#Cockney!Reader

[a-998h]

Heya! I would like to see how the Duwang gang would react to Cockney vampire! reader? Let's say Jotaro brought Reader with him to Morioh

"Aye, Josuke.... That's your name, innit? How's 'bout we be mates?"

Oh good god

They would be so confused. It's already hard for you to learn Japanese, but your accent makes things a lot harder to understand.

Josuke

He is a bit nervous

I mean, you're a vampire

Josuke: umm, hello mister/misses

Reader: Ello, yew must be Josuke. Please to meet yew koid.

Josuke: *confused* thanks?

He relies on Jotaro for translation sometimes

Once he gets to know you, he has so many questions

Asks you about being a vampire

Finds you accent a little funny

Wants to know how you and Jotaro became friends

He will ask you about Dio... then stop when he sees you're about to punch a hole into the wall

Asks you about the bow and arrow

You two share stories about friends, family, and the chaos of kicking ass

Picks up on your slang, but uses it wrong sometimes

Asks for your address so you two and still keep contact

Feels a little bad that you have immortality

Teaches you things about the modern world

Okuyasu

He is so sweet, and so confused

You being a vampire freaks him out

He doesn't understand what you half the time but he tries to

Okuyasu: 👋 HI.

Reader: Aye, Okuyasu.... That's your name, innit? How's 'bout we be mates?

Okuyasu: *confused head nodding* sure

He asks you questions about being a vampire

Asks you about Dio once... he no longer does

Ends up as your friend

He doesn't understand your slang sometimes

Does try to fight you when you two first meet

Only stops after Josuke and Jotaro explain the situation

Asks you about Stands and stuff

Finds your stoires really cool

You two bond over trauma

Likes when you talk about your family

Sometimes forget you can't have food

Okuyasu: Want to go to Tonio's?

Reader: Maoite, I'm a bloody vampire.

Okuyasu: so, is that a yes?

Reader: *facepalms*

Isn't mean, just a lovely dumbass

Koichi

Is so scared of you

He hides behind Josuke and Okuyasu when you show up

Comes around when you prove you're not a threat

Still on edge every time you're around

Just nods along with what you say

Has so many questions

Has been warned not to ask about Dio or the bow and arrow

Asks about your adventures with Jotaro

Talks to you about Stands

Asks you for advice on how to deal with Yukako

Reader: *talking about how evil Dio is*

Koichi: *nodding along, not understanding*

Reader: Are yew just nodding along 'cause you don't understand?

Koichi: *nodding along, not understanding*

You teach him slang too

He doesn't use some of it cause it doesn't make sense even after you explain it

Shares some of his interests with you

Has to warn you abut Yukako and Rohan

Tries to keep you away from Rohan at all costs

Begs to you protect him from Yukako

Wonders how you and Jotaro became friends

Thinks its kind of cool you're a vampire

Sometimes forgets you can't eat normal food, but he apologizes when he forgets

Begs you not to follow Yukako's wish of making her and him vampires

Yukako

is not scared of you at all

She is suspicious of you

When she hears your voice she gets confused

She's never heard a British person before

When she learns you're a vampire.... run

She'll be begging to make her and Koichi vampires

Yukako: Please, Please, Please. It would mean the world to me!

Reader: No what in 'ell! Oi'm not doing vhat to another person!

Yukako: *batting her eyes* please.

Reader: No

Koichi: *scared for his life*

Asks you about life as a vampire

Will somehow find you when Koichi tries to keep you away

I upset when she learns you can't see your reflection

She now has spa and self cares days with you

Will threat to leave you in the sun if you make her mad

Overall, you're scared and she's excited

Asks about other things

Tries to keep you away from Koichi sometimes

Wonders if her Stand will work on you

Asks you about Stands

Rohan

Also, not scared

He finds you fascinating

Well track you down to ask you about your life

Has you over so he can ask questions about your life as a vampire

Will either make a character, or use your story as manga inspiration

Tries to find ways to transcribe your accent in Japanese

Will ask you about Stands

Will ask you question that bother you, just because he can

Really wants to use Heaven's Door on you

Finds it gross you drink blood

Your accent confuses and excites him

Rohan: So, what's it like?

Reader: Being a vampire?

Rohan: Yes.

Reader: *vents their frustration at being a vampire*

Rohan: *frantic note taking* go on.

Sometimes forget you need blood

Also finds you when Koichi and crew try to keep him away from you

Asks about Stands

Asks about your origin and journey with Jotaro

[nickgoesinsane]

Like just imagine Hobie being aware that he's a character in a movie of fictional spider people- and he gets off on being looked at. He touches himself imagining all these people looking at him, watching him...

That has me thinking. Reader is something like a Watcher, and Hobie somehow knows about their existence. He’ll toe off his platforms and lay down in bed, pushing his pants down to take his hard cock in his hand. He tips his head back, sighing in pleasure, and smiles as he strokes himself, swiping his thumb over the tip of his cock to collect the precum dribbling from his slit.

“See what you’re doin’ to me?” He moans softly into the quiet air, “Got me all hard an’ leaking. Do you like watchin’? Seein’ me make a mess.” He reaches down to give his balls a small squeeze, a groan coming from the back of his throat. He reaches over to grab the bottle of lube from the bedside table, popping it open to drizzle it over his length. Hobie closes his eyes, humming and groaning in pleasure as the wet sounds of him fucking into his fist fill the room.

The window creaks open.

[solyxa]

Period Comfort - Hobie Brown

“Ugh…”

You groaned as you turned over trying to get comfortable to no avail. Your period came on yesterday and it has been hell ever since. You sigh as you shift again, placing a pillow under your stomach to relieve the cramps as you lay your head down to nap. Just then, you heard the click of your window lock. As you turned towards the window, you saw a thick head of hair on a lanky frame step through your window. As the figure straightened up, it became clear that it was your boyfriend, Hobie Brown.

“Geez, you’ve really gotta stop breaking into my house.” You gave him a tired smile from your bed as he sidled over with his bag in hand.

“Eh, I figure it’s kinda my thing. You get me?” You start to roll your eyes playfully at him before you’re bombarded by cramps. You wince and hold your stomach as Hobie watches you, one hand in his pocket and one holding his bag which he holds out to you.

“What’s this?” You reach out to take it with a curious look, he simply shrugs in response.

“It’s your George Michael*, yeah? Figured this’d help.” He kicked off his shoes, shrugged off his jacket, and jumped into bed with you. He placed one hand under his head and propped one leg over the other as you inspected the bag’s contents.

It was filled with your favorite snacks, painkillers, and even a heat pad. Hobie had really gone all out for you, and you thought that was really sweet. “Thanks, babes. You’re so sweet. You didn’t have to buy all of this for me.”

He turned to you with a wicked smile as he responded. “Don’t worry, darling. I didn’t”

You sighed in a long-suffering way as you cuddled up to him. “I guess I should expect nothing less from my favorite anarchist.” He wrapped an arm around you and stroked your head gently as he gave a self-satisfied smile. “You know it, luv.”

You hummed happily as you drifted off to sleep in his arms, feeling his breathing rise and fall beside you as he murmured a soft “G’night, love.”

*(George Michael is Cockney Rhyming Slang for menstrual cycle)

[sailorsenshishitposter]

Liquid Snake x Reader

Warning for language but it's part of the copypasta. Also British stereotypes in case that offends you.

Liquid Snake

You have a thing for bad boys, are attracted to English accents or you just have a massive inferiority complex.

First Date:

You are a soldier working on Shadow Moses Island. Your partner has just taken Solid Snake to a locked cell after bring tortured by Ocelot, now leaving you and the blonde alone together. He turns your way and you try not to shit your pants Johnny style. He looks at you, then places a palm on your shoulder. "Oi mate, I think ell be outta it fo' a while. Care fo' a spot o' tea?" You're not really left with much of a choice so you follow your boss.

You eventually reach a cafeteria for the staff. Liquid dumps all the coffee out of the pot and begins to fill it with earl grey tea. "You hungry?" You shake your head. You couldn't possibly eat after seeing what the man had for himself on a tray. "Nothing like good ol' beans an marmite!" He then grabbed the pot and drank it all, scalding his throat. "That was bloody good, that it was!" Was your superior some kind of freak?

He then went on a long speech about french infants or something? You didn't really care and started to zone out. You didn't realize you had fallen asleep until you woke up to liquids final words. "And next thing I no, the bloke is ripping out me vocal cords. That's wot I get for workin' with a red head who got his fashion sense from a BDSM club." Just then you heard a noise. !

It was none other than Solid Snake, having made his escape. Liquid was furious. "BRUV, HOW DID YOU ESCAPE!" His twin walked closer. "That's not important. I just came by to tell you that you're wrong. You can't download UNO for Xbox." Liquid then felt his veins begin to twitch. "Everyone has UNO dipshit. It came fo' free with your fucking Xbox!" His twin then gave him a smirk. "I didn't get it, I have the oldest Xbox known to man."

"No you don't, I bought mine on day one you fucking tard."

.....

"Well, mine didn't have it." He was determined to prove Solid wrong. The two men soon ended up in a screaming match, various swears tossed back and forth. "I DON'T FUCKING HAVE UNO MOTHERFUCKER!"

