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tropes-and-tales · 1 year ago

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Dyin' for a Taste

Day 11: Face Sitting (Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x F!Reader)

(For the 2023 Kinktober event that I created on my own because I am boring and basic and am trying to keep it simple this year...found here!)

CW: Idiots in love; pining; smut (oral, f!receiving); 18+ only.

Word Count: 4096

AN: This was requested by an anonymous person!

AN2: When I say this is not edited, please know it is NOT EDITED. Full of typos and sloppy typing. Tropes is a fat-fingered old crone.

It starts with a joke.

The 141 is on a covert ops in the mountains. It’s cold—the sort of cold that burns, that makes the bones ache. You’re posted up in a perch, your sniper’s rifle at the ready if shit goes south. The rest of the team is in the square below, waiting for the drop.

“My bollacks are gonna freeze off,” Soap complains over the comms, and you snort at the whining tone in his soft Scottish brogue.

“Shoulda dressed for the weather,” you reply. “Ghost probably has a spare balaclava.”

“And cover this handsome face?”

“Won’t be so handsome when your nose turns black from frostbite.”

You hear the tsch noise he makes over the comms, the very Soap, very Scottish noise of dismissal.

“You’ll have to sit on my face then, hen, and warm me back up,” he says.

You’re rarely stunned into silence—you and the guys are always making off-color jokes—but when you open your mouth to reply, you only gape wordlessly. The silence over the comms grows, expands, until Gaz—fucking Gaz—chimes in.

“I think she’s into the idea, bruv.”

And you can’t respond to that fast enough either, which leaves another long beat of silence over the comms, which likely seems like enough of an answer.

-----

The mission goes smoothly. The team splits up as planned to avoid drawing attention. You don’t see Soap again until a few days later when you regroup at HQ.

You think, perhaps, that he’s forgotten. Maybe that’d be better. You and Soap get along well, and sometimes he flirts with you, but he flirts with everyone. It means nothing.

And yet…

And yet, it’s Soap. You might be able to lie to others, but you can’t lie to yourself: you’ve spent many a lonely night with your thoughts drifting to him. Turning him over and over in your mind.

Soap MacTavish. Handsome, almost unbearably so. He could be a cocky asshole, be the sort of man who knows he’s hot and be insufferable about it, but he’s gregarious. Friendly. He’s a happy-go-lucky sort of man—or as much as someone in the One-Four-One can be.

-----

“Been avoiding me.”

It’s a statement, not a question. Soap corners you in the mess hall, his blue eyes peering at you without guile. He looks almost concerned.

“I haven’t,” you reply. You try to shift past him, but he puts a hand out against the doorway, bars you with his arm.

“You have.” He peers at you closer, his blue eyes somber. “What’s wrong?”

“Why would anything be wrong?”

You thought, perhaps, that he’d forgotten…but those somber eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles, then smooth out as he schools his expression.

“Maybe you think my offer was wrong,” he says.

“I never said that.” You duck under his arm, but he lays his hand on your shoulder and stills you again.

“You’ve never said anything about it.” You don’t look at him, but you hear his gentle snort of laughter. “Your silence is deafening.”

You feel your face start to heat up because he’s not wrong. Too much time has passed now to address that moment in the mountains. You should have said something then, spat out some rejoinder to signal that it meant nothing to you, that it was just another dumb joke between you and Soap. But something about that dumb joke conjures up the mental image of you and Soap, and your face burns in embarrassment.

So you duck from his light grip on your shoulder and it makes him laugh again, then call out to your retreating form, “the offer still stands, hen.”

-----

A month passes, then another. You get leave for a few weeks and go someplace warm, a beach with golden sand and soft breezes where you can relax and forget the horrors of what you see every day.

Then you’re back on base, then another mission. Over and over, the same routine.

Through it all: Soap MacTavish, the team’s Golden Retriever. Always with an easy grin on his handsome face, a laugh, a joke. He teases Ghost, he does a passable impression of Captain Price. He gives Gaz a hard time about their rival rugby teams, but it’s always good-natured.

He jokes with you, but that joke—the one about sitting on his face—becomes just a joke between the two of you. You don’t know if the other men have forgotten it, but Soap only brings it up when you’re alone now.

At the barracks, in the rec room, he’s sprawled out on the couch and half-dozing, half-watching a rugby match. When you walk past, he notices, sits up. Beckons you over, tells you to have a seat…then thoughtfully strokes his face with that damned smirk and comically waggling eyebrows.

“You’re a jackass,” you call out as you leave the room, but by now, it makes you laugh…and it lightly stokes that ever-burning flame low in your belly.

-----

Another time, he sidles up to you at the range as you study your targets with their tight formation of bullet holes. He points out one shot, high in the corner of the paper, off of the concentric circles of the bullseye.

“Missed one,” he says.

You scoff. “One out of….many.”

He matches your scoff with one of his own. “Might be losing your edge.”

“I’m not.” You know he’s winding you up, but that missed shot galls you.

“Maybe you’re stressed out.”

You set the target down on the wooden railing. “Maybe you’re stressing me out, MacTavish.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. His blue eyes light up in glee, and he only gets out the first part of his retort—You know what’s good for de-stressing—before you drop to one knee and start disassembling your sniper rifle, ducking your head and hiding your burning cheeks from him.

“…nothing wrong with it,” he finishes as you shut the rifle’s case, and you realize you’ve missed part of what he’s said.

“There isn’t,” you agree. You stand up and lean a bit on the courage that sees you through each mission. You look him square in the eye and add, “but you’re just flirting.”

He gazes back at you, a soft smile on his face, only a little teasing. “Not just flirting.”

“Sure.” You roll your eyes.

He makes his Soap-branded tsch sound, then he loops his arm around your shoulders to pull you in close. He smells like…well, he smells like soap, clean with a hint of something herbal. It’s nothing he hasn’t done a hundred times—in safe houses after a mission, walking out of a bar on a night out with the team—that companionable way he pulls you against him.

“It makes me sad when you don’t believe me, hen,” he chuckles, and it’s low, right by your ear, his warm breath fanning over you.

You’re not sure what spurs your next move. You’re a natural-born sniper; you take the measure of everything around you—the curve of the earth, the speed and direction of the wind—before you squeeze your trigger. You’re the same with people, cautious and feeling out every angle of their intentions before you make a move. But you know Soap, and the question around his joke is the only uncertainty.

Something makes you act without much thought. Your rifle case in your hand, your other hand tucked in your pocket, and Soap’s arm slung around your shoulders…the moment is crystalized, will be an easy memory to recall in the years to come because this is when everything between the two of you changes.

“You know what?” you ask, and you don’t allow him to hazard a guess. Instead, you gaze at him levelly, straight into those bright blue eyes of his and add, “alright, let’s do this.”

It’s comical, how the smile drops from his face, how his mouth makes a little “oh” of surprise. His eyes scan your face, quick, like he’s trying to find the joke, trying to find proof you’re just having a laugh at his expense.

“Bonnie,” he starts to say, and his voice has a rough edge to it. His voice is missing its usual teasing edge, and he pauses to study you. You don’t know if he realizes it, but the tip of his tongue darts out, licks against his lower lip, like he’s really thinking of it now that it could be a reality.

“Bonnie, are you just…are ye fer real?” His voice is lower and his accent gets thicker, and it sets a frisson of heat shimmering through your lower belly.

You refuse to blink. Refuse to look away. “I’m for real if you are.”

“I was never joking about that.”

“Then I’m not joking either.” You swing your rifle case towards the barracks, playing at bravery but willing the fluttery feeling in your stomach to calm. “So let’s go.”

Soap—gregarious, convivial Soap—says nothing else on the walk back. He keeps his arm around your shoulders, though, and his hand settles against your bicep, rubs you briskly before gently holding you there, like he’s proving to himself that you’re real, that the moment is really happening.

-----

Your nerve wobbles a little when you get back to quarters. Soap’s nerves must have a similar wobble, because he turns to you and his usual boyish grin is gone, replaced by a grave expression.

“You dinnae have to do this,” he says, “if you don’t want to.”

Part of you wants to back out, chuck him in the arm and say it was just a joke. You could still back out. Soap is flirty and gregarious, but hooking up would irrevocably change your easy relationship with him. It could change the tenor of the team. And yet…

…don’t you both face death every day? Don’t you see the absolute worst of humanity? Don’t your bodies bear the scars of your hard, unrelenting lives—countless scars, visible and invisible both? Don’t you all operate in your own bubbles of loneliness, sleeping alone night after night but crowded out by the ghosts you all haul around?

Is it too much to ask for even a moment of connection, of not feeling alone?

You gaze back at him. Sweet Johnny MacTavish. Handsome but not vain, smart but not aloof, funny without being cruel about his teasing. Is there anyone you’d rather be with?

“I want to do this,” you tell him, and there’s no hesitation in your tone. “If you do. If you really were just joking around, then no harm, Johnny.”

His somber gaze softens at your use of his real name. “Wasn’t joking at all.” Then he opens the door to his quarters and turns to you, invites you in with a sweep of his hand, and when you walk past him, he lays his palm on your lower back to guide you.

-----

In truth, you’ve never actually sat on anyone’s face. It’s one of those funny sex acts that you joke around about but have never gotten around to, like sixty-nine (always seemed more complicated than necessary) or food-play (always seemed too messy).

Soap, it turns out, has never actually had his face sat on.

And it’s adorable, how he sheepishly runs his hand through the longer stripe of his short-shorn hair and admits as much.

“Figured it cannae be that complicated though,” he says. He huffs out a breath, and you realize how nervous he must be, and it gives you courage to take charge.

“Kiss me first. Then we can figure it out from there.”

The tame command makes his face light up and he murmurs, “yes, ma’am” in his brogue, and then he does as you say.

If Soap MacTavish is generally the team’s Golden Retriever, bouncing around with a wagging tail, he kisses with far more finesse. He cups your face gently, reverently and leans forward, brushes the lightest of kisses against your lips like he’s testing the waters. Like he’s waiting for you to pull away, and when you don’t, he kisses you again.

It’s awkward at first, but only because you’re both so tentative. It’s uncharted territory. He must be aware that you’re crossing a line in doing this, you think, and he must not care either. But the awkwardness melts away quickly because Soap is a damned good kisser, skilled in how he moves his mouth against yours, his tongue against yours. One of his hands stays on your face, cupping you gently and steering you, but the other hand touches your waist, your hip, slides around to squeeze your ass gently before returning to the dip of your waist.

He tastes like something warm and spicy, like cinnamon or nutmeg. Everything about him is warm, really: the way he cups your face but runs his thumb over your cheekbone, the way his other hand holds you steady as he kisses you. And the way he looks at you when he breaks the kiss, the almost-shy way he tugs at the hem of your shirt and asks if he can take it off.

