the desk. 

His tongue was slick and sticky against your folds. The pleasure that was white and hot grinded you to a halt. Your brain morphed into mush. You weren't going to last. This, you can admit with a certainty as your thighs wrapped around hobie’s head anyway. 

You looked towards the door, but Hobie with his freakishly long arms gripped your jaw and forced your eyes back on him. Pay attention, they said. Until your eyes went wide, frantic; and your hips fought the battle of jerking away from Hobie and against him while he flicked your clit; his finger prodding against your entrance. 

It's almost embarrassing how fast you came.

Even worse how you tried to hide it. With teeth the bit into your wrist, and moans that you tried to choke down while your hips moved on him with a grind that only made it worst, made it last.

You grunted and swore, the flat palms of your hand slammed into the desk. Once twice and then Hobie got up, looked at you splayed out on Osbornes desk, jeans pooled to your knees, the hairs of your cunt glistening. 

"Good?”

With a gasp, you could only focus on the sound of the door as the screams of soldiers bulged against the doors frames. 

Your blood was pulsing but you couldn’t feel your throat. Couldn’t feel the scratches and bruises that later you won't be able to tell was from Hobie or from the fight. 

The wooden door bent beneath the weight of the army. Before eventually it popped and you threw the spider a smile. 

“Good,”

[the-kr8tor]

Hii, i have gone through all your ffs love them ❤️❤️, i got this video on my fyp and it just made me think of hobie. https://vm.tiktok.com/ZGJnnLQDt/ It could be a us babysitting kinda thing

Hello, angel! Thank you for requesting ❤️

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-punk x fem! Reader

Synopsis: you and Hobie play pretend with Mayday's toys.

Tags: no use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, cw food mentions, FLUFF.

It's Fluffy Friday!

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

Finally putting Mayday down for an afternoon nap, you stretch your tired arms from carrying the toddler a bit too long. Walking towards the living room you hear Hobie cleaning up Mayday's toys.

"What is Peter feeding that kid? I swear she keeps growing every time we babysit" you stop in your tracks when you see Hobie casually scooping up fake ice cream into a plastic cone. He sits criss crossed on the carpeted floor, in front of him is the plastic ice cream stall.

The toy is from Peter's dimension, Hobie's curious at how the fake ice cream sticks to the plastic scoop with ease, And how it stays on top of the plastic cone without it falling. He whispers a question to no one, 'magnets?' The toys look tiny in his hand.

You giggle, "can I order uh, chocolate with sprinkles"

Hobie immediately plays with the bit, "we don't have sprinkles, just plain chocolate on a cone" he plays the part of a disgruntled employee, Hobie says his line flatly.

You stifle laugh, "fine, three scoops of plain chocolate, please" you sit in front of the toy ice cream stall, Hobie holds the plastic scooper in his hand.

"No three scoops, just one or two" He points at the stall, various 'flavours' of ice cream are displayed in pairs.

"What kind of ice cream shop only offers one to two scoops?"

"There's a dairy crisis" he says the sentence so matter-of-factly, you can't help but guffaw at his straight face.

"A dairy crisis?!" You play along, Hobie cracks a small smile.

"Yeah, and our CEO's lactose intolerant, he doesn't let anyone have their fun. Also he's a wanker for being a capitalist pig" he spits out the last word with so much malice.

You laugh loudly, covering your mouth with your hand so that Mayday wouldn't wake up from the noise. "Two scoops then, in a cup please" you say in between laughs, there's tears in your eyes from all the laughing.

"We don't have bloody cups!" Hobie gestures towards the toddler sized stall, "do you see any cups here?!" Hobie plays his part well. If not for the small smile he has, you would've thought he was actually mad.

You wipe the tiny tears welling in your eyes, "okay" wheeze "okay" giggle "um two chocolate in a cone, please" you manage to let out.

Hobie scoops the ice cream angrily, plastic thumping against plastic. "Here" he hands the toy sundae in your hands.

"Thank you," your laugh finally subsides, clearing your throat. You act, patting your imaginary pockets for your wallet. "Ah, I think I forgot my wallet at home" you smirk at him, "do you take kisses instead?"

Hobie finally cracks, laughing deeply. "Little shit, come 'ere" He lifts his arms up towards you. You scooch, closing in the small distance between you.