"GO TO IT IN THE ARCADE AND YOU'LL BE ABLE TO DOWNLOAD IT FO' FREE, YOU DUMB WANKER! IT'S A FUCKING CARD GAME, THEY DON'T EVEN CHARGE PEOPLE FO' IT!"

"I DON'T HAVE TWO, I DON'T HAVE THREE, I DON'T HAVE FUCKING FOUR, I DON'T HAVE SEVEN, EIGHT, NINE, TEN, OR ELEVEN!"

"YOU DON'T KNOW A GODDAMN BLOODY THING, IT'S FUCKING UNO, IT'S FREE-" Suddenly Liquid stopped. He raised his hand to his chest and gave out a weak cough. He then toppled over, a result from the FOXDIE. "Damn. Never seen someone get so angry that they straight up had a heart attack. Colonel, the plan worked. I'm bringing Meryl back and then we're going to pound town. Just don't expect me to call her afterwards." You couldn't hear the other voice on the codec call but you had a hunch that it was something along the lines of "Wait, what?-"

Shit. Well now you were out of a job. You went to the lab and found a computer already logged in. It was time to start looking for shady jobs on Craigslist again.

[vhstown]

me fighting for my life trying not to write hobie as an old white geezer from north london when he's a black teenager from east 😭😭😭

[threadsun]

Hello it's me!!! I want to request Lucky smoking kink because I am a predictable creature but I don't want to force smoking upon him if he doesn't. 💖🌈

Ask Game

It doesn't surprise you that he smokes. That sweet-bitter smell clings to the wrinkled leather of his jacket in a way that makes your heart race. And you wouldn't be shocked if it continued to follow him even if he shed the ever-present clothing. It's just a part of him, like his scars or his wrinkles.

Even the way he rummages in his pocket for his packet of cigarettes seems fitting. One large hand shoved in the pocket of the brown leather jacket, fishing out a half-crumpled paper packet and a matchbook. He coaxes a cigarette out of the paper, pressing the end tight between his lips to pull it all the way out. It's shoved unceremoniously back into his pocket and his attentions turn to the matchbook.

It's impossible to ignore how large his hands are as he fiddles with the flimsy matches. Two strikes and he's lit it, holding the flame up for a moment's inspection before bringing it to the end of the cigarette. As soon as the end begins to glow, he drops the match and snuffs the flame with his heel.

He's so relaxed about it all. Leaning against the cold brick wall, breathing in with closed eyes and a blissful expression before letting the smoke slowly escape from between his lips as though he can hardly bare to part from it. He doesn't seem to notice the way you squirm as you watch him, eyes glued to his lips.

A few drags seem to be enough to relax him, shoulders losing their tension as he lets his head fall back against the wall. The cigarette hangs loose between two thick fingers. A single eye cracks open to inspect you, lips curling up into a leering grin.

He says something, but you don't quite catch it. You're too focused on the way his lips move. How they wrap around each syllable and then the end of the cigarette. How they part again to push out the smoke, letting it go in your direction with a pleased smirk. He raises a single eyebrow and waits for you to answer.

"Huh?"

He laughs lowly, amused by the confused tilt of your head. "I said, fancy an oily?"

He's got the packet of cigarettes back in his hand, extended towards you. You don't even think before you take it, popping it between your lips. He leans in. Your breath catches. The smouldering end of his cigarette presses to yours, his large hands coming up to cup them both. With a quick puff, yours is lit too, accompanied by the intoxicating scent of tobacco on his breath.

For a moment, you consider intentionally coughing in the hope that he might shotgun the smoke into your mouth. But you fear that would be enough to do you in for good. As it is, you're down way too bad for this old man. You're thoroughly screwed.

[teacupwrites]

Vees with a Android Reader

Valentino

Valentino had plenty of servants around, such as Kitty

So he didn’t really need another little assistant

But what he did need was a maid

And Valentino isn’t the biggest fan of actual demons that can make mistakes, so he just went out and bought a cleaning android

You were pretty small, about 4’11 and came with a little maid dress and a feather duster

When Valentino first powered you on, he expected a cute little robot who’d follow his orders and not say a word

But you weren’t normal- far from it actually

The Moth Overlord was greeted with a bubbly little maid who would follow him around like a lost puppy whenever you weren’t deep cleaning the place like a maniac

You were eccentric, though obedient and that was what he mostly cared about

Vox nearly had a heart attack when he first met you as you immediately jumped up onto him to clean some dust upon his flat face

Whenever Vox was gone, and Valentino didn’t have anyone to rant to, he would always make a mess of his quarters whilst screaming his frustrations out to you as you quickly cleaned up his trash

Slowly but surely, Valentino grew fond of you, and even would gift you in new clothes or cleaning supplies whenever he was feeling charitable

He treats you better than his other employees, but he also thinks less of you, like you are an Imp or something like that, but he still likes you

“Darling I’m pretty sure that it’s clean,” he protested, looking down at your skittering figure as you darted from place to place in an attempt to keep everything tidy. 

He was elegantly perched on his couch, holding up a drink Kitty had brought over earlier, watching in amusement as you dashed around in a panic. There was a party happening, and you were eager to make sure everything looked nice

“No it isn’t!” you called back, snatching an empty glass and quickly stuffing it into the dishwasher. “Everything’s so dirty!” You crawled around with such speeds that Valentino might have mistaken you for a little bug, which was actually one of his many nicknames for you

“Whatever you say, ladybug,” 

Velvette

Long story short, Velvette was running out of patience 

She needed models to advertise, and all of them kept dying or were just outright ugly in the outfits she provided

After complaining to Vox for forever, he suggested that she buy a model bot

With some convincing, she actually listened, and went out and purchased one, which happened to be you

Though you were bland, so before powering you on she was quick to pazazz and doll you up

And when you did wake up, and did as your manual said, she was pleased

For once, Velvette was nice to someone, and it was a little robot who was constantly pasted onto billboards, commercials, and magazines all dressed in her products

She was chill with you, and you weren’t complaining about free makeup, perfume and clothing

The only thing was that she was very controlling, and liked to have you as her arm candy basically wherever she went

But it was nice to almost never be on the receiving end of her Cockney accent and British slang

 Not many people knew your name outside of the V tower, so people online nicknamed you Dolly, 

You didn’t really have a name actually, but Velvette enjoyed calling you things like: ‘Sweetheart’ “Dollface’ and ‘Sugar’

And very…very rarely, she will sometimes listen to your opinions, things you picked up on when working with her

“Ugh! All of this is trash!” Velvette snapped, stomping with a deep glare at the line up of demons who had crafted the clothing you were dressed up in. 

They all winced underneath her sharp and furious gaze, recoiling away from her quippy and sassy comments as she scolded the people. Meanwhile, you glanced over at something on the pile of clothing.

“Velvette?” you called, making her whip over to glare at you, to which you shyly pointed over to a black and hot pink crop top that sat atop the pile. “What if I matched that with the skirt?”

She seemed skeptical, but with a snap of your fingers, your sleeveless turtleneck was replaced by the crop top, which magically seemed to match the boots and the fitted skirt you wore

Never before had you seen Velvette so surprised before.

“Sweetheart you’re a genius!” she chirped, her frown switching to a bright smile in a second. Velvette then darted over to you, grabbing you by the side and pulling you into a side hug. “Alright- we’re gonna go get you some upgrades today just because of how smart you are.”

Vox

Vox is a lot different from the others simply because he had built you

Originally, you were going to be an assistant type of bot he was going to sell worldwide, with secret cameras in your optics so he could spy on more of Hell

But mistakes were made, and you, the first prototype, ended up adopting a personality he grew quick to enjoy

Though he did end up selling more advanced models like yourself, he kept you, the first

Instead, you were the main hostess of the News he kept up, as Vox was usually pretty busy

The people adored you, and Vox couldn’t just rid of you

Not that he’d want to- so he kept you

He was very attached to your original model, so you were usually denied when asking for upgrades to your system

Though sometimes, he would give you little things here and there

Switchable hands, Better cameras, cleaner plates, or better wiring

But Vox always refused when you asked for a different model

You would always stay in the same body, and he wasn’t backing out of that

He has a lot of nicknames up his sleeve, and enjoys your reactions when he brings in new ones

“Dearheart, Darling, Sugar, etc”

Overall, he’s probably the best to be owned by

[k4lenz]

HIII, can i request hobie x reader nsfw but its not like all rough n stuff .. its gentle & caring basically “making love” or wtv from hobie’s POV