He’s warm too—his body, his skin as you bare it with each article of clothing shed. You strip each other in tandem, and the sight of him leaves you breathless. He’s like something carved by a Renaissance sculptor, but when you smooth your palms over the dips and swells of his muscles, you find that he’s warm to the touch, wonderfully so, and a wave of lust almost takes you out at the knees by how much you want to feel his body against yours, under you or on top of you, every inch of you pressed against him.

Soap must feel the same way about you—he touches you just as gently as before, almost reverent, but his goddamned eyes practically shine when he looks at you, then groans out, “fuck, but you’re stunning, hen.”

He maneuvers you both towards the bed, and then he stretches out across it, and this is precisely why your sexual repertoire has always been lacking: when a brutally handsome man is stretched out in front of you like a damned buffet, your mind singularly focuses on one thing, and you rarely remember that there’s other, more adventuresome things you could do.

You’re already turned on. Ever since the two of you walked back from the range, you’ve been on a low simmer of lust, and the desire has ratcheted up with each kiss, with each little grumbling groan of Soap’s, with each sweep of his big warm hands along your body.

So you’re already turned on, so why sit on his face when his beautiful cock—perfectly sized for you, the ruddy tip already leaking precum—is also an option?

And Soap is no dummy. He must guess at your internal battle because he says your name softly, pulls your gaze back to his face where he smiles that brilliant Soap-smile at you.

“Alright then?” he asks. He pats his upper chest. “You can sit right here, to start.”

It hits you all at once how intimate this is. Fucking, hooking up—that’s one thing. But sitting on your teammate’s face feels like you’re taking a further step into the unknown. Oral sex, to you, is already more intimate than regular ol’ intercourse, but sitting on his face feels…even more intimate. There’s a lot of trust on both ends: he has to trust you not to hurt him, not to put too much weight or force on his face or neck. And you have to trust him too, since you’re basically smothering him you with your pussy, and many men are precious little babies about eating pussy.

“I could just…” You trail off and gesture vaguely at where his erection strains and bobs against his belly, and Soap snorts before he replies, “we could do both, hen.”

When you don’t say anything, when you don’t move, he adds, “c’mon, sweet girl. I’m dyin’ for a taste of ye.”

The accent is unfair, you decide. The accent is not fighting fair. Soap’s Scottish brogue is charming in the best of times, but his bedroom version is thicker, at a slightly lower register, and it’s entirely unfair. It easily dismantles the rest of your meager defenses, so you nod and then kneel on the bed. But when you start to awkwardly clamor on top of him, he stills you for a beat and taps his mouth, says, “give me a kiss first.”

And the kiss is unfair too because it reminds you that it’s just Soap, one of your dearest teammates, a man who often holds your life in his hands and whose life you hold in your own. His now-familiar taste of spicy warmth on your tongue, and his lips curving in a smile against yours when he whispers, “climb on up, hen Don’t keep me waitin’ anymore.”

There’s no sexy way to climb on top of him. Do you just kneel by his chest and throw a leg over him? Do you straddle him lower and scoot up? You split the difference, try to straddle him on his lower chest and scoot up, but then his one arm gets pinned. Any other man? It might be a deal-breaker being so clumsy, but Soap laughs underneath you—a genuine belly-laugh full of warmth that makes you giggle too. He wrangles his arm free, then lays both hands on your hips and guides you the rest of the way.

This is unbearable intimate too, being so exposed to his bright blue-eyed gaze. You probably have tons of issues around previous men who didn’t eat pussy, who were grossed out by it, but Soap’s eyes practically glitter black with how blown his pupils are. His face rarely hides its emotions very well (he’s a shitty poker player), and there’s no disgust in his expression at all. There’s only desire, naked and apparent.

“Tell me,” he says, and his voice is a low growl that sends that frisson of heat straight to your core. “Tell me what is working for you, yeah? Don’t go quiet on me.”

You nod, and you wish you could think of something cool or funny to say, but Soap lifts his head a little and presses a plush, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of one thigh, then the other, where both are splayed in front of him, and before you can even beat yourself up for failing to think of something cool or funny, his mouth is on you in earnest.

Soap, a damned good kisser. It translates to this, his skilled tongue and lips licking at you, suckling at you, swirling against you before he breaks up the pattern with an outright kiss, then resumes his routine. He traces the tip of his tongue around the firm bud of your clit, the perfect amount of pressure before he snakes it lower, lapping at the arousal leaking from your entrance. He’s unabashed about it, groans against your feverish skin, and you love him in this moment—love that he wasn’t joking after all, love that he had led you here, where you sit perched on him while he feasts on your cunt and seems to genuinely enjoy it as he does.

Any other position, you’d lean down and kiss him, or pull him to you and kiss him. Now, as he groans against you again, you reach down and run your fingers through the longer stripe in his hair. He must like that, because he groans a third time, and his grip on your hips spasms tighter.

You remember what he asked of you, so when he purses his lips and suckles against your clit, you gasp out a startled “oh!” but then add, “fuck, Johnny. Just like t-that.”

“Good?” It comes out muffled against you, and he pauses his mouth long enough to gaze up at you with a smile.

“So good.” You shift your hand, cup his stubbled chin slick with your arousal—a gentle movement that makes his smile soften too.

“Like when you call me Johnny, hen.” Now he sounds a little shy, like he’s edging close to something beyond a random hookup with face-sitting.

“Keep using your mouth like that and I’ll call you Johnny all the time,” you tease.

“Deal.” And then he’s on you again, laving your sensitive folds with his tongue, his bit of stubble raising a warm burn against your inner thighs. His hands on your hips pull you closer, and he encourages the slow, careful rhythm when you start to actually ride his face—a languid back-and-forth, mindful of his need for oxygen, while he eats your pussy with the fervor of a starving man.

Your orgasm approaches faster than you thought; you thought you might have to fake it, since you rarely come from oral alone. But there’s something about this position. You feel powerful in a benign way, in charge, but mindful of the man underneath you. You run your fingers through his hair and Soap preens at the touch, just as he preens when you pant out praise for him, tell him how good you feel. How good he is making you feel.

He must sense it because his grip tightens on your hips, but his tongue moves faster and focuses solely on your clit—teasing with the tip of his tongue, then laving it with the flat of his tongue, then wrapping his lips around it and sucking.

“F-fuck,” you choke out. “Johnny…fuck…I’m gonna…” but you don’t finish the sentence, you keen out a garble of nonsense as you come.

The heat in your belly pools over, spills over in a brilliant wash that courses through your veins, into your trembling legs and up through your body, makes your vision shimmer and crackle with sparks. Your heartbeat, your panting breath are loud in your own ears, and you hear Soap groan but he sounds faraway. He teases your orgasm, prolongs it by licking against you until you grip his hair tighter and hold his head still while you clumsily dismount, then flop gracelessly onto the bed beside him.

You feel boneless. You feel heavy, sleepy, like you could sink into the mattress and sleep for days. You close your eyes and feel the bed shift, and Soap disappears for a moment. You hear running water—he must be cleaning his face, you think—but then the mattress dips again and he’s curling his warm body around yours, wrapping his arms around you as he pulls you to him, then settles the blanket over both of you.

“Good, yeah?”

You laugh. “Yeah, that was good. Especially for someone who’s never done it before.” A beat. “Give me a moment to catch my breath and then I can help you out.”

Soap chuckles above you, and you feel him press his lips to your forehead before settling again. “No need.”

“But I—”

“Already came.”

The gears in your head turn slow when you’re sated from sex. Coming makes you stupid. “Huh? When?”

Another chuckle, another kiss to your head. “When I was eating you, hen.”

You turn your head and try to peer up at him. He looks comfortable and sleepy too, content and sated. “Seriously?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Wait, seriously?”

“Told ye I was dyin’ for a taste.” He shifts a little, pulls you closer to him. He tugs the blanket more securely around your shoulders. “If ye want a second round, I’ll need a few minutes.”

You appraise the situation: the warm scent of Soap, the feel of his naked body pressed to yours, the warm little cocoon he’s created here in his bed. Of course you want a second round, but you’re sleepy too, and the thought of sleeping with Soap doesn’t seem nearly as terrifying as it might have seemed before he had his mouth on your pussy.

“Or we could sleep,” you offer.

“Sleep,” he agrees. “Round two tomorrow.”

The doubts from earlier start to surface in your mind, but they seem tiny and inconsequential when you’re wrapped up in Soap’s arms. You feel sleep tugging at you—he’s already asleep, you think, breathing deep and even against you—so you chance to brush your lips against the bit of him you can reach and whisper good night to him.

But he’s not quite completely asleep yet because he kisses you back, another press of his lips against your head, and he whispers back, “g’night, hen.”

#john soap mactavish #soap mactavish #johnny mactavish #johnny soap mctavish x reader #soap imagine #johnny mactavish x reader #johnny mactavish imagine #soap x reader #call of duty modern warfare #kinktober 2023 #tropes and tales

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bruhnze · 4 months ago

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Fuck this - Lucy Bronze x Ona Batlle

Summary: Jealous Lucy.

Warnings: A lot of bad words, smut. Minors DNI. Not proof read :) THIS IS X-RATED!!!

Wordcount: 4k

i dedicate this one to you @onabronze and to the anons that asked it's not really good but i tried :).

(i've emptied my inbox so if your ask is not on my WIP pls send again (if u still want it done) because i had so much garbage in there i just removed everything in one go, sorry not sorry😬)

Ps: We do not hate Germany (don't come for me, it was for the plot)!

´´fuck this shit´´ Lucy mumbled to herself as she was running faster and faster on the treadmill, ´´fucking dick-head ref, that’s not a fucking yellow´´. ‘’Cata is a fucking goalie, you fuck ass pigfucker, really strange for her to use her hands, huh, dumb fuck’’.

´´that’s a lot of f-bombs Bronze’’ Millie tried to joke, not noticing how worked up the English defender really was.

‘’Fuck off Millie’’, Bronze called as she stopped the machine and ran off with her eyes glued to her phone.

‘’Bruh’’ Lauran giggled, ‘’you know Spain Germany is on right now’’.

‘’Oh really’’ Millie said confused, ‘’ohh, fuck, her girl is playing for Spain right’’.

‘’Yeah, they’re losing’’ Sam called from the bench on the side of the gym, ‘’Gwinn is about to take a penal and she hasn’t missed a single one for club’’.

‘’Are you watching that?’’ James asked while she strutted over to the Australian, ‘’let me watch along’’.

‘’Ofcourse mate’’ Sam chuckled, ‘’I watch everything’’.

‘’Do we check on her?’’ Millie asked, mostly directed to Lauren, as she knows her best.

‘’Nah’’ James says, ‘’if you like to live you’d best leave her alone’’.

‘’Sure?’’.

‘’Yes, we’ll just give her some boxing gloves as the game is over’’.

‘’Ona doesn’t deserve this shit, what a horseshit head coach’’.

