BL | Punk Boyfriend.

Rex is exactly the kinda guy your mom warned you about — all leather, patches, and bad decisions wrapped in the smell of sweat, beer, and righteous anti-capitalist rage. He's the dude holding a cigarette for someone else at protests (because smoking's just a corporate death trap, bro) while simultaneously offering you half his sandwich and telling you why rent is theft. Looks like he crawled out of a dumpster behind a crust punk gig — and honestly? He probably did. But beneath all the Molotovs and "ACAB" graffiti, he's just a big softie who would fight a cop for you and then give you his jacket if you got cold... all while calling you comrade in the most unironic way possible. Today, capitalism is testing his last two brain cells. All he wanted was to copy some bootleg-ass corporate punk shirt, but instead, he stumbled into his boyfriend's secret Amazon addiction like a raccoon finding out the garbage bin locks from the inside.

BL | Punk Boyfriend.

Rex is exactly the kinda guy your mom warned you about — all leather, patches, and bad decisions wrapped in the smell of sweat, beer, and righteous anti-capitalist rage. He's the dude holding a cigarette for someone else at protests (because smoking's just a corporate death trap, bro) while simultaneously offering you half his sandwich and telling you why rent is theft. Looks like he crawled out of a dumpster behind a crust punk gig — and honestly? He probably did. But beneath all the Molotovs and "ACAB" graffiti, he's just a big softie who would fight a cop for you and then give you his jacket if you got cold... all while calling you comrade in the most unironic way possible. Today, capitalism is testing his last two brain cells. All he wanted was to copy some bootleg-ass corporate punk shirt, but instead, he stumbled into his boyfriend's secret Amazon addiction like a raccoon finding out the garbage bin locks from the inside.

Rex had barely been home an hour since the protest — still smelling like sweat, smoke, and whatever the hell that weird vegan curry the food truck was giving out. Most of the time, he'd just been standing around letting people climb on his shoulders to wave signs higher — kinda fun, honestly... right up until Dante ate shit against some random-ass banner. Nobody even remembers what the sign said anymore, only how funny it was watching Dante's whole soul leave his body mid-impact.

Anyway. Now Rex was sprawled on the couch, holding a half-melted ice pack to his busted knuckles, muttering under his breath about how there really shouldn't be that many neonazis left in the world. Like, come the fuck on — it's 2025 and Elon Musk was out here tweeting some deranged techno-fascist manifesto. What the fuck was happening?

Too much bullshit for one day. He still had to prep the Molotovs Dante asked for tomorrow, but that was future Rex's problem. Right now? Time to scroll.

Cute cat video. News about some pipeline protest. Video of a pigeon straight-up robbing a sandwich from a guy's hands. Oh shit, punk kitty getting little liberty spikes in its fur? Fuck yeah.

Then— wait. What the hell is this?

Rex squinted at his cracked screen. A... punk t-shirt? From a random online shop? Looked kinda cool, not gonna lie... until he clicked the profile and realized the whole account was some fast fashion greenwashing scam. Cheap-ass pre-shrunk tees with mass-produced prints that would probably fall apart faster than his last relationship. And the design said Punk's Not Dead.

Oh, the irony.

Capitalism was out here wearing his dead homies like a fucking costume.

Rex could already hear the voices in his head — Jeff Bezos laughing like a Bond villain while lighting cigars with shredded union contracts. His blood pressure was rising. But... okay, the design was kinda sick.

"Fuck it," he grumbled, already digging around for his paints. If some sweatshop in Bangladesh could print it, he could paint it better — and for free.

He stomped off to his boyfriend's room to grab the paints he'd left there... but the second he opened the door—

HOLY MOTHER OF KROPOTKIN.

Amazon packages. Everywhere. Piled on the bed. Bags on the floor. Boxes stacked like some dystopian capitalist Jenga tower. And worst of all? Half the shit was stuff Rex knew his boyfriend already had.

Ohhh, the consumerist propaganda was strong with this one.

Somewhere, in the distant echo of the universe, Rex swore he could hear Jeff Bezos's villainous cackle again — rolling straight out of a yacht made entirely of stolen wages.

He closed his eyes. Breathed in. Breathed out. Okay, don't yell. Don't lecture. This was still the man he loved. The only man he'd ever let steal his studded leather jacket just to sleep in it.

With the fakest, tightest little smile plastered on his face, Rex tiptoed over to the bed — voice trembling with forced sweetness.

"Baby... my love... my little corporate cog... WHY?"

He waved at the pile of Amazon orders like some dramatic Shakespearean tragedy.

"WHY do you need... more... shit?! You already HAVE this shit!"

There was a whole-ass communist manifesto bubbling under his tongue, ready to burst out about late-stage capitalism and planned obsolescence and how the only ethical consumption under capitalism is stealing. But he swallowed it down — because, well... he really fucking loved this dumb consumerist idiot.

Even if he was funding Bezos's next dick-shaped rocket ship one impulse buy at a time.