-🧼

making love ✮ hobie brown x fem!reader

a/n: HIII!! this is such a cute idea thankyou ! guys i <3 🧼 my requests r open if you like this content!!! word count: 1.4k!!! notes: soft, SMUT!!!, affectionate, 'making love', hobies pov, praise, bro is down bad n pussy whipped but also loves everything about you n would do anything for you, he's a cutie, unprotected, he nibbles on ya, established relationship?, bro wants to warm you up *eyebrow wiggle*, no use of y/n, praise ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 You were gorgeous. At least, that was the first thought running through Hobie's mind as you whimpered beneath him. You were both wrapped up in the blankets of your bed, it was a freezing cold night like usual in the UK, and you were cuddled up together for warmth. He'd wrapped his arms around you the minute he saw you shiver, and he'd even made you a warm drink earlier. "Ya cold, innit? Drink up. How's this gon' warm ya up? D'ya not trust me, honey?" He hated seeing you cold. You'd call him your heat pack, your teddy bear, more often then not, and he'd laugh it off but secretly? He liked it. He wanted to be your comfort. He loved being able to stay in with you, it was like all his worries and responsibilities faded away. He wasn't Spider-Punk, he was just Hobie. Nothing about the outside world came in between you two in the moments shared together. He'd claimed earlier, after you said that you were still freezing to death and his drink didn't work, that he knew the perfect way to warm up. So now here you were. He laid on top of you, you both wore pyjamas but he was softly rolling his hips against your own. Eliciting a soft shudder to run down your spine. He chuckled deeply against your skin, starting to tug down your pyjama pants. Lowering and pressing a slow kiss to your underwear teasingly, making you squirm as his lips applied pressure against your clit through the cloth. "So pretty, doll. You don't even realize it.." His cockney accent was soothing to your ears, he knew you had a certain fondness for it and he enjoyed teasing you with it. Let it be random whispers in your ear with filthy words, coming up behind you in the kitchen and murmuring a simple 'I love you'. Anything, really. He kissed along your thighs too, watching your eyes fog with lust. He liked making you react so well. "Hobie." You whined, and he found it adorable. You were irresistible.

"Mhm?" He had to stifle a laugh, you just looked so cute. "Please." And who was he to deny you? He pulled his pants and boxers down in one swift movement, his two-toned lips peppering your face with sweetness as you scrunched up, giggling a little. He couldn't help but look at you adoringly, you were just so.. Cute? Sweet? Everything he'd ever dreamed of? He smiled fondly, unable to take his eyes off of you. You smiled back. He pulled your underwear down teasingly, fanning his breath on your body as you made yourself more comfortable on the bed. Both of your clothes since discarded on the floor, neither of you were thinking about them of course. Hobie moved a little closer to you with a wink. He liked the contact, physical affection was his love language. His hands slowly parted your legs, always giving you a look to see if anything had changed in your expression or if you were feeling uncomfortable. Soothingly smoothing his hand over your thigh until he knew you were ready. He rubbed his throbbing hard-on up and down your slit, the tip catching on your clit and making you gasp. He slowly eased himself into your slick cunt with a pleased sigh until his hips met yours. Bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces, meant for each other. Soaking in your moan as he stretched you just like he had many times before, admiring you roll your eyes to the very back of your skull. "Ready, sweet lil'thing? Ay?" He observed you barely manage a "Y-Yeah." He nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck as he started to push in and out so gently, his cock rubbing your cervix perfectly. And he knew it, smugly, because all he had to do was look at you to see the pleasure written on your pretty face. Rolling his hips back and sliding into you at a slow pace so he could hit all the right spots. This didn't need to be quick or rough, you two just needed each other. This wasn't just sex, it was soft and intimate. It was making love. You let out a whimper into his mouth as he thrusted steadily, but particularly deep. He groaned against your warm skin, obsessed with the way you felt against him. "Good girl, dove.." Neither of you felt a need to rush, more to be in the moment. He ran his hands along your hips, feeling your smooth skin. The only thing on his mind was you and your pretty little cunt.

Your lips were parted, taking heavy breaths. He listened to your breaths and watched you melt. He felt like he'd won the lottery with you. "Feelin' good?" He whispered in your ear, smiling and listening to your soft moans as he fucked you unrushed and good. It'd been a while since he'd been able to do it like this, you were both busy lately. Him being a famous vigilante, you with work. But you'd always make time for each other, and spend it in the right ways. "So good, Hobie— Mmmhh.." He felt your words echo through him, and your hands resting on his chest. Not digging your nails into his skin, just resting there feeling his heartbeat. Your body sinking into the bed and your eyes fluttering closed as you both really got into it. "Love ya, Shit. Love ya 's much." He mumbled, pressing kisses along your jawline and lower to your neck affectionately. The coil in his stomach slowly winding as your pussy clenched around his dick. He nibbled the skin of your neck when you clenched on purpose, watching you react gleefully with a giggle cut off by a moan. His own large hands rubbing up and down your waist, the cool metal of his silver rings against your heated flesh making you squirm. One of his hands traveled down, his thumb starting to gently stroke your clit so he could hit your cervix at the same time. Eliciting a mewl from you, which is all he wanted, really. He could tell the deliberate pace he was taking was driving you insane in all the right ways, he knew you loved when he did it like this. It was fuzzy and intimate, genuinely sweet and caring. Almost relaxing, like there was nothing else in the world but the echoes of your sounds mixing together in the bedroom walls. Your eyes quickly opening as you reached the brink of your orgasm. "Close.." You panted, rolling your head back. And he grinned. Your neck stretching back and complexion glistening with a bit of sweat. You were so god damn wet for him too, the only word he could use to describe you was ethereal. Hair messy, body stretched out, legs wrapped around his waist for the perfect positioning. Could this get any better? "That's adorable. You can do it, babygirl. Be good and come all over my cock. Hm?" He massaged your clit more, your thighs trembling as he pushed you over that edge you so desperately needed. Seeing your hips roll back in ecstasy? It drove him insane. "Fuckfuckfuckfuck.. H-Hobie! Ah!" You chanted, slurring a mix of his name and curses. Tightening hard enough around him as your orgasm hit for him to release too, grunting and spilling himself deep inside you. Pleasure racking through both of your bodies in waves as he rested on your chest. Slowly fucking you through both his and your orgasm with sloppy wet thrusts. Panting for air.

"Am I.. really that good luv?" He chuckled as you panted for air, although his tone was breathless as well. Leaving hickeys in his wake as he nipped and sucked at your skin. "Shut up, Hobes." You laughed, pulling him into you and moving so you were laying on the bed fully together and intertwined. It was practically impossible for you two to get any closer.

"Y'warm now?" "Absolutely. I'd say that's my new favorite way of warming up." He heard your voice get sleepier with each syllable. He'd be more then happy to lay like this for the rest of the night, and so he did. Minutes passing by like seconds. Staring at your relaxed blissed out face as your head rested on the pillow, eyes shut."G'night." He whispered, even though you were already fast asleep in his arms. He was slowly lulled to sleep by the sound of your breath and the rain softly pattering against the window.

[konigenblobbity]

It’s All Written Down [Part 1]

Hobie Brown x Spidey!F!Reader

Warnings: Angst, Miguel being a prick, protective Hobie

—> [Part 2]

Summary: Due to your silent nature, you haven’t been the best at bonding with people. Miguel and Jess decided to give you a chance due to your skills. But as time passes, and the only person you warm up to is Hobie, Miguel’s patience grows thin and he decides to hold a meeting, without you, to make the call that you can’t be a part of the team anymore. You end up overhearing them and decide to make it easier by just listening to Miguel… and leaving.

Hobie should’ve known something was off when you weren’t at the meeting. He thought you might be late but even that was a stretch knowing you. It seemed that he was the only one who really knew you, no one else picking up on your disappearance.

You’d always been a ‘lone wolf’ of sorts… not because you wanted to be, but because you weren’t the type to really approach people, or even open up to them. You’d always learned that being quiet kept you out of trouble, it also kept you out of people’s hair.

Hobie picked up on it the moment you joined, you hadn’t taken your mask off once the day you arrived, it immediately intrigued him. He ended up commenting “love that anti-establishment vibe ya got, all going against the grain by not showing your face to these A tier strangers. I like it” you only gave a small nod, that was all it took for him to become fascinated by you.

He’d run up to you whenever he saw you at HQ, rambling on about his most recent demonstration or performance. He didn’t expect a response, rather liking how you’d only nod your head or let out short laughs when he cracked a joke. “Nah, I can only tell you this stuff, seeing as Miguel would get all on my ass bout it” when he hears your soft laugh he grins.

“Was that a laugh? Eh?” When you ignore him, and glance away he just pokes at your arm. “I know ya got your mask on but I can tell you’re grinnin” you try to nudge him away playfully, “you can’t tell nothing” but he continues to poke at you before throwing his arm around your shoulder. “I can read you like a book” He was right, you were smiling… the fact that he knew only made you smile more.

You’d have never expected Hobie to be so warm to you. Your silent and curt nature often pushed others away, thinking you were narcissistic or self-centered, or even just straight up strange. But not Hobie, he’d welcomed you with open arms, not trying to change you, or make fun of you. He made you feel safe.

After the first month, you began to spend more nights in Hobie’s dimension, killing time together, simply enjoying each others company. And one day, as you both decided to knock out for the night, you took off you mask right in front of him. Freezing immediately as you did. He hadn’t seen your face yet, no one in the team had.

When you began to stay over, he had made you a little sign to put on the door handle of his guest room which read “Mask off, so fuck off”. It made you giggle when he gave it to you and he just shrugged. “Wanna make you feel comfortable Briney Marlin, especially if you plan on crashing here more often” you found the act endearing.