‘’Putellas missing a penalty what a fucking joke’’.

‘’You’re a cunt Berger, A CUNT!’’.

Lauren knocked on the doorpost of the locker-room, ‘’Ey Luce, they’re looking for someone to break in the new boxing gloves’’.

‘’I hate those German wankers with their ugly kits’’.

The English forward suppressed a giggle, ‘’yeah they suck, but you should turn it of bruv, it’s no point of watching them cry’’.

‘’Ona is going to be devastated’’, Lucy said as she looked up and stared ahead, as if she’s just realized it.

‘’Are you seeing her soon?’’ Lauren asked carefully.

Lucy snapped out of her trance and looked at her friend, ‘’yeah she coming tomorrow’’.

‘’To London?’’.

‘’Yes, she has ten days off’’.

''Well then you have enough time to comfort her''.

Lucy sighed ''yeah, I'll just quickly send her a text and then we'll box, I'm going to turn off this stream bullshit''. She says as she looked back at her phone and saw Paralluelo crying. ‘’my heart can’t take this’’, she muttered quietly without James hearing it.

When she was driving back ‘home’ from the training ground she received a call, it was Ona.

‘’Hey love’’, Lucy said timidly, not sure about if Ona’s mood would be more sad or angry, or maybe both.

Instead Ona answered pretty lightly, ‘’hey Luce, how are you?’’.

‘’Huh?’’ Lucy said, maybe a bit too loud ‘’I should be asking you that’’.

‘’Montse just scolded us for an hour’’ Ona said, ‘’but for some reason I don’t care about the loss, Germany was just better and I think Cata needs a psychologist after she’s broken her nose, she’s been out of it for every game after it’’.

‘’You deserved to win’’ Lucy said with tears in her eyes.

Ona chuckled ‘’I love you Lucy, but honestly, I’ve got respect for the Germans, they played well’’.

‘’I hate the Germans’’.

Ona chuckled louder, ‘’no Luce, you can not say that because they won Bronze’’.

‘’I hate Montse then’’.

‘’Okay’’, Ona laughed ‘’I agree with that one’’. ‘’But I am going to dinner with my family tonight, so I have to get ready in a little bit, you texted me to call you when I had time, so that’s why I called’’.

‘’Oh wow’’ Lucy said, a little hurt ‘’not because you wanted to hear your girlfriends voice’’.

‘’I see you tomorrow’’, Ona chuckled.

‘’That’s true but I still miss you today’’ Lucy sighed, ‘’maybe I’m a wuss, but I just feel bad for you Oni and I thought you might have needed some comfort’’.

‘’I love you, but I have to get ready’’ Ona laughed, ‘’see you tomorrow?’’.

‘’or you can call me tonight after dinner?’’.

‘’I think I will go to bed straight after, I am extremely tired’’.

‘’I understand, do you want to stay on the phone when you get ready?’’.

‘’Okay’’ Ona said as she put her phone on speaker.

After Ona had hung up because her cab was about to be there, Lucy thought about what she would eat for dinner.

She looked around her kitchen, ''fuck'' she mumbled ''i should clean this shit up''.

She opened her phone and ordered some sushi for tonight, 'because she deserved some comfort food' and got to work.

Her appartment was still a bit of a mess after the quick move in, and she needed it to be presentable for her girlfriend tomorrow. Ona would probably start cleaning her place and she didn't want to be a partner like that, that would be stupid because it was one of her own icks.

As she had cleaned up her apartment the bell rang.

With the sushi she took place at the table and opened the ipad that layed there.

Mindlessly she went on Twitter, she was logged on to her anonymous account and went on the hashtag 'Ona Battle'. She knew she shouldn't, but she was curious what the people thought of her performance this game.

Lucy had seen Ona was tired, but when you took in mind she'd played every single minute, and Lucy knew Ona slept very bad in the hotel, she had played very good.

She froze when she saw people joking about Feli and Ona being back together ''what the hell?'' she said to herself as she went deeper into the rabbithole and eventually came aross pictures of Ona in a Germany shirt, and not just any German shirt, it was the ugly 'Rauch 19' one.

Lucy was tempted to send a teasing text, maybe even with the picture attached, but she chose not too.

She couldn't help to feel a little anger inside her towards Feli, and as she came across a video of them chatting and giggling Lucy lost her shit and quickly closed the Ipad.

She jumped up from the table ''Fucking hell, not bothered about losing, fuck that'', she started pacing the room ''Germay deserved it'' she mocked, ''sure Ona, if you want to fuck her just say that''.

Lucy walked to her kitchen and fetched a beer from the fridge that was left from when Jorge had helped her with building some furniture ''fuck it'', she thought she might aswell have this because it was such a shitty night.

She took the beer to the bathroom and ran a bath, after that she went back to the kitchen to grab her ipad and got in, eventhough she had already taken a shower this afternoon.

Finaly she felt a little better, she had watched some episodes of a series she was watching and after two hours she decided to just go to bed early, Ona didn't want to call anyways so she didn't see the point of staying up. Might aswell get some rest before she saw Ona again tomorrow, eventhough she'd probably be very tired, so Lucy doubted they'd do anything, but atleast she'd be able to take care of her better.

As she got comfy in her bed she opened her phone to check one last time if Ona had sent her a text.

She hadn't.

Then she opened Instagram, scrolling for a little while.

She was just about to shut her phone when she saw @feli_rauch on her timeline, ''bitch'' she grumbled and as she took a better look she saw it was a teamphoto of the Germans, she only saw one person wearing a red shirt in the whole group.

''No way'' she said out loud as she zoomed in, ''are you kiddin' me'' - ''the only fucking shirt swap and it's my girlfriends' ''.

She closed her phone, trew it on the nightstand and dramatically dropped herself on the bed to go to sleep.

As she remembered she still had to put on an alarm and it would be probably best to have her phone on the charger she reached out to put the nightlamp on and fetched it.

When she held her phone it automatically unlocked with face-ID, and she saw that god-awfull team picture again ''fuckkkkkk'' she groaned as she swiped instagram away ''this is one big joke''.

After she had finally put in an alarm and found her charger, she put the light out and layed down again.

She tried hard to sleep but her mind kept wondering off to Ona.

Normally she wouldn't mind that one bit, sometimes her hand would even find it's way between her legs when she thought about her hot, beautiful girlfriend.

But not this time, her mind was polluted with images of Feli and Ona laughing together.

She knew Feli was Ona's ex, she had never really been bothered about it, eventhough she knew her mind was just being a bit stupid, she couldn't help to think back about what Ona had told her about Feli after Lucy had asked her how she had ever been with Feli.

''I wasn't really with her, we just fucked''. Ona had said laughing, ''but i soon found out she was very vanilla and for a relationship we would never ever work''.

Lucy knew she shouldn't have asked the question, but she had, ''but was she good?''.

Ona had asked her if she really wanted to know, and she had confirmed that she did.

After the answer she had regretted asking it, ''uhm, well, at the things she did do she was pretty good at, it just got boring very quickly'' Ona had said.

Now she was laying in bed with the thoughts of Feli fucking Rauch having her way with her precious Ona.

The thought that the German had tasted Ona sickened her.

The thought that the German had been inside Ona sickened her.

But the thought that Ona had, at one point, enjoyed it, got her blood boiling.

Maybe it was the distance.

Maybe it was because they hadn't been able to be intimate for a few weeks now.

Maybe it was the fact Ona hadn't told her about the shirt swap.

But Lucy felt jealous like she had never before.

Lucy woke up from her alarm, and checked her messages.

None from Ona.

She freshened up and got dressed.

Nothing from Ona.

In the kitchen she made herself some breakfast.

Nothing from Ona.

She went through the kitchen cupboards and refrigerator and wrote out a grocery list.

Nothing from Ona.

Lucy knew she would be flying in a couple of hours, so she decided to send a text herself, eventhough she had wanted Ona to text her first.

It was afternoon, Lucy was waiting in her blue Skoda outside of the airport. When she saw the beautiful freckled woman walking outside, searching for her, she jumped out of the car.

Ona was wearing sunglasses and a hat, but Lucy would always recognise her.

She opened her trunk and walked towards Ona.

''Hello baby'', she said happily.

''Luce!'', Ona said as she sped up her pace walking to her girlfriend.

They shared an embrace, ''i have missed you so much'' Ona muttered against the taller woman.

Lucy held Ona away from her to take a look at her face, ''i have missed you too''.

''I want to kiss you, so lets get in the car please'', Ona said smiling.

Lucy hastily threw the suitcase into the car and got back in the drivers seat as she saw Ona was already in the car.

''Your suitcase was pretty light'' Lucy said as she hopped in next to Ona.

''Yeah, i gave a lot of my stuff with Joan, i'm planning to wear your clothes anyways'' Ona stated.

''Oh'' Lucy said as she smiled at her girlfriend, ''and cool frames by the way''.

She leant in to kiss Ona.

They shared a kiss full of love, it was adamant that they had both missed eachother.

Not wanting to risk being spotted by anyone Lucy pulled back and got ready to drive off, reversing out of the parking spot.

''What yours is mine'' Ona chuckled, ''you said it yourself''.

''True'', Lucy said as she put her hand on Ona's thigh and drove away ''it's cute''.

Lucy carried Ona's suitcase to her apartment, and handed Ona the key to get them inside.

''Should i unpack your stuff? is there anything in here that needs to be washed?''.

''Uhm, i don't think so, i have only worn a few clothes, mostly the olympic stuff and those are with Joan, he is going to wash that for me''.

''Clever'' Lucy chuckled, ''putting your brother to work''.

Ona grinned, ''ofcourse, but maybe i will take a shower now and then we can nap together?''.

''I'd love that'' Lucy said, ''oh and let me show you around quickly, i almost forgot''.

It was a pretty quick tour, as the apartment wasn´t that big.

´´So here is the kitchen´´, Lucy said smiling as she turned on her heel and spinned.

Ona laughed, ´´are you making us dinner tonight?'' she asked stepping closer to Lucy.

''Of course beautiful'' Lucy said as she pressed herself against the Catalan, ''i was thinking that one tofu dish you like''.

''Hm yes''. Ona groaned, thinking about the dish Lucy made her often, because she liked it so much.

''Good'' Lucy said ''because I bought stuff to make that this morning''.

''You know me so well''.

''Yes'' Lucy smiled, ''and to be known is to be loved''.

''So romantic'' Ona laughed.

''Oh i'm feeling really romantic'' Lucy said as she bit her lip.

´´Really?'' Ona smirked as she put her arms around Lucy's neck and crossed them.

Lucy kissed her softly.

Ona hungerly answered the kiss and tried to get impossibly closer, getting up her tiptoes.

Lucy pulled away with a smile on her face ''but first you wanted to shower right?''.

The Catalan pouted ''i do.. but i also want you''.