Hobie cradles your cheek, thumb grazing your lips before he leans in. You feel his lopsided smile through the kiss, you sigh, looping your arm around the back of his head, the fake sundae in your hand almost stabs him on the cheek.

You pull away breathlessly, "whoops" pecking the side of his face as an apology. "I'm gonna have to report you to management for the bad service" you joke, peppering kisses all over his jaw.

"Snitch" he whispers with a lovestruck grin.

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

Thank you for reading! Please consider reblogging if you enjoyed it ❤️

[anarchistfrogposting]

I don't consider myself an anarchist but i'm pretty sympathetic, there's just some stuff i'm not sure yet would work well under anarchism as i understood it after reading the bread book.

What would incentivize people to work, for example, at oil rigs away from their communities doing dangerous work?

Would it be that they'd have a smaller expectation for how long they're suposed to work? Like, instead of you working 9-5 for 8 months instead you work 9-5 for 4 months and then can just do things you like the rest of the year?

Yes hi hello! This post re-emerged from the depths of accidental deletion!! I’m getting the bus to go get a burrito so let me talk about this one!!

Kropotkin actually talked about dangerous work; after all, some work is just inherently and unavoidably a bit more dangerous than others: so what’s the point? Why bother?

To start, resource extraction is going to be inherent to any industrial economy, but it’s worth pointing out that when you eliminate a lot of overproduction, an inefficiency inherent to capitalist economy, the demand for extraction is going to shoot down in a big way. That’s a big reason why a lot of the more hardcore environmentalist movements have been radical leftist ones; it’s features inherent to capitalism which are bringing about the downfall of the environment which sustains us.

Another big consideration to make is that a lot of the danger of these fields arises solely because the demands of the profit motive incentivise management to overwork/underpay/cut back on or wholesale eliminate critical safety measures; there’s a reason why unions and collectives in those fields are such critical players in the constant battle to keep people safe.

There are quite a few fields in the domestic/public sector, as well (think electricians, certain waste management professions etc.) which are (and were more so in the past) fairly dangerous but are not generally regarded as such because they’re regulated well in the public domain/have very strong unions/have otherwise strong safety regulation.

This stuff gets safer and safer as we improve the automation of our economy, as well.

It’s worth remembering as well that those remote professions and operations are, in a way, their own communities, as well, and for some people travelling long distances away for more lonesome work is quite an attractive prospect; I once knew a geologist who said he found the relative isolation quite peaceful. My great grandad did some remote mining and he always talked quite positively about it when I knew him (although this is very anecdotal - if anybody in the field wants to weigh in I’d be more than happy to hear what you think).

About hours as well;

If there’s no profit motive, then industrial processes are going to be driven by how to do them as safely, efficiently, and easily (among other stuff). The demand for hours is going to be a lot less tough because you’re going to be able to have more workers and source better equipment without worrying about how it will cut into your bottom line; so yes, the hours will be shorter and the shifts less demanding, with a greater support network and safety network when shit hits the fan. All of this, of course, makes this kind of work a lot more attractive.

But what about dangerous work in general? Why would anyone put themselves in danger?

You just have to look at the tremendous danger that volunteers face to understand that humans don’t really need a profit motive to put their lives on the line to better their communities and the world, or to feel part of something greater than themselves. Not everyone is going to want to do that, and that’s ok, but some people really derive a lot of happiness and fulfilment from dangerous work.

Humanity is flexible and diverse; working together to champion that is our strength, and it always has been.

[theriverbeyond]

Love your post about Gideon inadvertently breaking John's pattern of lashing out when she can't be used, and it made me wonder- what would John keeping the home fires burning for the Earth have looked like?

omg ty so much! ok so. things John could do to keep the home fires burning:

(tell the world) STOP (the war) the nuclear standoff. put those things away!!! better yet. destroy them.

let the trillionares go. they did it. it's done. your home is still here and can still be saved. let them go!!!!!!

MORE THAN THAT. if all the rich capitalists are the ones who ruined so many things, and now a bunch of them are GONE, then a lot of their influence is also gone!!! the oligarchs are gone baybey!!! John could step into the power vacum they left and force the hands of governments to like, do good things. force them to give everyone food and healthcare and stop fossil fuels. he could be a climate influencer online to dramatically influence the greater culture, instead of just doing that weird necro cult shit on twitch.