“Briney Marlin?” You tilt your head and he just smiles at you. “It’s cockney love. For darlin’… is it alright if I call you that?” You think for a moment but nod “I don’t mind Marlin” and from then on that was his little nickname for you, you liked it cause it was unique… and cause it was from him.

But now, there you stood, mask in hands, eyes looking down at it. You look at Hobie’s figure lying on his bed with wide eyes, his eyes still focused on the guitar in his lap, he wasn’t even looking at you. You don’t speak, so he does. “I haven’t seen a thing yet Marlin… you can still put it back on” those words warmed your heart, you pause for a moment, thinking over his offer, but decide otherwise, shaking your head slightly and smiling.

“No. That’s alright” at those words he looks up at you, his eyes focusing on your features, he then gives you a reassuring smile. “Well aren’t you just ravishing love” he said it in a tone which made your face heat, but there was still a platonic nature to it. Letting you know that he wasn’t going to make a big fuss over this.

After that, you never wore your mask in Hobie’s place, enjoying that it was only in his company that you feel comfortable enough to do it. Over the three months you’ve been with the team, you bonded the most with Hobie, you became practically inseparable at HQ and the more comfortable you got with him, you slowly became more comfortable with the others.

You did a lot of missions together, getting to know the team more, specifically Gwen and Pavitr, seeing as they both knew Hobie in a similar way you did. Although, it did warm your heart how often Hobie would choose to walk with you, even if it was just to ramble to you about his life.

However you still didn’t open up to them about your life outside of your spider-persona. They didn’t seem to have any problems with you, just happy to hear your voice more and seeing you become more confident in taking action during the missions. You really didn’t think there were any problems with your secrecy.

That was… until todays meeting. You were at Hobie’s place, fidgeting with a small tennis ball he kept somewhere among the mess of clothes, stolen gadgets, and music gear. You had no clue where he was, you hadn’t gotten any info about a meeting at HQ and just thought he was out. Even though he usually told you when he was.

Back at HQ, everyone stood around waiting until Miguel finally walked in. “Perfect. Everyone’s here” he says before standing at the front, hands on his hips. Before he can begin, Hobie speaks up. “Oi, wait a sec, Marlin isn’t here, I’ll call her over” he goes to pull out his phone but stops when Miguel speaks “No. She’s not a part of this meeting”

Everyone looks at Miguel now, brows furrowed before exchanging glances with one another. “What d’you mean by that?” Hobie tried to hide his growing unease, not liking the tense mood shift in the air. Miguel just lets out a long breath, Jess butting in with a hushed voice. “Told you they aren’t gonna like this…”

“They don’t even know what ‘this’ is” Miguel retorts back. Hobie then steps forward, closer to the front, closer to Miguel. “And I already don’t like it… seeing as it doesn’t involve our lil Marlin” Miguel brings a hand up, rubbing his eyes before pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Just hear me out. Then we’ll discuss it.” At that Hobie just nods as a sign for him to explain. The others moving in closer, curiosity growing as more silence fills the room.

You sigh, checking the time again, feeling as if it was passing slower. You sit up on the bed, tapping your fingers on the bedsheets impatiently. You finally stand up and decide to look for Hobie. “Maybe he got hung up at HQ…” you think to yourself, using your watch gizmo to open up a portal to it. Stepping through it.

As you walk through HQ, greeting a few other spider-people with a kind nod or short wave. You ask a few of them if they’ve seen Hobie. Most of them shake their heads before one finally points to the main room where Miguel usually is. You thank them then continue walking.

As you walk closer to the main room, you hear raised voices, quieting your footsteps. “That’s not fair to her Miguel!” Gwen’s voice sounds frustrated, and you can then hear Miguel’s stern one. “It’s the best move for everyone. You can’t deny her lack of communication skills” your brows furrow as you begin to wonder why you weren’t invited to this meeting.

“Doesn’t make her any less valuable” your ears perk up at Hobie’s voice. You’ve never heard him talk like this, his tone serious and hostile, as you peeked your head around you saw his expression was full of rage. “I’m sorry Hobie but your ‘Marlin’ just isn’t fit for this work” that’s when you step back in shock, realizing they were talking about you.

“What, just because she doesn’t like to run her mouth?” You watch as Miles also steps in, feeling your heart warm at everyone standing up for you. Peter then tries to calm everyone down with a soft voice “Miguel just listen to them… you can’t make such a rash decision for her. I’m guessing she doesn’t even know about this?” Miguel’s silence tells him everything he needs to know.

“That sounds about right. You’re being a right prick… and you don’t even seem apologetic for it!” Hobie raises his voice which causes everyone to look at him, shocked. Expect Miguel, whose expression only becomes more stern as he tilts his head up looking down at the Brit.

“You’re right, I’m not. But don’t worry, she’ll get a choice… either she does solo missions or she leaves” you take another step back, fully grasping the situation. The voices of the others begin to fade out as you start to get caught up in your thoughts.

“Miguel you can’t put that much on her… she only joined 3 months ago, you really think she’ll manage on her own?” Peter speaks with his voice laced in concern, Miguel looks at him, expression reading indifference. “That’s up to her. Do you think she’ll manage on her own?”

Everyone goes silent. Not because they don’t think you’re capable, but because they don’t know how to respond. That is until Hobie speaks up. “She’d manage just fine, but we both know she’s built to work in a team, solo missions are too much pressure” Miguel then shrugs and simply says “Well… then maybe she should choose option two”

Those are the final words you hear before you decide to run off, opening a portal back to Hobie’s apartment. You jump through and then stumble before sitting down on the bed. You try to control your breathing, feeling as if your heart was beating out of your chest. You take off your mask, hoping it would help.

‘Maybe she should choose option two…’ Miguel’s words ring in your mind. As much as you wanted to deny it, you thought he was right. You weren’t ready to work solo, the idea of trying to contain an anomaly all by yourself? You weren’t ready for that. You realize that this is exactly what Miguel wanted…

He knew you wouldn’t be ready to complete missions by yourself, so he gave you only one other option. To leave. You quickly search the room, finding a pen and paper and began to write something down. Trying to find the right words… the right way to say goodbye. To you, the only thing that was worse then this, would be saying goodbye to Hobie’s face.

Hobie stood face to face with Miguel, their foreheads practically touching, the others swear sparks could be seen between their heads. “Back down you old Geezer…” Hobie smirked as he spoke, wanting to get under Miguel’s skin. He knew he succeeded as he watches him bare his teeth as a low growl can be heard in his throat.

That’s when Peter steps in, putting both his hands on Miguel’s chest, meanwhile Pavitr begins to pull Hobie away as well. “Both of you… relax. This decision isn’t even final until we talk to her about it. I’m sure we’ll figure something out” his tone is calm but cautious, not wanting to upset either of them.

Gwen nods in agreement. Pavitr gently pats Hobie’s shoulder trying to get him to calm down. Hobie then shrugs off Pavitr’s touch, and then puts his hands in his pockets. “You were never on her side…” he scowls towards Miguel before walking off. Ignoring the calls of his friends from behind him.

He opens up a portal back to his place, feeling his body relax slightly as he steps through. He places his guitar against the wall and looks around. “Marlin? Ya there?” He calls out to you, but hears nothing. He throws his mask onto his bed, his brows furrow as he spots a note next to where it landed.

He picks it up and immediately recognizes your hand writing, he feels his breath catch in his throat as he begins to read it. He slowly moves to sit down on the bed, gripping the note tighter the more he reads.

Dear Hobie,

I choose option two. I hope you’re not mad at me… I can’t bear the idea of you remembering me in anger. I just couldn’t tell you this to your face. I went looking for you and then overheard your meeting with the others… I understand why you guys didn’t invite me. I’m not fit to be a part of this team. You’re the only one I really trust, the only person who I comfortable enough with to drop my spider-persona around… I can’t thank you enough for that. Please don’t look for me, I did what I had to do, but couldn’t leave without finding some way of saying goodbye. So here’s it is… all written down. Goodbye Hobie… I’ll miss you.

Your Marlin.

Once he read it all he curses under his breathe, then notices your watch next to him on the bed. He picks it up, recognizing the small customizations you both put on the band together. The way it matched his own. It made him smile at the memory but then he felt grief all over again.

He grabs his mask, putting it on hastily before pocketing both the note and your watch. “Where did you go Marlin… you’re not leaving me that easily” he jumps out of his window and swings off into the night.

[a-998h]

How would the Stardust Crusaders react to a vampire reader with a Cockney accent who wants revenge against Dio for turning them into a vampire? At the the fight with Dio, reader immediately cusses him out in full Cockney and nobody, except Dio, could understand a single thing they're saying lol

Joseph: Are you an agent of Dio?

Reader: Neva in me loife would I eva work for that bloody wankah! Look wot that bloke did to me!

I'm american and have never heard a cockney accent in my life.... I tried writing it as best as I could

Jotaro Kujo

Oh fuck

The first time you meet... he tries to murder you

After you explain you're harmless sort of

He has no trust in you because... vampire, but your accent makes things off too

He isn't around a lot of British people back home, and decades in America has evened out Joseph's accent... and the only person Joseph knew with a cockney accent was Speedwagon, who's dead

That, combined with the rhyming slang that is used by those with a cockney accent...