The English defender kissed her girlfriend ''i'll be still here after the shower, and i know how you like to shower off the travel''.

''sí okay''.

They went to the bedroom, Lucy leading the way.

Lucy showed the on-suite bathroom and pointed to the towels.

''Leave the door open?'', Lucy asked in the sweetest voice she could put on.

''Sure'' Ona chuckled, ''are you staying in the bedroom?''.

''Yeah i'll put away your clothes really quick, i don't want you living out of a suitcase when you're with me, and i left some space in the closet for you''.

Ona kissed Lucy, ''you're cute''.

''You're cute'', Lucy repeated.

Lucy opened the suitcase, ''you need some underwear? and what do you want to wear or were you really planning on stealing my clothes''.

''huh'' Ona said, ''it's not stealing, it's my right''.

She chuckled until she watched Lucy's face who could appearently not laugh about it, ''what?''.

Lucy stayed silent.

''Sorry'' Ona ''i'll wear my own clothes if you really don't-

''No'' Lucy said, ''why don't you wear this'' she asked with a sarcastic laugh as she held up the white football shirt.

Ona chuckled.

Lucy looked at her in disbelieve ''you think this is funny? tell me why i have a damp German shirt in my hands right now?'''.

''I said my brother was going to wash my stuff right'' Ona said, ''well, match worn is worth more, you know you're supposed to keep the shirts you trade unwashed right?''.

''Fuck that''.

''It's financially responsible'', Ona laughed and stepped towards Lucy to kiss her.

With a quick peck she wanted to walk away.

Lucy didn't have any of that and grabbed her wrist, ''more please''.

Ona chuckled, ''let me shower, then we nap together''.

''Ona''.

Ona sighed but gave in, she held Lucy's face as she kissed her again, this time more slowly.

Lucy hands travelled to Ona's ass and squeezed her cheeks as she pulled the Catalan in closer.

Ona grinned into the kiss, ''you missed me'' she said, with a tone sounding somewhere between a question and a statement.

''Where did you and Feli talk about after the match?'' Lucy said before she could stop herself.

Ona looked up with a mischievious smirk, ''is that what is bothering you?''.

Lucy huffed out some air, ''why did you swap shirts with her''.

''She wanted too''.

''So you said yes? and giggled about it with her?''.

''What did you want me to do then'' Ona chuckled, thinking it was funny seeing this jealous side of Lucy, it was something new.

''I dont know'' Lucy scolded lightly, ''just to tell her to fuck off with her boring shirt''.

Ona laughed ''boring shirt?, how can a shirt be boring''.

''Not the point'' Lucy grumbled, ''you talked to her after the match and you didn't want to speak to me''.

''I had a dinner!'' Ona laughed as she rubbed Lucy's arms, ''don't worry, you are the only one for me''.

She kissed Lucy's pouty face, ''my beautiful *kiss* strong *kiss* smart *kiss* perfect girlfriend *kiss*''.

Lucy pulled the Catalan thighter against her, ''i think i should give you a reminder''.

''What reminder?'' Ona frowned.

''About what good sex is like''.

''Luce!'' Ona slapped her shoulder playfully.

Lucy frowned, ''you want boring sex?''.

''No..''.

''Cus if you want that I could just put that ugly shirt on and we can roleplay that''.

Ona blushed, ''Lucee''.

Lucy's jaw dropped, ''you're not even saying that you don't want that?!''.

''I don't want that'' Ona rushed to say.

Lucy rolled her eyes. ''yeah i totally believe you now''.

''Sorry'' Ona pouted, putting on a cute smile ''i was distracted because you look so hot when you are jealous''.

''Í'm not jealous!''.

''Oh, és clar que no ets gelós'' (oh i see you are not jealous) Ona mockingly chuckled, she reached out to the suitcase and grabbed the shirt.

''Maybe i will wear it today''.

Lucy looked at her with dark eyes.

''It smells like her'' Ona added with a grin.

A second of silence hang in the air.

''Put it on.'' Lucy said.

Ona's smile faded ''No i was just joking''.

Lucy repeated herself ''go on, put it on''.

''I was kidding''.

''i'm not''. ''put. it. on.''.

Ona gulped and took her shirt off to put it on.

Lucy stopped her, ''no wait, first get naked and then put it on'' she said as she took her shorts off.

Ona felt her heartbeat fasten from the way this aroused her and followed the instructions.

''Your panties too'' Lucy said as walked to 'the drawer' and chose a rather large strap-on to wear.

Ona looked excited at Lucy, wearing a cheeky smile.

''You want this one?'' she helt the strap up.

Ona nodded furiously, a blush creeping on her cheeks.

''i can't hear you'' Lucy said as she pretended to put it back in the drawer again and took her shirt off.

''No wait'' Ona said ''yes, i want that one''.

''Okay, i suppose you deserve it right?''.

''Yes'' Ona said desperately ''please Luce, i-''.

''-laughed with an ex'' Lucy said sternly, ''i don't know if that is good girl-behavior''.

Ona kept quiet as Lucy walked towards her on the bed.

Lucy put the strap in her harness and hovered above Ona.

''that's basicly asking her to fuck you'' she wispered as she let her eyes roam the woman below her.

Ona put her hands on Lucy and chuckled ''Luce, you're crazy''.

''You know how i always say you would look perfect in everything?''.

''mhmm'' Ona grinned.

''Well this is awfull'' Lucy plucked at the shirt.

Ona tried to kiss Lucy but Lucy leant back just in time to dodge it.

''Turn around''.

Ona whined but quickly oblidged, this attitude was making her feel some things.

She was on all fours on the bed and without warning Lucy slapped her ass, resulting in a moan escaping her throat without her being able to surpres.

''Im so wet'' Ona whined as she felt herself dripping along her thighs, she looked over her shoulder to read Lucy's face.

''Don't look at me'' Lucy ordered, ''your pretty face doesn't suit this revolting shirt''.

She leaned against Ona to hold her face before she could turn, and gave her a kiss ''you are beautiful'' she said and softly kissed her lips.

When she released Ona's face and let her hand slide over the number '19' she huffed out some air.

''But you should be happy i have a fake cock'' Lucy grumbled, ''cus i could never get a hard-on like this''.

Ona whimpered.

A cracking sound and a moan filled the room.

Lucy watched the flesh of Ona's as jiggle and groped the skin when it turned red.

''Who does this ass belong to?''

Ona groaned ''you''.

Lucy rubbed the tip of her rubber cock along Ona's wetness.

The Catalan's breath hitched in her throat ''Luce'' she chocked out.

Another time Lucy's hand found it's way to Ona's behind with great force.

''Agh'' Ona groaned, ''please Luce''.

Lucy grabbed Ona by her hips and guided her to grind against her.

''please''.

With one hand Lucy reached around for the smaller womans' centre.

With two fingers she traced her lips and collected some wetness before circling her clit.

''Fuck'' Lucy breathed out, ''so wet''.

She had problems with circling one spot at how wet Ona was, her fingers slipping away.

''Who are you so wet for?'' Lucy asked, talking in Ona's ear.

''You Lucy! you''. Ona practically cried out.

With that Lucy carefully slid the strap inside in one fluent movement.

''Merda'' (fuck) Ona moaned as her head slumped to her chest.

Lucy picked up a rhythm that she knew would drive Ona crazy, perfect for building the tension inside her quickly.

But after a few moments Lucy fastened her pace, not able to contain herself she fucked Ona hard and deep, the sight of the fabric around Ona fueling her anger.

She gave her another spanking to 'punish' Ona for wearing the shirt, but she knew it wasn't actually a punishment for Ona, which was confirmed by the filthy moan she let out.

''I'm coming'' Ona cried out as she gripped the sheets with clenched fists.

''Shit, already?'', Lucy groaned and kept thrusting.

''Lucí'' Ona said as her arch deepened.

''Fuck, come for me Ona'' Lucy said as her grip on Ona thightend.

With a loud cry Ona came.

Lucy slowly rode out her orgasm and released her grip on the girl, causing her to flop down on the bed.

The English woman shuffeld and took the strap out of the harness and layed it on the bed besides them, figuring the sheets were ruined anyways.

Lucy pulled Ona around by her shirt.

Ona looked at her with hooded eyes, wearing a content expression from her post-orgasmic bliss.

Lucy smiled, ''hi beautiful''.

Ona grinned as she took Lucy's hands, ''thought you hated it''.

Lucy scrunched her face ''the shirt; yes.. you; no''.

The Catalan smiled, ''i'll take it off'' she said as she sat up.

She stopped as she noticed reticence on Lucy's face.

''What?''.

A smile tugged on Lucy's mouth, ''i'm debating sending her a picture''.

'''Lucy!''. Ona punched her girlfriend.

She snapped out of her dream and redirected her gaze from the shirt to Ona's face. She shook her head quickly, ''sorry, i don't know why i said that''.

Ona chuckled, slapping a hand on her forhead ''jealousy''.

''I don't want her to see that pretty little fucked out face of yours''.

Ona chuckled and held her arms up, ''pull this off, we're throwing it away''.

''I'll sell it for you'' Lucy grinned, ''you didn't do all this effort for nothing, did you?''.

Lucy helped her out of the shirt and threw it so far it landed in the hallway.

''Well, that's gone'' Ona chuckled at the unreasonable attitude Lucy had, and tugged on Lucy's sportsbra ''this can go too''.

Lucy quickly took it off and got on top of Ona.

''Did i go to far?''.

''No''.

Lucy tilted her head questioning.

''I'm sure, it was hot actually, a little gross, but hot''.

''Gross?''.

''Yeah, stinky shirt'' Ona said with a disgusted face, making Lucy chuckle.

''Oh and'' Lucy said as she traced her hands along Ona's skin, ''as much as i hate it, you did look beautiful''.

Ona smirked, ''i thought the things you said were really hot'', ''i am already thinking about who's shirt i'll trade next''.

Lucy narrowed her eyes and shook her head, ''ohh you're bad''.

''Sí, soy fatal'' (i'm a baddie) Ona joked chuckling.

''Que?'' Lucy said, thinking Ona just called herself terrible.

''In spanish we call someone that's unreasonably hot, fatal, it means they're bad but it is like slang'' Ona explained, ''a funny joke, because you called me bad''.

''I get that now'' Lucy laughed, ''that's funny actually, in English you can also say someone is a baddie, same thing''.

''Really?''.

''Sí'' Lucy said, ''god, i will miss our language talks''.

''We call every day'' Ona said, frowning.

Lucy looked at her with a pouty face ''but you don't want to talk to me''.

''Luceee'' Ona dropped her head on the pillow ''I had a dinner!!'' she called out snickering.

''I love when you call out my name'' Lucy said as she ran her hands along Ona's thighs.

Ona looked up with a smirk, ''I love when you make me call out your name''.