John cracked the code with the death of C--, and drank a BUNCH of deaths at the compound, so he Understands now. he wouldn't end up as powerful as he did when he Ate Alecto, but he cracked the code when he saw (& grabbed) the soul. this means he likely could...

BRING BACK HIS FRIENDS!!! The bodies are still there and he is literally holding the souls. bring them back and put the souls inside. they keep him sane and they love him and they have ideas

FEED EVERYONE. a big problem he mentioned was the planet running out of resources, but you're the lifedeath guy now. you cracked the CODE!!! it is time to go full jesus on the world. make wine from water and more bread from just one bread. take a fish and make it 100 fish. take an oil spill and turn it into nutrients for the fish. etc.

USE his new deathlife powers to do other things like, fix the oceans. fix the ozone. transform the big piles of garbage into something more readily taken by the sea. plant new sequioas and giant cacti and then accelerate their growth by 1000 years so they can provide for all their living things. inject biodiversity into endangered species and prevent their deaths by boats and deforestation etc. Yeah some of them might be teeth mutants, but when god sings with his creations, will a tooth mutant not be part of the choir?

to be evil but for the greater good, John could also kill and then puppet other world leaders and then more aggressively force institutional climate change, and end things like overfishing and Shein. i don't know if he is politically smart enough to finesse this but idk if he had his friends it could be a group effort. yeah he would still be one shade of evil dictator but it could NOT be worse than exploding the solar system.

i think the last point especially, like. in general, not exploding the world would be better than exploding the world. he could have done kind of a bad job of keeping the home fires burning and it would have still been way better than what he DID, which was kill everyone else and then himself

[the-bramble--patch]

I’ve been seeing a few posts on minimalism going around, one being @bisquitt’s post on sustainability and minimalism—how the two terms shouldn’t be conflated, and how real sustainability is about anti-capitalism in the forms of reuse, repair, and community interdependence. Another is @allstrangeandwonderful’s post on how Minimalism is an aesthetic based around coping in the "corporate hellscape" we live in—contemporary designers gravitate towards neutral colors as a respite from the warlike corporate use of color to catch the attention of a consumer (See Mina Le's video on this concept also. She offers up a few possible reasons for this trend towards "greige" interiors, one being the inundation from advertising we experience in our everyday lives).

I wanted to talk about these concepts and tie in some other things I’ve been seeing around.

Imo, minimalism is anti-consumerist, but not anti-capitalist. The lifestyle and aesthetic is intended to address the systemic problem of living in a consumerist society on an individual level. Instead of ending the capitalist system that thrusts consumerism on us all, it suggests that minimalists create a safe space away from consumerism. It is not interested in changing the system, only the individual. What really drove this home for me was watching The Financial Diet on YouTube interview The Minimalists, the guys who kicked off the trend. She keeps trying to ask them about the underlying issues Minimalism acts as a band-aid for, and they keep dodging her questions.

The lifestyle choices bisquitt offers up as sustainable are typically lumped under the umbrella of Solarpunk: “fixing shit around your house. thrifting. patching clothes and handing them down. a community garden. potluck dinner parties. farmer’s markets. a barter system among friends and neighbors. kindness. love among community members.“ These things do not conform to the minimalist aesthetic tenets of order, function, and simplicity. They are often vibrant, mismatched, and chaotic, messy even (see my post on solarpunk aesthetics here). This is because solarpunk aims to solve the same issues minimalism does, but on a societal level. Solarpunk is working towards a utopian future of degrowth, where the forces that Minimalism is in opposition to will no longer exist. This allows for everyday people to reclaim vibrancy from corporations. That busyness is only desirable in a world where capitalism isn't such a burden. Solarpunk advocates for simplicity in all but design, instead of the other way around.

Another thing is the separation between meaning and function present in Minimalism. Minimalism is often associated with deriving pleasure from experiences, not things. The physical space is deprioritized (I know the movement is about changing the physical space, but the idea is that the physical space just makes your life more efficient) for a kind of zen outlook about mind over matter. Solarpunk is much more holistic in its recognition that inner peace comes from a play between the external and internal worlds—from connection and respect for people, things, and resources. Instead of removing meaning and beauty from a space to prioritize the mind, Solarpunk instills it, to elicit interaction with the world instead of a retreat from it. Thus, Solarpunk rolls meaning and function into one: a visibly mended shirt is both functional (the hole is gone), and meaningful (it says much more about the politics of the wearer than one mended invisibly). Another example is the bottle walls commonly used in Earthships: Making the bottles visible is beautiful, and it communicates that the builder is interested in using sustainable material.