Jotaro: So, are you with us or against us?

Reader: I'm with yew koid

Jotaro: The hell are you saying?

He tries his best but he still doesn't understand you

Weary of you because of your vampiric nature

Keeps an eye on you so you don't attack them

Tries to figure out your slang

Jotaro: Why did you work for Dio?

Reader: Oi didn't willingly work for vat Hampton wick!

Joatro *confused*

Reader: Wot, yew don't understand me?

Bonds with you over other things

Starts to like you after you try to protect him

He now understands fully that you want to drown Dio in holy water

Starts picking up on your slang... and he hates it

When you curse Dio in full cockney... he silently cheers for you

Smirks and says he's proud of you for cursing out Dio

Oldesph

Joseph: Are you an agent of Dio?

Reader: Neva in me loife would I eva work for that bloody wankah! Look wot that bloke did to me!

Yeah, after that his Britishness returns

He starts to pick up on your slang, and it bonds you two

Is basically a sort of translator between you and the group

Sometimes, even he can't understand you through your accent

When his accent starts to show, he jokes that it's your fault

You two bond over your hate of Dio and being British

Asks you about his grandfather if you were turned during Phantom Blood

He tells you about Speedwagon, cause that is the only person he knows with a cockney accent

Joseph: You have a Stand?

Reader: you can't Adam and Eve it?

Joseph: Don't get brassed off at me!

Tries to explain American things to you and it's fun to watch

He is not happy about being a translator when he sometimes can't understand you

When you all get to Dio and you go full Cockney... he gives a 👍

Laughs and cheers you on as you curse out Dio with all the British slang and cockney rhyming slang you know

Pats you of the back when you're done

Hopes the Speedwagon foundation can cure you of being a vampire

Jean Pierre Polnareff

He might have heard some cockney tourists when in France

Knows you from when he worked with Dio, so can vouch you're harmless... to the Crusaders

Polnareff: Oh Reader, it's good to see you're free mon ami!

Reader: Polnareff! Oi haven’t seen you for donkey’s!

Polnareff: I still can't fully understand you, but I've missed you

He works with Joseph as a translator for you to the others

He has taught you some French slang and you've taught him cockney slang

Likes your accent

Will defend you if people mock you due to your accent

Has written translations for the others

Hopes to get you cured of being a vampire

Teaches you french... which confuses more people

Polnareff: Do you like kabobs?

Reader: Yew bloody eejoit!

Polnareff: *confused* I'm not an idiot, I just asked if you wanted food!

Helps you talk with the locals in towns

😁👍 <- face he makes when you curse out Dio

Know your anger transcends any language

So happy you vented before helping in Dio murdering

Noriaki Kakyoian

Also knows you from when he was a Dio servant

He never could grasp your accent or slang

Tries his best to understand you

He asks Polnareff to explain to what the hell you're saying

Reader: Kakyoian, let me give yew a lump of ice.

Kakyoian: We don't have any ice

Reader: I don't mean actual ice.

Wishes to have a book of your slang

He starts to pick up on slang you use

Also let's the others know you are harmless... kind of

Thinks rhyming slang is cool

Starts to pick up on your slang, just uses things wrong sometime

Sometimes he uses the slang which leads to funny situations

Kakyoian: Want an oily rag Polnareff?

Polnareff: An oily rag?

Reader: *laughing like a maniac*

You have to explain what so slang means

When you all face Dio... he just stares in shock as you go fully cockney swearing

At some point he starts laughing at the sight

Muhammad Avdol

The most confused out of all of them

Outside of Joseph, he hasn't met a lot of British people

He is the most on edge with you, being a former servant of Dio

Once he warms up to you, he is still confused about what you're saying

Your slang is confusing to him...

Relies on Polnareff and Joseph for translation at some points

Can understand you when you aren't using the rhyming slang

The concept of rhyming slang is cool to him

Might pick up on some slang, but uses it wrong

Avdol: I saw something tumble down the sink.

Reader: *stares in confusion* maoite....

Avdol: I'm asking for a drink.

Reader: Vat.. Vats not wot vat means

You two bond over other things

Is shocked when you curse out Dio

Knows you hated Dio, but damn

[python333]

im in love with your content omg😭 your writing style is just chefs kiss

can i req a reader with the tf141 being on a mission and hearing an enemy say something in british slang and they just go "what did they just say.." in comms? like a reader who doesnt know anything about slang like not even that bars in the uk r called pubs (if im not wrong) and just nods whenever a private talks in slang, and their brain is just trying to figure out what they just said?

its just a really silly plot with a silly reader :3

pardon? — python333

— — — —

synopsis just as the req says, you know nothing about british slang and on a mission the enemy speaks british and you dont know what theyre saying :3

relationships platonic!taskforce 141 & reader.

characters cap. price, soap, ghost, gaz.

word count 2.6k

warnings 2nd person pov [you/yours/yourself], usage of c/n [code name/call sign].

note HI YES I LOVE THIS REQ!! i take every opportunity i can to make fun of british people so this is right up my alley!! tysm for the compliments hjfhdjskf recently ive been getting more praise on my works and it makes me so happy i love yall. again, sorry if this sounds a little rushed or if any parts are incoherent, i wrote this at 12/1am and im both more productive and write more nonsense at this time + this one is wayyyy shorter than ones i usually do because i didnt know what else to write for it so i apologize for that as well! this is pure fluff and humor (i like to think im funny) so enjoy!!

“—eah, and now we have to camp out here ‘cause he can’t be arsed to do it ‘imself, so I feel like we should have a chat with the others, see if they’re willing to leg it out of here with us,” An enemy soldier suggests to you, his British accent thick enough that you think it might be cockney.

You cross your arms to hide your shaking hands and nod in agreement, as if you understood anything he said, and put on the same shitty British accent you’d been using for the past five minutes you’d been talking to this guy.

“Yeah, yeah, totally,” You agree, clearing your throat before asking, “You know where the others are stationed?”

“You don’t?” He asks, raising an eyebrow at you suspiciously.

“Mate, all the orders I was given went in one ear and out the other,” You sigh, holding back a wince at your desperate attempt to sound more natural using British slang, “I just know I’ve got to stand out here and shoot the enemy.”

The enemy eyes you suspiciously and he takes a moment to try and read your face before he says, “I don’t think I’ve seen you before, actually. Which would be weird, if we’re in the same platoon, don’t you—” 

You sigh and quickly pull out the small switchblade you had hanging on your belt, stabbing the enemy in the neck before he can say anything else and grabbing him before he can drop to the ground, putting a hand behind his back as you half lead half drag him into a dark alleyway beside the building he was stationed outside of. 

You quickly set him down into a sitting position and take your knife out of his throat, tucking the blade back into the handle before adjusting it to latch onto your belt once again, letting out a frustrated huff as you stare at the now dead man in front of you. 

“[c/n], how copy?” Price’s voice crackles through on your ear piece. 

You push in the PTT button and lower your voice, “Copy, I fucked up a little bit. One of the guys was onto me.”

“You were there for five bloody minutes,” Gaz’s voice rings through, his tone both disbelieving and amused, “How’d he already catch onto you?” 

“The British are smarter than I thought,” You breathe out, standing up and looking around for a ladder to climb to get to higher ground before anyone spots you. You go farther into the alley and find an old, rusty ladder with rungs that look like they’d snap if someone sneezed on them too hard—perfect for climbing up.

You wrinkle your nose as your hand makes contact with one of the rungs but don’t say anything otherwise, instead wordlessly hauling yourself up onto the ladder. 

“Reminder that there’s three British people with you, currently,” Ghost’s deadpan tone crackles, his breathing heavy, as you can tell he’s whispering into his mic, “All of which are very smart.”

“I caught you reading the instructions on a box of tea bags the other day, don’t fuckin’ talk right now,” You grumble, slowly climbing up the ladder, hating the creaking noises it makes as you do. It sounds like it’s going to snap at any minute, and you try to go up as fast as you can, but one wrong move and you’ll easily slip, some of the rust that flakes off of the ladder enough to make you slip up. 

“They were circles,” Ghost says, exasperated, “I didn’t know if that made a difference.” 

“I thought British people were supposed to know everything about tea,” You roll your eyes, putting your hand on the next rusty rung up on the ladder. 

“Yeah, L.t,” Soap agrees with you teasingly, the wind hitting his mic, making it obvious that he’s running, “Thought ye Brits were s’possed to ken everything ‘bout tea.” 

You laugh quietly to yourself as you finally make it to the top of the building, the top just high enough for you to look at the few soldiers below and hear a majority of their conversations without them noticing you.

You get to the edge of the rooftop and pull the sniper rifle you’d been carrying around off of your back, glad to finally be back in your element rather than trying to get in undercover, and set it up. 

You pull the stand out and set it on the edge of the roof, and look through the scope of the rifle, lining it up so that it’s aiming directly at one of the soldier’s heads, specifically the one that was standing directly out of the entrance you originally were meant to try and get into—but doing this didn’t change much.

Regardless of if you got in or not, he would’ve died, and the others would’ve gotten in too. You getting in first was just meant to make it more efficient.