''I think I forgot what you taste like'' Lucy said as she crawled on top of Ona.

-----

The end, not theirs.

-Keep an eye out for Feli's shirt on Ebay 😂

Feel free to give me feedback/tips (anonymously) but in a kind way is the most appreciated xx

#woso smut #lucy bronze smut #woso fanfics #lucy bronze #lucy bronze x reader #woso #lucy bronze x ona batlle #ona batlle smut #woso imagine #ona batlle

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vhstown · 11 months ago

Text

super short london slang guide !!

i haven't got a scooby doo about cockney so this is mainly gonna be mle and like the way 14 year old secondary school boys talk oookay let's go (just so yk i am a londonder!!!!!)

direct things to call people (or avoid calling people)

bruv, blud, man, mate, fam (can use in replacement of a pronoun like he, she, you and i or for emphasis — "man's got a meeting, bruv!")

more on "man" it can be used in plural too — "us man" or "them man" or "you man"

my g, my guy (for referring someone you are friendly/friends with)

bossman (something you'd call a shop or business owner — "aye bossman get me the 3 wings and chips yeah")

big man (usually used in a sarcastic friendly but kind of demeaning way, the older cousin of "big guy" — "oi big man what you sayin' cuz?"

i wasnt going to put these here cause of personal preference but 😭 people are gonna use them anyway so i might as well tell you what they mean:

peng (adjective cute/pretty — "her? she's peng!")

leng (adjective hot/sexy — "rah, he's leng you know?)

nouns

ting (usually to refer to a girlfriend but can also just mean "thing"... or a knife? — "don't chat to my ting fam!")

grim (very outdated word for a promiscuous woman — "she's a grim bruv!")

skeng (gun)

shank, spinner (knife)

paper, Ps, pronounced "peas" (money)

ends (neighbourhood, area — "if i catch you in my ends yeah")

mandem (group of friends — "having a laugh at the pub with the mandem" aha)

gyaldem (group of women / female friends)

ganja (weed)

blem (cigarette)

pagan/paigon (snitch or untrustworthy person, not a super common you might wanna use "snake" or "snitch" instead)

wasteman (someone who's useless, a lowlife)

pussio/pussyo (pussy, coward)

other common words and phrases

wagwan, or "wag1" in text (what's up, what's going on)

bare (a lot — "i got bare problems with him!")

gassed (prideful, full of yourself — "im actually so gassed, man got promoted"

"and that" (instead of "and stuff" — "i got links and that")

"allow it" (let something slide — "i forgot my wallet allow it bossman")

safe (like "alright cool", or as a bye — "aight safe")

"pattern up" (fix up, get it together)

hard, tight (cool, good, though "hard" is also used in an offensive way — "bro thinks he's hard, pussio")

blam (to get shot, not actually very common to hear in my experience)

sheffed (up), shanked (to get stabbed)

ahlie (used as an interjection when in agreement with something, similar to phrase "am i lying?")

non-mle specific words i hear sometimes

thick (dumb, stupid)

clapped/tapped (ugly, weird, unattractive)

merk/murk (kill, beat up)

slag, sket (slut)

chav (used to refer to someone of the low social status, associated with violent or rude behaviour)

taking the mick, taking the piss (being annoying)

mad (means crazy obviously but people use it a lot, can have positive and negative connotations — "that's mad!")

nonce (literally means pedophile / sex offender, do what you will with it 😭)

dickhead, bellend (similar to douchebag)

wanker (used towards someone you dislike, or in a joking way)

geezer (usually to refer to an old man)

also!!!

depending on which communities are predominant in the area, words from other languages can come in / have come in

some words are common with US slang too because they share origins 😁 ain't that cool

there's a lot of influence from jamaican patois due to the history of british jamaicans in london for ex in words like "ting" or "mandem" or "wagwan" (hence why mle is sometimes referred to as "jafrican") and its not strange to hear "bomboclaat" or "bloodclaat" here either

in communities where there's muslims and arabs (especially in east london) you might hear arabic terms like "wallahi", "khalas" or "astagfirullah" (though people debate whether that's cultural appropriation or not)

south asians have also had an influence with words like "gora" or "ganja" though again this is largely area based and the impact of hinglish is also found a lot outside of london

some people have a mix of different dialects! i mainly alternate between mle and estuary (sometimes yorkshire don't ask it is very easy to pick up...)

you're not gonna hear every single word here all the time the usage varies throughout london. the way north and west londoners speak can be v different for example

uhhhh if you wanna learn properly just listen to some grime or sutn . listen to londoners speak!

for some more resources in-depth PLEASE check out these guides made by other british people ! (one and two)

ok that's it bye bye british ppl & londoners feel free to add on! it is midnight rn so ive probably missed stuff lol... dms are open in case you've got any questions or want any help :p

#vee rants #hobie brown x reader #spider punk #spider uk #hobart brown #hobie brown #hobie brown x gn!reader #british accent #london accent #potential to be edited

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mamaspeckles · 9 months ago

Note

SFW AND NSFW LUCIFER HEAD CANONS PLSLSLSLSSLSL

I am back!!! And kinda rusty with my writing ideas😭 god bless me because these headcanons are going to be crazy!!!

Lucifer SFW and NSFW Headcanons

CHARACTER IS OLDER THAN EARTH

✫彡✫彡✫彡✫彡✫彡✫彡✫彡✫彡✫彡✫彡✫彡✫彡✫彡

SFW

-Lucifer is an absolute sweetheart to you– his personality is so fatherly so he is bound to be kind and caring to everyone but the respect bar goes up when it’s for Charlie or you ·

-he goes out of his way to praise and compliment you even if it’s for basic deeds like cleaning up or taking care of yourself.

-Lucifer is surprisingly hard to fluster, any sort of affection or flirtatious banter you throw at him doesn’t really make him freak out or melt into your hands like putty.- minus his hard shell for your remarks he does enjoy complimenting you for your smarts and beauty. “You are so beautiful and strong minded my love~..you awe me!”

-if you tend to like flowers or perfumes as gifts, he is the perfect man for you. Lucifers favourite things to gift you are yellow, pink, or black tulips as swell as vanilla or midnight scented perfumes, he will always hand gift them to you when he gets the chance.

-this man loves making you laugh! He will pull any corny dad joke out just to make you snort and wheeze.

-lucifer will only call you honey, beautiful, or darling unless he is being stern with you.

-Lucifer is the supreme gentleman in public and behind closed doors. He will allow you to do the talking when you two spend time with each other- he finds allowing his lover to voice their opinion’s or pick the topic of conversation is the most One of the main respectful thing a man can do.

-he would straight up die if you asked him to make a rubber duck version of you- his face glowing up as he drags you into his work room and makes you watch him create a mini duck of you.

NSFW

--Lucifer never refers sex as ‘fucking’ but is the type of man to say and refer it to ‘making love’ , it’s not just ‘sex’ or ‘fucking’ to him- it’s deeper and more spiritual in his eyes- Unfortunately if you are impatient it’s a bad thing, Because making love with the king of hell means you will be waiting quite awhile for the first time between the two of you.- Lucifer doesn’t look for sweet release but rather for a sensual and spiritual connection whilst your bodies rub together.

-Lucifer undoubtedly possesses the mindset and a switch dynamic. While he does lean towards a more dominant nature, he is open to bottoming if you approach him with the request with curtesy.

-I can honestly see Lucifer a thing for BDSM. Nothing too extreme but more of the end of the stick type of kinks such as handcuffs, blindfold, hot and cold play, etc.

-Lucifer HATES using a condom. He even tends to forget to put one on/ He doesn’t want to stop in the heat of the moment just to wrap a rubber around what is supposed to bring life. And due to him despising Condoms he tends to pull of if you don’t want him finishing inside.

-this man got some good old angelic power if you know what I mean.. like this man’s stamina is crazy! Once he starts, he’s never stopping. Not until you are absolutely wrecked.

-Lucifer isn’t very loud, but he is vocal. Low grunts and gasps to say the least,sometimes a low desperate groan escapes his throat when he gets closer to an orgasm.

✫彡✫彡✫彡✫彡✫彡✫彡✫彡✫彡✫彡✫彡✫彡✫彡✫彡

This was actually so hard to write bruv…the NSFW part was SO HARDDDD😭 but anyways if you want more just request!(reblogs and liking it is appreciated btw)

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queer-n-here · 8 months ago

Text

Y'all thank you for your responses! So here is: Large and in charge reader, who's only nice to their on true love: OSAMU DAZAI!

(And yes, as you can see, I voted on my own poll. And yes, I voted for Tanizaki. I'm a simp for him broooooo)

Also, bruv, I dunno why but I got so carried away and this got really angsty. Like... I never do angst. NEVER. Yet here we are. I wonder if I'm okay. Well whatever.

Contents: Dazai getting drunk with reader.

Warnings: No smut, kinda angst, I totally digressed from the original plot line I had planned, and now I want nothing more than to give Osamu Dazai a big fat hug.

Dazai had found himself a new hobby: watching people's reactions as you talked to him.

I mean, most would think, really, how interesting can THAT be? But being the sort of person you were, all mean and menacing at one look but really soft and gentle on the inside, it was rare for you to really hold a conversation without coming off as intimidating. So when people saw you smiling softly at Dazai's jokes, and watching him fondly as he chatted away, they were generally more than surprised.

Dazai remembered distinctly the day you'd met. Fukuzawa had found you fighting solo against three of the Port Mafia's best ability-users, and known with one glance that you were stronger than even you knew. It hadn't taken him long to convince you to join the Armed Detective Agency; with painfully dead parents and a burned down house, you didn't really have anywhere else to go.

You passed their little entrance test, even though after they revealed that it was just an entrance test you couldn't help but be slightly annoyed. All that hard work to try and save that girl only for the whole scenario to be fake. Should've just ignored it.

It had been two years since then. And even though you wouldn't really say it out loud, you were happy that Fukuzawa had taken you under his wing.

How else would you have met Dazai? Or any of the others, who you did secretly like, even though you were unsure about expressing it.

One day, Fukuzawa sent you and Dazai to investigate a letter that the detective agency had received. The sender threatened to blow up the Gundam Factory in Yokohama, which was a popular entertainment place for tourists. Fukuzawa did contact the owner, but since the area covered by the Factory was quite large, and the number of people who were already there was also ginormous, the owner asked for them to investigate the culprit before the bombs could go off.

It was an easy job, and you two had it finished before 3 in the afternoon. All that was left now was some measly paperwork, which you would have to take care of alone because Dazai despised that part of work with a burning passion.

And so Dazai decided to fool around a little.

He took you to a bar, somewhere in a deserted alley in the middle of nowhere, walking with his hands on the back of his head and making nasty comments about everything he could lay his eyes on. You followed silently.

"Say," He yanked open the door of Lupin. "What about you, though? Where do you generally spend after-mission free time?"