In short, minimalism is individualist while Solarpunk is collectivist, and the aesthetics of each reflect that. Retreating from a broken society will not fix said society. Sustainability needs to be solved on a societal level, so minimalism as a solution to overconsumption just isn't gonna cut it.

[eyesxxyou]

dilf Hobie this, nerd loser Hobie that...

How about normal Hobie letting you hang out on his boat, making it your second home, your stuff littered around?

A friends of his spots you bra: "ah? this? thi' 's jus' my lady's. ignore tha'."

How about normal Hobie rambling to you about the government fucking everyone over while you make dinner together?

Normal Hobie stealing shit for you that you said you liked, normal Hobie handcrafting little gifts for you, a necklace, a lighter, a tamagotchi, and acting like it's no big deal when he gives it to you because he doesn't know how to act otherwise?

How about normal Hobie writing you songs, but they're all lyricless because he believes that lyrics about love are cheesy and don't stand the test of time quite like plain music does?

How about normal Hobie fucking you before a show and stuffing your panties in his back pocket, a little bit hanging out like some sick trophy to show off to his audience?

How about normal Hobie telling you all about the idea of soulmates being a concept made up by the capitalist propaganda to sell people more shit, especially on valentine's day, while getting matching stick and pokes on said day?

How about normal Hobie and you drinking at a pub, laughing about something that wasn't even funny while others look at you like you're high? (you probably are too)

How about normal Hobie telling you all about how good you are for him while you help him treat his wounds? his hands trying to reach your face, probably litter it with kisses, while you try to keep them away until you finish your job.

How about normal Hobie keeping an arm around you at all times to show that you're his? he's not doing it because he's jealous, hell no, he wants others to be.

How about normal Hobie giving you free piercings? the septum that you always wanted? give him 10 minutes. the belly piercing that you thought would sorta fit one outfit you have? don't need to ask twice. those nipple piercings that you find cute? he's so absolutely gonna help them get hard before piercing them, kissing you to keep your mind occupied from the pain.

How about just normal Hobie in general? our boy deserves so much love, let's not forget about him.

thank you for coming to my TED talk 😇 - 💡

NORMAL HOBIE IS SUPERIOR TO ALL OTHER TYPES. HE IS THEIR MOTHER. GIVE ME MORE REGULAR HOBIE

[jack-kellys]

so i am gonna talk abt the delanceys. and i don’t want that to make you scroll away at the speed of light. i want to talk about them in a broader sense, view them in a broader sense, in the way that we talk about jack and his existential need to leave where he is for the west- and, further, going into analysis, like how “the west” in america in the 1890s is a capitalist venture that is sold to jack as this idea of a new home, a better way to live, something that he needs, when the real home is new york with his chosen family and where no one needs to call him “son”.

i think what matters most in the world of the delanceys, and what puts them into a nuanced political stance as well as a personal one, is their father, the striking trolley worker.

i think it’s fair to assume that as a striking worker demanding better wages, as a union member, he deserves those wages. it’s good that he’s striking, that he’s demanding what he’s owed and doing so with his fellow workers. strikers are the right people to support especially based on the historical context of the trolley strike.

but this guy is… an asshole. he dumped these two children into the refuge and left them there to rot, presumably. there’s a possibility he didn’t know about how abusive snyder is, sure, but he knew it was a detention center and that’s not… where u put ur kids when u care abt them lmao.

so this man is a striking trolley worker who doesn’t give a shit about his own children. he’s an underpaid union member who deserves his dues but also lets his two sons suffer for years alone in a children’s jail. he fights the system to his benefit while submitting his two kids into a different one. the dichotomy is important here- it’s essential to the foil the delanceys are for the newsies.

the delanceys are strike breakers. strike breakers are, obviously, paid under the table to disperse union-led strikes and protests to uphold a system that benefits the rich- who of course will always benefit from underpaid work. the delanceys take money from this upheld system when they get the opportunity and beat strikers bloody who don't get to benefit from this system like they do. because they do benefit from that elitist system, since they are choosing to make money off of it outside of their usual job. right.