You press down on the PTT button on your earpiece as you look through the scope of your sniper rifle, keeping the aim on the soldier in front of the entrance, “The guy in front of the entrance is just standing still, so whenever you need me to, I can shoot ‘im down.” 

“I don’t think we need to get in just yet,” Price hums, “But maybe in a minute.” “M’kay,” You hum, taking your eye away from the scope, instead just looking over at the enemy soldiers. You lay on your stomach, leaning your head down a bit to try and listen in on the enemy’s conversations easier, trying your best not to make yourself too obvious.

The conversations were pretty boring and almost the same for every soldier you’d eavesdropped on, for the most part. Enemy soldiers joking around, talking about what they’ll do once they’re on leave—like they would be able to do that after you completed your assignment—and just some general team camaraderie.

The lackluster subjects of their conversations weren’t bad at all, no, in fact, you could care less what they talk about. 

It was their stupid accents you hated. 

Are you surrounded by British people everyday? Yes. Does that stop you from hating on the British everyday? No. Okay, maybe the accents aren’t stupid, but God, they had the thickest cockney accents you’d heard in your entire life, and it was making your eavesdropping so much harder, and had almost been the reason you were given away earlier.

They used slang words that you’re certain you’ve never heard before in your life, and used analogies that didn’t even make sense—you heard one of them use the words, verbatim, ‘Don’t get stroppy’. Stroppy? Stroppy? 

You narrow your eyes down at the soldiers below you, listening to a conversation they’d just started up. 

“—eah, ‘cause he can’t be arsed to do anything about it, so now we have to camp out here and wait for somethin’ to happen,” One of the soldiers scoffs, “I’m telling you, man, if I see that skull-masked bloke runnin’ ‘round out here, I’m legging it from ‘im immediately.” 

You draw your eyebrows together in confusion, but you stay silent for now. Isn’t that exactly what the other soldier said? Are they like a hive mind or something?

“You’re legging it?” The other soldier asked, sounding almost incredulous, “What happened to you chattin’ to some of the others about your loyalty and what not?” “All that’s irrelevant when the fuckin’ grim reaper rolls around and starts murkin’ people like he’s been doing for the entirety we’ve been here, mate,” The first soldier laughs, “You think I wanna be here when he does that?” 

“Don’t act like a prat about it, man—fuckin’ talking’ like you can outrun him.” “A prat? I’m not—” You tune out the rest of their argument and instead try and figure out what they were saying.

A prat? Legging it? Can’t be arsed? What the fuck? You push the PTT button on your earpiece and as quietly as you can, you ask, “I need some help. Serious help. Life or death situation.” Immediately, Price’s voice rings through, “What? What is it? What happened?” “The soldiers are British and I can’t tell what they’re saying,” You answer, ignoring Price’s relieved sigh on his end, “I need help.” “Jesus, fuck, don’t scare me like that,” Price sighs, taking a few breaths before continuing, “Alright, what do you need help with?” 

“Figuring out what they’re saying.” This time, you hear Gaz’s voice crackle through, “Well, you’ve got three British people here—tell us what he’s saying.” 

“One of the guys was talking about ‘legging it’ if he saw Ghost heading towards him, and talked about Ghost ‘murking’ people, and then the other guy he was talking to told him he was being a ‘prat’ about it and he got all offended,” You eloquently say into the earpiece, watching as the argument gets a little more heated. You can hear an amused huff from Ghost on his end and a scoff from Soap in return. 

“They’re just saying they’re gonna run away if they see Ghost because he’s been killing a lot of their soldiers, and the other guy said he was being a prat, which I guess is like…” Gaz pauses to think of how to explain the slang term before settling on, “Someone who’s kind of full of themselves, I guess. Or ignorant. Either or.” 

“They couldn’t just say that?” You muse quietly, still staring down at the enemy soldiers. 

“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just say that,” Price’s voice cuts through, “Go ahead and shoot the guy down. I’m ready to head in.”

“Got it,” You hum, quickly putting your eye back up to your scope and readjusting it a bit before quietly warning, “Shooting him now.” 

You pull the trigger and the enemy goes down immediately, and through your scope you can see the small twitching of his body as the other soldier starts to freak out.

You quickly aim the gun at his still-alive friend and shoot him down as well, silently congratulating yourself on your good aim and continuing to look through the scope, watching as Price runs in with Gaz and a few other soldiers. 

They struggle with the door for a moment and you sigh before pressing in the PTT button on your earpiece and quietly saying, “Price, Gaz, move away from the door for a sec.”

Wordlessly, they do as they’re told, and you take the opportunity to line up the gun’s aim with the complex electronic panel on the outside of the door and pull the trigger, shooting the most crucial part of the panel, causing it’s functions to disrupt and as a result, the doors open. 

“Thanks for that,” Gaz breathes out as Price kicks open the door, his voice cut off a bit at the end as he takes his hand off the PTT button too quickly in order to follow after Price. 

“Uh huh. Of course,” You say offhandedly, taking your eye away from the scope of your sniper rifle and listening to the loud sirens go off in the facility the others break into, and push yourself up so that you can sit up straight to properly watch it. You grunt as you sit up, stretching your arms out for a moment before letting them fall into your lap. 

“Are they in?” Soap asks, curious, his voice a little strained and breathy. There’s no loud gusts of wind coming through his mic anymore, and you look around for a moment, before your eyes catch on to him climbing up a ladder to get to the rooftop adjacent to yours.

Your lips twitch into a smile at the sight of him completely clueless to your presence and you press your PTT button to talk. 

“Yeah, they’re in,” You say, watching as he finally gets to the rooftop, “Didn’t you hear the sirens?” 

You can see Soap’s eyebrows furrowed together in confusion for a moment, and he looks around for a moment before finally seeing you on the rooftop directly next to his, and he looks surprised for a moment before a grin splits across his face. You see him press the PTT button on his mic as well. 

“I did, yeah, just wanted tae be sure,” He says into his mic, looking right at you as he does, “It’s a surprise seeing you here.” 

“Imagine how I feel,” You muse, almost to yourself, before looking away from Soap and speaking up, “Ghost, you don’t wanna join us on the rooftops?” 

“Absolutely not,” He replies almost immediately, making you huff out a small laugh and Soap’s grin grow, “I’m perfectly fine on the ground.” 

“Where are you?” You ask, scanning the area around you for Ghost, “I feel like I haven’t seen you this whole time.” 

“I’m just behind the facility,” Ghost hums, voice still a low whisper, “I’m gonna be heading in once Gaz and Price make it to the second floor to clean up the first, in case there’s anyone left.” 

“You’ve been behind the facility this whole time?” Soap’s voice cuts through, surprised by the fact. 

“Mhm,” Ghost hums. 

“It’s a bit boring back there, innit?” Gaz’s voice crackles through, his voice a little breathy, “You can sweep the first floor, by the way. Should be nobody left, though. Pretty sure all the soldiers were just faffing around, not doing much.” 

“Fucking faffing around?” You ask incredulously to yourself, though apparently your voice is loud enough to make Soap chuckle. 

As if he can read your mind, Price’s voice comes through, “Faffing around is just doing nothing or doing nothing particularly productive, [c/n].” 

You sigh and push your PTT button this time, talking into your mic, “You couldn’t just say that, Gaz? You had to say something silly like faffing around?” 

“It’s not silly,” Gaz says, his frown audible, “They were faffing around.” 

“Jesus, fuck,” You breathe out, laughing lightly, “It’s totally silly.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yeah it is.”

“No it’s—” 

“I just want one day where you two don’t start up stupid arguments like this,” Price’s tired sigh comes through, “Just one day, I beg of you both.” 

“Aw, Captain, we were just faffing around,” You whine playfully, the misuse of the slang making Soap cover his mouth with his hand to muffle his laughter and you hear Ghost groan into his mic. 

“That is absolutely not how you use that,” Gaz says, though you can hear some laughter in his voice—from your very non-British accent saying British phrases, you presume, a small grin gracing your lips at the thought. 

“It sounded natural to me,” You lie straight through your teeth, shrugging even though only Soap can see you. 

“You’re insufferable,” Gaz groans, making you laugh quietly, “Never use British slang again, please.” 

“What if I get a British accent? Will that fix it?”

“Nothing can fix what you’ve said today, [c/n].”

“Well that’s dramatic,” You scoff, “I’ll learn British just for you guys.” 

“Holy shit, please stop talking,” Price’s exasperated voice interrupts the both of you, “You’re both insufferable. Drop it.” 

“… I don’t think I will,” You say defiantly, making all three British people in the same voice channel as you groan in unison, the sound sounding like some sort of middle school choir trying to sing in harmony, “I’ll use Duolingo or something to learn it.” 

“British isn’t a language you learn, you muppet,” Price grumbles, making you snort. 

“Muppet?” 

“It’s someone who’s dumb and clueless and can’t take a hint, like you,” Ghost defines, “And Soap, most of the time.” 

“Daen’t go draggin’ mae into this,” Soap’s voice quickly cuts through, “I haven’t said onything.” 