Dazai led you into the bar, plopping down on a barstool in front of the counter.

"I sleep," You said, sitting down next to him.

"Huh?" He made a weird face. "That's it?"

A bartender appeared behind the counter.

"Mn," You nodded, looking at the bartender.

Dazai ordered 'his usual', and you decided to have the same as him. It wasn't bad, frankly, sitting there next to him on adjacent barstools and hearing him ramble on about everything and somehow nothing at the same time. He drank and drank and drank and drank, till he was telling you about Ango, about Odasaku and the days they spent together. He drank till his pale cheeks were flushed red, till his neck didn't have the strength to hold his head anymore, till his head was pressed into your chest and his shoulders were shaking with silent sobs.

You stroked the back of Dazai's head. Sober, he was a goof, running around pretending that everything was jokes and comedy. Drunk, he was much more grim, face set firm even as more tears splashed down it, eyes miserable in a way that made your heart ache.

"What's making you sad?" You asked him, desperate to take away at least some part of his sorrow.

But he didn't answer, shaking his head and clenching the fabric of your shirt so desperately it felt like he was hanging on for dear life.

You let him, wrapping your arms around him slowly, pulling him closer. You couldn't do anything but that, and the mere thought of it made you feel like the most useless being on the planet.

You paid for the drinks and heaved Dazai up on your shoulder, letting him stain a different part of your coat with tears as you walked away from the bar.

You took him to the agency dormitory, but once you were in front of his door you couldn't go any further.

"Dazai," You said, your voice gentle as you slowly put him down, and he wobbled on his feet. "Do you have your keys?"

The man couldn't even stand, and had to lean against the door for balance to look up at you. "Hmm..."

He began fumbling through his coat, hands slowly and thick with the weight of the alcohol in his veins. Finally, he produced a key, holding it up and pressing it into your chest. His tears had finally stopped.

You wiped the remnants off his cheek with your thumb. "Let me open the door, hmm?"

Dazai moved to lean against you instead of the door, and you placed an arm around his waist to support him as your free hand opened the door. You led him into the room, sitting him down on the floor near the doorway so you could take off his shoes. When you looked up, however, he had laid back on the floor, glossy eyes staring up at the ceiling.

"Say, [Name]," His voice was thick, his words were slurred. "Some people believe that right and wrong are relative... That there's no black and white... D'you think that's true?"

You looked at him. He was regretful, you could tell. But the fact that you couldn't help him, that you couldn't snatch all that pain away from him and swallow it was enough to make you bodily ache.

"I don't think I have a definite answer for that," You said, wishing you had, wishing you knew how to comfort him. "Why do you ask?"

Dazai's hands rose, clutching at the lapel of your jacket and pulling you closer to his face, making you hover over him on the floor. "D'you think... In a world like ours... We can ever do 'the right thing'?"

You shifted your weight to one hand, raising the other to caress his cheeks softly. "If you try hard enough, yeah. Even if no one's a hundred percent good, ever, if you try hard enough... I think that's all that matters."

"And..." Dazai's brow furrowed, and he looked adorably confused. "How hard is hard enough?"

You couldn't help but think of how, in any other situation, Dazai would've made a sexual pun out of those words.

"Hmm..." You thought of it, wanting to give him an answer that would satiate him. "Your best."

It was a simple answer, and yet Dazai's eyes widened, as if you'd solved the biggest mystery of the universe. "Just that?"

You nodded. "Just that. That's more than enough, Dazai."

And he nodded back, wrapping his heavy arms around your shoulders and pulling you closer, burying his head in your chest again. He fell asleep like that, holding you like a child.

You took him into the room later, taking off his coat and sweater and untucking his shirt before placing him on the futon and covering him with the quilt.

The next day when you saw him at the agency, he was back to his clownery, but something about the way he looked at you had changed.

#dom male reader #top male reader #dom reader #sub bsd x you #bsd x you #bungou stray dogs #sub bsd #sub bungou stray dog x you #sub bungou stray dogs #sub dazai #sub dazai x you #sub osamu dazai #sub osamu dazai x you

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autumnnnsun · 11 months ago

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Now that I’ve finished reading Hortus de Escapismo and Executor’s record, I really gotta ramble about Executor for a second and kinda talk abt how Arknights handles his lack of empathy trait that I really enjoy. This isn’t a proper analysis or anything just my thoughts I wanna vomit for a sec.

So it’s implied in Executor’s record that he just, wasn’t born having empathy despite being a sankta. Or at least he just naturally doesn’t have the same levels of understanding of emotion as other sankta. The part that I really like about it is how Executor’s Record and story in general doesn’t portray that as a necessarily bad thing.

His lack of empathy allows him to think in a way that is a lot more unique than other sankta. When his partner in his record story told him to sacrifice him, he still brought his body back to Laterano. One of the reason being because of a specific sentence in the will they were enacting (“I hope all Laterans return back to their home.” Smth that most people would assume is just smth the will writer wrote for some extra literary flare) but also because he disregarded his partner’s feelings. His lack of empathy is the reason why he did something good and that is very interesting to me especially when most people tend to demonise having low/no empathy.

I also just really like how in his record story, it’s emphasised that he knows what emotions ARE. He has developed a system with his parents to recognise and visualise emotions by drawing lines that represent them. He knows what it is, he can recognise it to a level where he can think of the next best course of action when confronted with it, he just doesn’t put much importance on it nor does he bother with understanding it for the most part. Especially if it’s something that will get in the way of his job. And I REALLY like that cus it reminds me of how people irl that have low empathy will develop systems to work around it and still be kind.

I know a lot of us joke about Executor being autistic and that’s funny and I like the jokes as much as everyone else, but low or no empathy is a trait of other mental disorders and disabilities and even as someone that hasn’t been diagnosed with anything yet it still feels kinda nice to see low empathy being portrayed in a way that isn’t villanious.

In fact, Executor having low empathy kinda makes him the best person in the room sometimes especially in Hortus de Escapismo. The part where he does a warning shot at Oren and Lemuen and essentially goes “Can ya’ll STOP I’m trying to do my JOB.” And essentially manages to stop a massacre because of it is so funny but also so fucking hype bruv. I like how in the end of the event when Executor was starting to ask more questions and have more doubts and was starting to let emotions affect his actions a bit more, it isn’t framed as like “Oh mah gerd, he’s learning empathy and being more hooman!”

Instead he’s asking questions and seeking to find solutions to them in his own unique way. Asking around and adding more variables to his thought process like a computer would (which has some implications that gets my lore brain churning but hrghrghrgh)

Top it all of with the fact that he is specifically a character that is born and raised in a society that values empathy. Being able to feel other people’s emotions is what makes you a sankta. And Executor, is one of the better sanktas because he doesn’t follow that rule.

God I love Executor, go son, thrive.

#autumnstext #arknights #executor #executor the ex foedere

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thetarttfuldickhead · 11 months ago

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It’s a little unclear, in the end, how the conversation gets there, because all in all the Richmond dressing room isn’t the site of that many sex jokes, not since Colin came out and no longer feels the need to make them. But they’re still lads, yeah, and young, mostly, so the jokes still happen, even if it’s just gentle ribbing, and silliness.

So: somehow, one morning halfway into Roy’s first year as head coach, the topic turns to sex, of the rougher variety. Roy’s only listening with half an ear, he’s busy sketching out the new trick plays Nate’s dreamed up on the whiteboard, and he doesn’t really catch the build-up, but when Jamie’s name is mentioned his ears perk up without him even really noticing. It’s become instinct at that point, keeping track of Jamie (even as Roy does his best to give all his players at least some semblance of equal attention).

“We know that Jamie likes it rough, though,” Zorro says, and the rest of the group oh:s and ah:s either knowingly or in surprised glee.

“Eh?” Jamie sounds startled by the assertion, but not particularly put off. (He never really is, as long as he gets attention, Roy thinks with an internal scoff that’s far fonder than he’d ever admit to.) “What makes you say that?”

“You told us!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Roy can see Jamie shake his head. “I don’t know what you’re on about, mate.” Still not bothered, but clearly not understanding what Zorro is getting at either.

Isaac throws him a disbelieving glance. “You don’t remember, bruv? It was when you first came here, before you started going out with Keeley.”

“Yeah,” Colin interjects, “You’d only been here for about two weeks, I think, but you came into training with these marks and bruises, and it turned out you’d hooked up with a girl the night before, but you hadn’t known she was a professional dominatrix before you got to her place.”

Hoots and titters at that, delighted and amused but not unkind.

“Exactly,” Zorro says. “And you told us you’d just gone with it because you have to try everything at least once, and it hadn’t been bad.”

Ah. Roy remembers now. He’d already been absolutely fed-up with Jamie’s attitude, the arrogance and selfishness and incessant need to put others down, and the striker’s total lack of shame and casual smugness about the marks had rubbed Roy entirely the wrong way. Not because people should be ashamed for liking that sort of stuff, of course (Roy wasn’t), but there was such a thing as common decency and unspoken rules about not parading around the dressing room like you were in a fucking porno or some shit and—

If Roy was honest about it, he’d mostly been pissed because it was Jamie, and everything Jaime did pissed him off back then (though, to be fair, most of what Jamie did back then was fucking shitty, so it’s not like Roy was wrong to be pissed. Most of the time).

“Oh.” Jamie’s voice is soft, suddenly. Small, in a way that has alarm bells going off like air raid sirens in Roy’s head. “Yeah. Um.”

The realisation hits Roy a second before it does the rest of the team, and his ears are already filling with a terrible ringing as the room falls silent behind him. He can feel himself grow rigid with rage, and with cold, curdling shame.

“Shit, man,” Isaac says eventually.

“Jamie, I’m so sorry.” It’s odd, the way Colin’s earnest, unhappy voice seems to be coming from so very far away.

“What?” Zorro, still not getting it, and then he does, and Roy, at a great distance, can hear his face crumpling. “Oh shit, Jamie, I didn’t mean—“

“No, don’t worry about it, man. It was a long time ago, yeah? It’s fine.” It’s a heroic attempt at sounding casual. Might have succeeded, too, back before they all knew Jamie as well as the do now.

Roy doesn’t stick around to hear the team offer their comfort and Jamie try to wave their concern away. He walks into the coaches’ office, and the only reason he doesn’t slam the door as hard as he can is because he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself.

“You all right there, Coach?” Beard looks up at him from behind his book, brow creased in quiet assessment.

“Oh my God, what happened?” Nate jumps down from the desk he’s been perched on. “Did someone die?”

And Roy wants to tell them to fuck off. Wants to punch the wall so hard it stops his mind from spinning. But he’s been talking with Dr. Fieldstone about that, hasn’t he, how his maladaptive coping strategies are tripping him up, and fucking over the people he cares about in the process.

