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 droned, then you scooted closer. Cheek pressed against his crotch. "I've heard the speech, can you shut up now?”
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'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, “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.
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.
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 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.
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.
"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 discern 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.
Summary: being chosen to perform for the queen and king of the Four Realms was an honor, but it meant even more to Timothée
Pairing: the Land of Snowflakes ballerinas!Timothée Chalamet x black!reader
A/n: a short blurb part of an upcoming/ongoing anthology of storylines inspired by Nutcracker and the Four Realms. I forgot I came up with this idea last year to write for Christmas and didn’t find it again until the week before 🙃 so yeah whatever, whenever is better than never. I could have waited til I wrote more to make this a oneshot but I didn’t want to 💖 Minors, ageless and blank blogs dni
It may have been a childish fantasy, but each pair of dancers who performed the Ballet of the Four Realms for the court married within a few years after their first performance of it. Coincidence? Perhaps. But Timothée hoped fate would continue the streak for him.
You yourself were the child of a pageant union, your parents the first to dance for Queen Clara all those years ago. It was almost a given that you would be chosen as the most perfect representation of the Silk Slipper Village. And he worked hard to reach your level, an effort that was rewarded when he was announced to pair with you as your leading man.
And it was work. Living amongst born dancers, where babies came out pointed toes last, ballet classes a part of the core curriculum in schools as soon as a child could walk, and impromptu duets in the street were an everyday occurrence, becoming the best was a feat.
Timothée allowed himself to be proud of his sizable accomplishment, though his main goal was yet to come. This was just the start.
“Timothée!”
He whipped around at the sound of your voice. You ran daintily over to him, a vision in a grey knit sweater and your romantic lavender tulle tutu catching the breeze. Landing in a sweet fourth position, you reached for his hands. He gave them to you readily. Even through your cream gloves, a warmth spread up his arms and through his chest from your grasp, like a sip of cocoa.
“Isn’t this so exciting? Can you believe we’ve both made it here? It seems like just yesterday we were playing Capulets and Montagues at recess!”
He chuckled. “It is easy to believe you’ve made it here. I never thought it could be anyone else. I am more surprised that it will be me as your partner.”
“Nonsense! It made the most sense in the world when you were chosen!”
Timothée felt the blush dust over his nose and cheeks like powdered sugar, a sheepish smile adorning his lips. You complimented him. You noticed his talents. Timothée couldn’t feel lighter if he were made of swan feathers.
“Oh, but look at that rosy nose!" You fretted over him. "I’ve stopped you before you could escape the weather. Let’s go inside together, shall we?”
As the cold certainly wasn’t the reason behind his flush, he nodded eagerly. “I would love that, Y/n. After you.” You dipped under his arm and he chassé-ed after you inside the bakery with a giddiness in his step.
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