“Uh, yes you absolutely did, earlier, remember?” Gaz argues, ignoring Price’s protests for him to stop arguing, “About Ghost being stupid with the tea thing?” 

“Oh, I’ll have you all know—” 

“Ghost, don’t start—” 

You listen as the once casual, teasing conversation turns into an argument and chuckle quietly to yourself, knowing that they’d be arguing about this until you all finished your assignment.

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

18+ fem!reader

TANGERINE is the type to assert his gentle dominance over you during sex:

just him above you, his weight anchored on a hand beside your head, ringed fingers spread wide into the crumbled sheets. his other, finding itself along your jaw, loosely holding it in his palm. tilting your face to meet his, making you look him in the eye as he glides into you, cock sinking into you in a leisure rhythm.

his strokes would be slack - unrushed, his full length consuming you in a way so intoxicating. in a way so fulfilling. the wind of his hips slow, keeping himself buried deep inside as he grinds up into you, gently knocking broken noises from you.

his thumb would hover over your bottom lip, the pad skimming over the plump of it, the act itself dominant, assertive. the rest of his fingers brushing down the sides of your throat, teasing at the sensitive spots of skin. 

he'd keep his gaze locked down on you, soft blues watching your pretty, pliant ones - watching how they sparkle under his attention, twinkling with flecks of lust and bliss. as if they speak to him - tell him things he wants to hear. he'd rarely part his focus from your face, hating to miss those expressions you make - those ones filled with unadulterated desire; knitted brows, lidded eyes and parted lips. 

but during those moments when he looks away, they'd be on some other part of you, on another part of your body - eyes taking in the lewd image of you underneath him. they'd dart over your chest, taking note of the soft bounce of your tits, his steady thrusts knocking them in gentle circles. hand moving from the loose hold of your throat to the swell of one of your breasts, large hands rolling over it - thumb teasing at the nipple.

he'd be mostly quiet when it comes to noises, wanting to hear your soft moans more than his own. broken lines of praises falling past his lips from the way you wrap yourself around him - muttered strings of 'oh, I know. I know,'s and, 'yeah, that's it,'s. his gruff cockney accent amplifying his dominance.

would it be wrong to say this might be one of my fave/ hottest things ive written ?? am I allowed to say that??

[redstarwriting]

the clash | i. hey, ho! let’s go!

hobie brown x goth!reader

word count: 1.1k

genre: enemies to lovers

warnings: language, insults, hobie hating you, you hating hobie

a/n: it’s here 😎 no but fr, i proudly present a new series focusing on hobie brown, loml. i‘m trying to make it gn, so if you spot anything that needs fixing lemme know. i also did include a bit of a description of what you look like, but it’s mainly just to affirm the gothic spider-person look. and if you don’t like it, you can just pretend it isn’t there, my character designer brain just took a hold while explaining lol. enjoy y’all, there’s more where this came from 👀

now reading: i. hey, ho! let’s go!

next chapter: ii. time bomb

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In theory, the two of you should have been great friends. Best friends, even. He’s called Spider-Punk, and you’re called Spider-Goth, this alone made Miguel assume the two of you would get along better than all of the Peters. Unfortunately for Miguel, he was dead wrong. It was fine at first, a good introduction. “Spider-Punk, meet Spider-Goth,” Miguel says, motioning to the two of you. You simultaneously turn your heads towards him, “Don’t call me that.” You look at each other, seemingly sizing each other up after speaking the same words at the same time. In reality, the two of you were checking each other out, but no one needs to know that. “Fine. Hobie, meet (Y/n). (Y/n), meet Hobie,” Miguel says as Peter B. Parker hops next to him, excited to see the two of you interact. Your gaze first fell on his many piercings, which suited him very well. Almost as well as the spikes coming out of the shoulders of his tattered denim vest. “See somethin’ you like?” you hear his thick cockney accent, and you shrug. “The constant changing makes it difficult,” you say, causing him to shrug. “I hate consistency,” he says, staring you up and down. “I like the guitar,” you say, and he nods. “Everyone does.” You raise an eyebrow, and he takes in the way your heavy black eyeliner makes the expression look more exaggerated than it is. His eyes go down, taking in your outfit, which seems to be varying in different gothic styles, but overall is all black with silver studs, spikes, and charms sticking out everywhere. He notices the two of you share a liking for combat boots, and perhaps his favorite thing about you are the intricate and all black spider-web tattoos on your hands crawling their way up your arms. Hobie clicks his tongue. “Goth, eh?”

“Yeah. Is that a problem with you or something?”

“Feisty for a goth.”

“Instigative as all punks are.”

“What… is going on,’ Peter whispers to Miguel who shakes his head. “I thought they would be best friends?” Peter suggests as he places a binky in Mayday’s mouth. “I did too…” Miguel says, “Maybe this is just a way these types of alternative people talk?”

“Tal vez tengas razón… Hobie does love to be abrasive for no reason,” Miguel concludes, and Peter shrugs and they zone in on the two of you again. “...I don’t suppose there’s no reason we shouldn’t get along,” Hobie suggests, raising an eyebrow at you. “I agree. We probably think similar things… for the most part.”

“For the most part, huh?”

“Just that we have similar ideas, but most likely not the same,” you respond, and he crosses his arms, his guitar moving loosely behind his back. “Opinions on anarchy. Go.”

“It’s the ideal society—”

“Good start—”

“But completely unrealistic.”

“Excuse me?” Hobie looks at you with a glowering expression. “Humans are inherently assholes. Selfish, shitty, assholes. As amazing as it would be to have anarchy running rampant,” you shrug, “It’s unlikely it will ever happen.”

“You can’t actually believe that,” Hobie says, exasperated, “I mean you actually think that we can’t achieve it? You get enough people angry, and they rebel, they push for anarchy. I’ve seen it happen; I’ve led a rebellion.” You roll your eyes. “And do you live in a perfect anarchical society now?”

“Not yet, but we’re gettin’ there,” he clenches his teeth, and you sigh. “I admire your blatant idiocy disguised as an ambitious dream,” you say, and he huffs. “Would you just talk like a normal fuckin’ person and stop usin’ these dumbass words and shitty poetic language?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, or are you as deaf as your ideologies?” This time you scoff. “I don’t have the time to be berated by someone who lives in their own delusions to try and feel the slightest bit less angry at the world for giving him the shitty cards he was dealt.”

“And I don’t have time to listen to the rubbish ramblings of a miserable twat who digs desperately into their black hole of a heart to try and feel somethin’ when the truth is they don’t even know what they stand for,” he fires back. You glare at him. He glares at you. As if on cue you both flip each other off before you web away. Peter’s voice cuts through the silence.

“Well, that went horribly!”

Miguel punches him on the shoulder, resulting in a soft ‘ow’ and a tiny angry noise from Mayday. “What the hell was that Hobart?” Miguel nearly yells and Hobie snaps his head towards him. “Don’t call me that, neither! They don’t get it. It’s not enough to want to make a difference in the world. You need to take action. Goths love to sit on the sidelines and lament instead of playing the offensive,” Hobie explains, a deep frown on his face, “Watch out for them. They might not be able to do what it takes when it counts.” Miguel sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Hobie, you’re supposed to show them around—”

“No, fuck that. I’m not goin’ anywhere near that gothic monstrosity,” Hobie says shaking his head in defiance. “We made a deal. You would show all the younger spider—”

“Yeah, well you can shove that deal up your fuckin’ ass, mate, I’m not doin’ shit for them!”

“Okay, okay, calm down there, man. Why don’t you just ask Gwen to help you? Maybe Miles and Pavitr too? That way you fulfill your promise, 'cause I know promises are important to you, and you won’t have to talk to them!” Peter reasons and Hobie looks over at him. He furrows his eyebrows. That would help the situation. And maybe he’d be able to help you see just how garbage your take was with Gwen on his side. “Fine. But I’m not doin’ it cause I need help, and I’m not doin’ it because you told me to. I’m doin’ it cause it’s the last thing that they’d want,” Hobie says, pointing at Peter while saying it, flipping Miguel off, and then webbing away. Peter looks at Miguel who is clenching his fists… and his jaw. “You seem stressed, but don’t worry about it. Not all of us need to like each other, I mean there’s so many there’s no possible way we all could and look at you, you hate Miles even though he’s awesome and—”

“Shut. Up. Peter,” Miguel growls, stalking away while mumbling various things in Spanish. Peter looks down at Mayday. “Tough crowd,” he says as she giggles up at him.

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『 tag list 』

@casmosmoon* @khaleesihavilliard @sparklyphantom​ @weyrrii* 

*if you are italicized - i am unable to tag you for whatever reason, feel free to reach out and see if we can fix the issue

[ay0nha]

Treacle Tart | Hobie Brown

SUMMARY: Underneath the mask, his eyes widened. Hobie wasn’t often surprised. His abilities would ease the pain quicker than most, but you were right; a hospital would help. But his abilities, the parts that felt like instinct, took over. The threat was taken care of, and he swung and swung, furthering himself from the aftermath only to find himself seeking you out in the end.

PAIRING: Hobie Brown x gn!reader

WORD COUNT:1.5K

WARNINGS: mentions of injuries, canon-typical things, cockney slang coming from an American, established pining, a smooch, etc.