So he takes a deep breath. And he doesn’t look at them when he starts talking. “Back before Ted came here Jamie came in with these bruises all over his chest and back one day, and he told us he’d had sex with a fucking dominatrix. And I believed him, okay? I just… I fucking believed him, even though it was weird fucking bruises for— That’s not the fucking point. But because I thought he was an arrogant fucking prick and I fucking hated his guts, I told him— “ He trails off, looking up at the ceiling. Uselessly, his cheeks are burning. Maybe his eyes are, too, if he’d let himself feel it. “I told him I’d be happy to pay to see someone give him a trashing. Give ‘em extra if they knocked a couple of his teeth out so he’d shut up for once.”

Beard doesn’t say anything, but he leans back in his chair with a look on his face that lets Roy know that, yeah, he’d fucked that one up good and proper.

“Oh,” Nate says. “So it was his dad who— That’s— But— I mean, that’s not good, obviously, that’s awful, but it’s… It wasn’t you who hurt him, Roy. And I mean, you and Jamie have said all sorts of thing to each other. Done all sorts of things.”

And that’s true, isn’t it. And mostly Roy is happy enough to write it off as tit-for-tat, old foolishness and bygones, Jamie a prick and Roy sometimes an idiot, and they’re both better now. And he doesn’t know how to explain to Nate and Beard how knowing that Jamie looked up to him ever since he was a kid, knowing that he never took that poster down, even after that, after everything, makes his casual cruelty and failure to protect Jamie all the harder to bear, even if he hadn’t known at the time that there was anything to protect Jamie from.

“Coach—“ Beard begins, but is interrupted by a knock on the door, and before Roy can tell whoever it is to fuck off, Jamie sticks his head into the office. Must have made his escape from the rest of the team, then. “Sorry, Coach, are we getting started or what? The lads— “ He catches sight of Roy’s face and his eyes widen. “Jesus, Roy, what happened? Are you all right, man?”

Under other circumstances, Roy might have found it remarkable how quickly and effortlessly Jamie makes the switch from Roy’s respectful star player to Roy’s friend, his entire demeanour changing as he moves into the room. As it is, Roy doesn’t say anything, but he must have made some sort of noise or moved some sort of way, because Jamie’s face twists in alarm, and then he’s across the floor and gently but firmly pulling Roy into a hug. “There, it’s all right, man, I’ve got you, lad, it’s all right.”

Roy blames all the fucking therapy he’d been doing for the past eight months for not pushing Jamie away but instead allowing the other to hold him, and allowing himself to hesitantly wrap his arms around him in turn. Fuck Nate. Fuck Beard. Fuck the team. Fuck anyone who thinks they get to have opinions on that.

He’s got an inch on Jamie, but Jamie’s broader, solid and strong. Steady, as he puts a hand on the back of Roy’s neck, murmuring nonsense that Roy knows is supposed to be soothing, and which maybe is. Mostly, it’s reassuring to have Jamie there, whole and hale and safe.

“What’s going on? Is Phoebe all right? Did something happen to your sister? Keeley?” Jamie is starting to sound a little freaked out, and Roy realises that he can’t just stand there mutely forever and let the fears grow in Jamie’s mind, he needs to fucking say something, explain.

He’d rather never say another word.

Tough fucking luck, Kent. “Do you remember what I told you when you said you’d had sex with a dominatrix?”

The way Jamie stiffens tells him that, yeah, Jamie does. “Roy—“

Roy tightens his grip, not wanting Jamie to pull away. “Don’t fucking tell me it was fine, because you were a nightmare for the rest of that day, you were absolutely fucking horrible to everyone.” Worse than usual, lashing out—not that Roy had known it at the time, or had thought it anything more than Jamie being a fucking prick for no other reason than to be a prick.

For a few moments, Jamie doesn’t say anything. Then he lets out a long sigh, relaxing into the embrace and pressing his face against Roy’s neck. “Yeah, okay,” he mutters, “it was all shit, mate. I mean, all of it was, it wasn’t just you— But, Roy, listen… “ And now Jamie does pull back, just enough so that he can look at Roy. His eyes are tired, but the set of his jaw determined. “You fucking hated me, right? Back then, I mean. You hated me, ‘cause I was a prick, and I hated you, ‘cause you were a bitter old cunt.”

There’s no fucking denying it, is there. Roy gives a sharp nod. “Yeah, but—“

“No, let me just— I’m not saying that makes it all right, yeah, I just— You hated me, okay. But, would you have said what you said if you’d known what really happened?”

Roy’s lips twist into snarl. “What? No! Of course I wouldn’t fucking have— “ He might have ached to put Jamie’s head through a wall several times a day, but he wouldn’t have stood by for Jamie’s piece of shit father—

“See?” The little twat has the audacity to look triumphant at that, as if he’d scored a particularly neat goal. “That’s what I’m saying, yeah? Even when you hated my guts, you wouldn’t have said that, if you’d known what was going on. But you didn’t know, ‘cause I didn’t want you to, or anyone to, and I’m an amazing actor, yeah? So, like, it’s not fine, but it’s… Don’t beat yourself up over it, man. You didn’t know.”

It’s absolution, the kind Roy doesn’t think he deserves and the Jamie is far too quick to offer. But Jamie is also right: Roy hadn’t known. Wallowing in guilt won’t do anything to change the past, or help Jamie now.

“All right,” Roy says. “But that was still a shit thing to say and I wish hadn’t done it. You never deserved any of what that arsehole did to you, and if… fuck it, when I made you feel like I thought otherwise, that was my fucking bad, and I’m sorry.”

Jamie nods. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, man.” And there’s a tremulousness to his faint smile that makes Roy think that for all his claims to the contrary, it had still been something Jamie needed to hear.

It does Roy’s fucking head in that Jamie’s been up to see his dad several times since he got word that James Tartt is in rehab. But they’ve argued about that already, bitterly, and Roy has very reluctantly admitted that it’s not his call. All he can do is offer Jamie whatever support he needs, whenever he wants it.

Clearing his throat, Roy gives Jaime an awkward pat on the shoulder before carefully extricating himself fully from the hug. “We’re still on for dinner with Keeley tonight?” He’ll make Jamie’s favourite dish, he decides. Throw in some dessert.

“Yeah, of course, yeah.”

“Good.” He jerks his head to the door. “Go on then, tell the lads to get on the pitch, and we’ll be there in a minute.”

“Yes, Coach.”

As the door shuts behind him, Roy turns on Beard and Nate who – wisely – don’t say anything.

“I don’t want to fucking talk about this,” he tells them sharply. “I don’t want you mentioning a fucking word of it ever again.” Because maybe he’s gotten to a point where having a fucking breakdown and hugging it out with Jamie in front of them isn’t the end of the world (even if it’s a near fucking thing), but if someone tries to make him discuss it, he’ll need to start head-butting people, and he’s been trying to stay off that since he became manager, because it just isn’t a good look, is it, and he’s trying to be better about that sort of thing.

Nate and Beard glance at each other. Roy doesn’t really care for the knowing look in their eyes, but they merely offer a nod and a yeah, yeah, of course, sure in reply, and that will have to do.

In this messed up world, a lot of things would have to fucking do.

“Right,” Roy says, already moving to follow Jamie. “I’ll see you on the fucking pitch.”

---

A/N: This was supposed to be the fourth of the stand alone ficlets I call The Locker Room Conversations, but it got quite a bit darker (and less team focused) than I usually do for those, so I’m not sure. I’ll sit on it for a bit, maybe fiddle a little, and see where I put it when it goes up on AO3 eventually.

If you like the idea of the team uncovering sad truths about Jamie’s past and are into heavier angst (and more of the team taking care of Jamie), I highly recommend checking out i should be the poster kid for this shit by anotherlongstoryshort / babytarttdoodoo

#well-intentioned ribbing lead to unhappy revelations #and references to earlier abuse #and roy having all the emotions about it #there’s also a very long hug because a girl’s gotta get her kicks somehow #james tartt sr is mentioned and his own warning #hurt/comfort #angst #roy kent #jamie tartt #roy & jamie #afc richmond #a team of himbos #who mean well even when they get it wrong #fic #my stuff

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ynbabe · 11 months ago

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Fake texts au- pt.15 bffs with the rookies+ "come pick me up I'm scared"

Okay, I was in my feels when I wrote this one, sooo- it's sad as shit 😭, this is a CW, I think?

| Masterlist |

"Well, I didn't ask," You responded to Logan, who kept you company as you walked from your dorm to your university in the UK, he had been struggling with jet lag as he was back home for the two-week break for the Vegas GP.

"Well, why didn't ya?" He called out, you told him to do jumping jacks to help go to sleep, you didn't know how it would help but the thought of him jumping around made you laugh.

"Mate, I've gotta call you back," you looked at the huge crowd of men and women with expensive cameras and microphones in front of her university's gates, "Bruv, there's gotta be a celebrity or someone dead."

"Okay," he said, panting, "I think it worked, imma go sleep," he cut the call.

"Scuse me, imma just pass through, to actually study here," you pushed through the crowd till someone grabbed your book bag and yelled, "IT'S HER- IT'S Y/N L/N."

And then, the chaos started.

The cameras began flashing till you couldn't see, mics shoved in your face making scarps and bruises as people pushed and pulled you, yelling questions in your face.

"How do you know the F1 drivers?" one yelled,

"Are you dating any of them?" came another,

"Is it true you're related to Fernando Alonso?" A woman asked, grabbing your hoodie.

The whirlwind went on for a few more minutes, you tried your best to get out of the storm without saying something that might negatively impact their reputations, but then came those questions.

"How's the cushy life since you've got baby Schumacher's pockets?" you heard someone yell.

You finally found an exit, that's it, just five more feet and you'd be free, you know you could outrun them, "Hey, y/n! Who fucks better?" Some guy called out from behind you.

"Your Mother," you yelled back, throwing a punch at the disgustingly proud-looking, fifty-something-year-old man. Shock rippled through the crowd where laughter had run at the question just a few seconds before.

You used the distraction to run back to your dorm room, only your phone in hand, your bag having been yanked off your back in the mess.

"What the fuck?" You panted as you saw your dormmates outside your room, cash in hand, you pushed them aside and ran in, only to find your laptop and iPad missing, along with the camera Lando had gifted to you, the signed 'inchident' from Max and Charles, the polaroid of you, oscar and Logan camping in when you were teenagers and the 'Build a bear' Arthur had gotten you with him saying an inside joke.

You felt your face warm as anger and tears pricked at you.

You turned around to find the unreadable faces of your dormmates, "Where the fuck is my stuff?" You asked, hoping it was all a joke like you hadn't just lost everything that gave you hope, that gave you happiness.

"WHERE THE FUCK IS MY SHIT-" You yelled, slamming your hand on the room door, making your friends move back, one tried to speak, trying to make excuses, "DON'T CHAT TO ME, FUCK YOU-" you could hear your voice breaking, "fuck you," you did your best not to cry but it was becoming tough to not.