but within those strikers is their father. the father who left them to rot, who let wiesel scrape them out of that jail and enlist them at a dead-end newspaper gig. so the brothers hate this father, this striker, this piece of family. and this father is making all this noise with these other people- these people who support their father as his coworkers and fellow union members, and the delancey brothers' leave that strike with their fists red with more blood than solely their father's, since they're angry and good at it and the money is hefty.

and their childhood is semi-revenged, but at what ethical cost? they've served broken bones to plenty of workers just trying to fight for their fair pay- something that the delanceys can relate to, by the way, since it isn't like their wages are too stellar for how many hours they're forced to put in. but they put down these people--innocent sans their father--because they have the opportunity. opportunity for them is bringing others down, and when they have the choice, they take it. gladly. "it's honest work" is shrugged off and believed. "i take care of the guy who takes care of me" is snide. uk costuming has them wearing nicer work coats over their newsie-like attire, concealing their similarities and choosing to align themselves more with the elite, since that's...the only protection they can turn to besides each other. the elite gets them extra pay, and keeps them one rung above the newsies to sneer down at them from. they fight via using the system, since systems are all they've ever been apart of, and when they see one that might benefit them for once, they latch onto it.

and, of course, they're strike breaking again, with adult men and their uncle at their side, against their personal foils- the newsies.

the newsies either don't have family like the delanceys, or frequently have to be apart from theirs. lots of them don't have a sibling they can return to daily, or any at all. most don't have parents or family members. or homes to go back to after work. the system they are stuck in is one that does not work for them unless they make it work, making their own numbers and cash by gambling how many papers they can sell in a day to earn every cent back and then some. creating a system within a system--whereas the delanceys mold themselves into one that exists, again, to the elite's benefit--to survive.

and then, the newsies and their chosen family of brothers choose to revolt against their system in an attempt to dismantle it, or at the very least negotiate it.

and the delanceys' reaction to this, to another strike, to a group of kids going against their system (of which would benefit oscar and morris to join, tbh, unless they don't classify as "working kids" of the city, perhaps putting them at around 18 years old...)?

disdain and more snide comments! "not that i'm complaining, my skull busting arm could use a day of rest" "you working, or trespassing?/what's your pleasure?" and putting pressure on scabs to keep with the system- specifically more with uksies, oscar and morris are sort of dusting tommy boy off and whispering to him. trying to split apart the family the newsies have made with each other. and then ofc they beat the actual shit out of the newsies and in uk they have bats they are full on swinging, whole shoulder into it. you did not uphold this system, and it will destroy you for it.

and it nearly does, because then jack scabs, right? and oscar and morris are in pulitzer's office as the man talks jack through the deal, through the cash. as he must've to oscar and morris earlier that week about strike breaking the newsies. and all three of them all have these nearly matching bruises and cuts on their faces.

and then all three of them go to the cellar, the lowest floor of the elite. together the three of them are in this location with this context. two strikebreakers and a scab. taking the elite's money for their benefit, be it in a moment of fear, resignation, or greed. all the oldest kids in the play, the three who've seen the scars and rips and tears in this world more than any of the others. and for like twenty seconds of stage time jack oscar and morris are the same brand. until of course oscar and morris punch into jack's gut--since they're only "given discretion to handle him as they see fit" if he misbehaves, which jack hasn't, so they punch where people won't see/check--and remind him that he's still below them (literally shoving him to the floor ofc), that they're still closer to the elite.

and yeah, they are, because later, jack again refuses the system, and tosses the money back on the table after rebelling against his terms. in true foil fashion, once jack recognizes that his actions align that which he needs to destroy, he renounces them, while the delanceys remain on the other side of the coin they share with jack.

the delanceys, as a storytelling device, right, are meant to represent what the newsies could fall to, seen with the three initial scabs and then jack in act ii. they are this constant threat of sort of equal size to the newsies through the whole show, always kinda lurking. always being a possibility to become if the newsies ever forget what they fight for and against.

also, jack is....kind of.... like their dad, in their perspective. he's parental with the newsies, he leads them, guides them, and protects them, as well as constantly getting the better of the delanceys. why should someone like a father get to fight the system again? not on their fucking watch.

i think it's pretty clear that oscar and morris are meant to represent corruption on the small scale, thematically, while pulitzer is corruption at the top- since it all trickles down. and i think it's really important that this motif is consistently upheld within the brothers, since it sort of alters the message of the show to at least drastically change that abt them. they are the nearest branch of corruption to the newsies guys. that is so fucking cool