You ran out of the building, and despite their protests, you made your way through back alleys and corridors that only locals would know of, pulling up your hood in case anyone recognised you.

You thought of who you could call, Logan was in America, god you wished Logan was here with you, he wouldn't have let this happen in the first place, you laughed to yourself. Oscar and Arthur weren't around either. Max, Charles and Lando were all in Monaco, and you definitely not going to let Mick, someone you'd known barely for a month see you like this, and he wasn't in the UK.

You wiped your hands down your face, and dialled on your phone, "Alex..." your voice trembled against his cheerful greeting, making him worry, "Can you come pick me up please," you tried not to break down. How did it get to this?

"Yes, give me a few, are you okay? Y/n? Hey-" You cut the call, sending him your location. How were you asking for Alex's help? The same man who'd pat you awkwardly on your head every time he saw you. Someone who'd begun treating you like a little sister, along with Logan, bringing you food from the cafeteria, sneaking in Redbulls. Someone who you'd tease calling your older brother, making him cringe about 'I'm not that much older', so maybe he was the right one to go to.

You saw a car pull up and you knew it was Alex, seeing him through the driver's side window. You got into the car, only phone in hand and the clothes on your back. "Hey, what are-?" Came a protest from George, who was in the passenger seat, but stopped as soon as he saw you sitting in the seat, you really didn't want this to be your first impression.

The car didn't move, like he was waiting for some form of explanation, "You'll see," you whispered, making him sigh and drive.

As he passed the gates of your university, they saw what you had been running from, and both their eyes widened. Alex looked into the back-view mirror at your face and decided not to say anything. George on the other hand, began cursing the crowd, calling some people on his phone.

You couldn't make out what he was saying, too tired and too scared.

"Hey, y/n wake up," Alex moved your arm, startling you awake, you saw you were in a car park and got out the car, following mindlessly, behind George, who was typing his code in. If Alex noticed it, he kept it to himself, but you could tell he was concerned about something.

You followed as they led to the apartment, you sat on the couch, if it were a normal, visit you'd be off the walls about the beautiful place, with floor-to-ceiling windows and plants everywhere, terracotta furniture to match the gloomy blue-grey sky.

"Um, George's place was closer, hope that's okay," Alex spoke, softly like it would spook you. He was right.

"I'll make tea, then," George nodded and walked off.

"M-My phone's dead, I think," you sniffled out.

"Y/n, that's not really-" He began,

"Can I charge it please?" I asked, if I tried to pretend this disaster didn't happen, maybe it would be like it wouldn't have.

He took the phone out of your half-stretched hand, attaching it to a charging cord, a small 'ding' telling you that it was indeed charging.

"Y/n, what happened?" He asked sitting next to you on the sofa.

"They took everything," you began, making him frown, George too, was out of his depth, placing the tray with three mugs of tea, "M-My frie- roommates, sold my laptop and iPad, and all the things I'd gotten from you all." You began, but this time you couldn't hold in the tears that pricked at your eyes.

You cried into the sleeve of your hoodie, curling into yourself on the sofa.

All those memories were lost. You had photos all the way from your childhood on that laptop and now they were gone.

"Oh, um," He went in to hug you and patted your head, making you laugh.

''See! There we go!" He smiled wide, making you laugh more, "Here," he passed you a mug of tea, it had cooled off a little, so you could drink it.

"You punched someone?" Came George's voice, it was the only thing he'd said to you.

You looked sheepishly at your right fist, the knuckles of which had turned a nasty red.

"No worries, I'll go get a first-aid," He said, walking to get it, when he was back he sat you on your other side, "You know," he poured some anti-septic onto a cotton pad, "I think, you handled it quite well, they were some stupid questions," He said as he moved onto your face.

You hissed, "Wait, what?" You asked, "It's already on the net?" You felt another wave of anger and tears.

"Yup," Alex said, moving his phone to you, showing a reel on Instagram, where the man was asking you that question, edited with the 'your mom' sound and a 'thwack' when the punch landed, ending with an edit of you in cat ears and a high-pitched fast-paced song.

"What... the fuck?" You didn't know where to laugh or cry.

"Mate, why the edits?" George asked scoffing.

"Wait, check Twitter," You suggested suddenly seeing the hilarity of the situation, "ARE FUCKING KIDDING ME?" You yelled, gulping the last of your tea, "YOUR MOTHER IS TRENDING??" it wasn't on top of the trending list but it was there.

"Y/n... I think you're going to love this," George showed something on his phone, they'd turned your voice into an audio, and there were already hundreds of videos being made on it on TikTok.

"Fuck my life."

.xX A few hours later Xx.

George had given one of his flannels, noticing how dirty your hoodie had gotten.

The three of you ordered takeout and watched The Walking Dead all afternoon, he genuinely reminded you of a posh London Mother.

In the middle of season 2, George got a call, "Hello-" He began but was cut off almost immediately and you could hear the man on the phone's voice till out.

"WHERE IS SHE?" Another voice yelled, "IS SHE OKAY??" All the sudden noise made George flinch and pull the phone away from him.

He quickly passed the phone off to you, and you were bombarded by three heavily accented Monganesque accents, "Hi, guys it's me," You responded making the call go silent for a second and then they all began screaming again, loudest was Arthur, then came Charlie's voice. Lastly, It was Lorenzo who got both the others to keep quiet.

You used the peaceful moment to excuse yourself to another room.

"Are you okay, y/n?" He asked and you replied with a small yes, he hummed and passed the phone.

"Y/n, oh my god, I saw the posts," Charles began, "Those people were stupid to attack you like that," He comforted you.

"Thank you, Charlie," You said, a small smile on your face.

You waited as words were exchanged in French and you heard footsteps on the other end of the line.

"I'm sorry Y/n, that should have never happened, it is all because of us," his voice rang sad.

"It's okay, Arthur, we'll talk about this when we're together okay?" You responded, and he kept apologising as he cut the call.

Next came Logan's call, just as you were about to call him, "What the fuck is wrong with people?" He questioned, his tone angry, "You could have gotten hurt. Like seriously hurt. This is bullshit." He yelled, but then his voice softened, "You aren't hurt are you?"

"No, not much, I've got a few bruises and cuts but all mint other than that." He hummed as you spoke, and began asking you other questions and you told him about what your roommates had done, you could hear that he was livid but kept trying to be calm for you.

And when Oscar called, that's when it finally hit you again, that feeling of losing everything that you held dear, "Y/n, please don't cry," came his voice from the other end, "Please don't cry while I'm away cause then I can't do anything about it," his voice broke.

"They took all our stuff, Osc, all the way from the first time we met to the last time we got McDonald's together, everything," you sniffled and you could hear the frown in his voice.

"I'm sure we can get it back, don't worry y/n, we'll figure it out, ya know, we've all got your back, speaking of which, you'd better call Max right away, he's with Lando, his bombarding my phone as we speak," He complained, returning some normalcy to your situation.

You cut the call and called Max, and it was Lando who spoke first, cursing at the media and complementing your punch and quick response and then Max took over.

"Firstly, are you okay?" He asked, making you say yes, "Secondly, I've got a lawyer ready, tell me and we'll fight this. We can find a way to get your stuff back." you didn't know what to say.

"Yes, yes, please," you spoke for a little longer before you had to excuse yourself. You had to call someone, someone you know who was going to be livid.

"Hiiiiii," You spoke into the phone, awaiting a response.

"Y/n, how are you, kiddo?" Your uncle's voice rang out. He had been taking care of you ever since you were a teenager, not that you needed much, a place to stay and school.

"I'm fine, it was bound to happen one day," you exhaled at the unfairness of it all.

"I know, I heard what your bastardas friends did," and you could hear the anger in his voice, "Names, and I will get it sorted," He asked making you giggle, he'd always been like this ever since you had showed up on his doorstep.

You told him not to do anything rash but that Max had gotten you a lawyer, he seemed proud of Max for that.

You told him you had to leave since it wasn't your phone you'd been using.

You walked inside, apologising for hogging the phone but George just waved his hand, too invested in whatever episode that was playing. He'd gotten out a bottle of wine (Of course he had,) and he and Alex were busy deep-diving into the show's lore.

He'd kept you a glass, which you gladly accepted.

As the day progressed, you took your leave, but not before George offering you the guest room, saying Alex would take the sofa, which made the other man kick the taller blonde, as you took your leave, having booked an Uber and hotel room for the week, you could still hear them play fighting.

As you were in the car, Mick called you, and you were surprised he had.

"Hey, Y/n! How are you?" He asked,

"Good, you?" You were good at pretending everything was okay, you got an A+ in coping mechanisms class in school!

"Can't be worse than, you know, punching someone," he laughed, you had realised, that the both of you had a sense of humour that really just clicked.

"Oh mate, that was the good part!" You made sure that your payment had gone through with the Uber driver and walked into the hotel. They already had your room ready (courtesy of George, you were sure,) and you only needed to show an ID to be led in, without any other questions.

"Yeah... I saw all the clips on Instagram," He sighed.

"It was kind of crazy, I can't even imagine how it must be for you guys!" You put the phone on speaker and looked through the room service options.

You were going to have lunch in your dorm's cafeteria but that loan had kind of fallen apart, and anyways tea and wine wasn't nearly enough to make you forget the shit show that happened today.

"Mate you won't believe what else happened," You told him about the laptop.

"What the fuck,"

"RIGHT- anyways, I hope they don't get into my drive 'cause I have some in there that is not for public eyes, like imagine they saw the video of your horrible Ghostface impression?" You laughed at him, making him remember the party.

"Oh, Please, it was amazing, I scared you!" He yelled,

"And then you shrieked when Logan did the same to you,"

"Well yes, but he was dressed as Anakin, y/n! I'm not competing with that!" He gasped, shivering at how the hair on his neck raised when Logan did the voice.

"Oh mate please, but that's not even the worst of it, I've got a video of Max and Charles, slow dancing, and literally everything Lando and Carlos do is incriminating."

"That is true, I didn't see them for half of the party," he insinuated.

"Well, you and Arthur were pretty busy seeing who could down more shots," You snickered.

"Well, it wouldn't have become that big if Oscar didn't egg us on!" He complained as he had for days after the party but all he got from Oscar was a smug smirk, with an evil look in his eyes whenever he did something like that.

You spoke till room service came in and then excused yourself to drown in pasta and Netflix.

Taglist: @dark-night-sky-99 @cashtons-wife @i-wish-this-was-me @thehufflepuffavenger1 @eugene-emt-roe @fangirl-dot-com @landosgirlxoxo @aquangxl @sachaa-ff @tyna-19 @assholeinatrenchcoat @allenajade-ite @megatrilss1885 @squirreljoe @jsjcue @s4turnsl0ver @yl90 @elijahslover

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