A/N:  I just say the new movie and wrote this in one sitting, so mind the errors and lack of coherency. This is ENTIRELY inspired by the lovely @strangesem​​‘s headcanons (find here). Enjoy. Slang used: Day’s a-dawning - Morning / Duck and dive - hide / Treacle Tart - sweetheart

It always happened late into the night. Oftentimes, if you tried hard enough, you could see the sun starting to rise above the skyline. Yet, when you squinted what was before you, the silhouette worked out to be the vigilante that gravitated towards you. 

“Spider-Man—” You caught your words, seeing how he leaned against the windowsill he crawled through. His breathing was ragged and wet, representing the severity he was trying to hide. “Are you okay?”

“Fine, yeah, nothing to worry ‘bout, love—” He winced, pausing when he attempted to stand at his full height. “Just a, just a—” His usual humor was cut off by a sharp intake of breath. “I’ll be—

“No…” You shook your head, repeating yourself a few times as he attempted to push past you. Normally, he sought you with scratches, things that hadn’t always warranted things outside a pre-supplied med kit. This, though, this was out of your depth. 

“Day’s a-dawning, I don’t have time to pop into hospital.” The cockney slang made you frown, and it deepened as he tried to push past you. “You know I have to duck and dive.”

“No—You can’t talk your way out of this one.” Your tone was firm, loud—different. It blocked him physically from moving past the doorway. 

Underneath the mask, his eyes widened. Hobie wasn’t often surprised. His abilities would ease the pain quicker than most, but you were right; a hospital would help. But his abilities, the parts that felt like instinct, took over. The threat was taken care of, and he swung and swung, furthering himself from the aftermath only to find himself seeking you out in the end. 

As strong as he tried to be, detach himself from genuine connections, you were like a magnet. You were quiet; really quiet. You’d mumbled your thank you’s, whispered apologies, and generally went out of your way not to interact with people as a whole. It was just what you preferred, how you worked. The simplicity of it, the gentleness and softness of your presence, was what drew Hobie in and what had made him return. His lifestyle was loud, he thrived in it. But to find something, someone—you—that shared likes and dislikes but in your own way was alluring. 

Even now, for the man who always knew what to say, he felt at a loss for words. Blood was on your door frame, but it didn’t matter with the way Spider-Man slinked down. He slouched into his shoulder, out of pain or desire; you weren’t sure. 

“...I don’t have things here for....” You pointed to the deep gash on his arm. Selfishly, you used his wounds as a buffer from the warmth that bloomed from the proximity. “We need to go to the hospital.”

“But I like you so much better.” Hobie was never shy with compliments. It was another thing simple to him; he liked what he liked and didn’t what he didn’t. You picked up on that quickly. Yet, it hadn’t quite hit you the way it was now. 

You hadn’t wanted to discredit yourself, but if you said it aloud, you knew it would sound absurd. There he was the Spider-Man, standing in front of you. He was bleeding a lot, breath rough due to no doubt broken bones. Yet, his presence alone told you that his first thought was you. The warmth in your chest carried to the tips of your fingers at the realization. You could feel your hands starting to shake with nerves as you fiddled with them. 

“You’re staring.” The shit-eating grin could be felt, practically burning through his mask. You envied his composure despite his state. 

So with a stutter of an apology, and after stammering around for a moment, you finally accepted the job that you felt unqualified for. You could tell the disinfectant stung with every flinch Hobie offered you. You grimaced with guilt, but a part of you was relieved he was still breathing. 

“Thought you were supposed to be nicer than them nurses.” He squirmed with discomfort. You knew he used humor to deflect, but you appreciated his demeanor. It calmed you as you continued to dress his wounds. 

You never asked about the trouble he found himself in the middle of. It wasn’t your business, and if you truly were curious, you could turn on the news.  But again, this was different, more serious. This was the first time you truly felt worried. 

It caused you to focus intently on cleaning his wounds. It felt like the only thing you could possibly control. You took your time intentionally, making sure that not only the details of it were secure but that you could have a moment to revel in his tangible life. 

Once finished, you both remained still. His eyes burned your skin, but you refused to look up when asking, “That’s everywhere, right? I didn’t miss something?”

Without words, he pulled at his mask, needing the air to see you directly. Your eyes flicked up to be met with deep brown ones. The piercings weren’t the shock, the desire on his expression was. He looked at you with such intent, as if every moment was planned for despite its incredible impulsivity. 

“Hobie.” He introduced himself, smirk settling naturally. You blinked hard, words unable to form for a few beats. Hobie revealed himself easily, readily. It felt as though he held onto it prior only to tease you. 

“You’re not supposed to tell me that.” You whispered, shock still dictating your moves. 

“Nah–You know I do what I’m not supposed to.” He drawled, accent seemingly thicker. Through your consistent stare, Hobie could see the questions filtering through your eyes. He would answer them all, but he sought more of your comfort. 

Despite his rough exterior and pointed words, he was soft. Especially as he traced your face with his eyes only to follow the pattern with the pads of his fingers. The night was rough, he hated to admit it, but it was. Things got out of hand but were handled. 

Moments like those reminded him that he was someone under the mask. He was more than the Spider-Man.  He stood for things beyond that and moments like this, moments involving you, helped ground him in his beliefs. 

Mimicking the softness you offered him, he reached for your chin with a gentle hold. “I’m thinking I’m overdue for a thank you.”

“Oh?” You breathed out your words, feeling how they fanned across Hobie’s face the way his had. The draw to each other was simultaneous and had gone relatively unnoticed.

“Mhmm...” He hummed, head tilting to get a good look at you. He was memorizing the moment, the same way you had.

There was no  burning, all-consuming feeling that threatened to swallow you whole.  Rather, it was steady, welcomed. It had been in the making from the first time he saved you. You had apologized to him then, as if saving you from a robber had inconvenienced him. Your kindness permeated the interaction and Hobie desired more.

The joking, the teasing, all of it, was apart of an expected outcome. He resisted due to his position, wanting to keep you out of danger, to feel indifferent. But it was an injustice in itself to even think of doing that to you.

You felt silly at first, caring so deeply for someone behind a mask. The nights he didn’t come stumbling in to talk your ear off about a new album, you thought on the relationship. You assured yourself you were a friend. A friend that was there for the occasional patch up because in what reality would a superhero of all things would compromise that.

The reasoning, on either part, was to reflect so-called responsibility, but it only reflected what you both wanted. So to mix your breath, lean in close to have knees touch, it felt...good. It felt right. Your shyness was still there, but channeled in a way of excitement.

“You let me do this, and I’ll never stop.” He whispered along your lips. He needed to know he wasn’t crossing any boundaries while placing his feelings on the line. 

Neither could remember how your faces gravitated towards each other, but it was most likely due to how Hobie’s thumb was to your lip, an eye trained to where he'd just traced. It was a preface to how your lips connected: quiet and barely there, a tender peck as if to soothe you mixed with something innocent.  Then he pecked you once more slightly less tentative and less friendly. It wasn't until the third you melted into his touch, reciprocating the same level if not more emotion.

His thumbs brushed over your temple, and you leaned into the kiss Hobie  deepened. The action made your chest heat, so forthright, as though he  didn’t truly understand the emotions he invoked. Hobie took a bit of  pleasure in it that maybe you’re just as affected by him as he was by  you. It wasn’t a new relationship by any means, but it was, at the same time.

When you pull away, he looks slightly dazed, and you commit the sight of him  like this to memory, the harshness of life nowhere to be found. “...Thank you.”

[moondirti]

give peace a chance

I missed you, you want to say, but you know it’ll do nothing to change this routine. You settle on a question he’ll have a response to, for all it can do to uncover thoughts he’d want to bury deep.

pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x f!Reader rating: explicit (18+ mdni) word count: 3.4k summary: you’re always there, waiting on him warnings: size kink, blowjobs, facefucking, thigh riding, masturbation, squirting, angst, brief mentions of death, canon typical violence, mild mild gore, fluff notes: had 'Yes to Heaven' by lana del rey on loop while writing this one. out of body experience fr. anyway, i finally gave in and wrote for the boogey man. he's been occupying too much headspace for me to not.

You don’t hear him come in. 

Crisp, white sheets gather in a knot at your midsection – previously pristine, wrinkles pull at its surface now. You can’t sleep, but that’s most nights.

Your curtains dance with an incoming drift, lazy gauze, sheer in the cresting moonlight. If you weren’t so absorbed in the white noise of your whirring fan, you could catch the quiet click of your backdoor. You always leave it open, just in case; people know not to dare take advantage of the liberties you exhibit. There’s the invisible threat, protection, of a shadowed mercenary over your toytown home. 

His missions are incalculable. That’s the one thing he cannot promise you. Come back soon, you beg, but he leaves you with a silent kiss and nothing else. 

There were once days where you’d tag along. Your chest twinges at the uncomfortable reminder. Cracked bone, spilt ichor; the bullet had barely missed your heart, lodged between the throbbing organ and a major vessel. He’d raged to get you decommissioned, incensed demands – they’d never seen him as angry. 

Carpet flattens under your bare feet as you crawl out of bed, soft, like all things here. You hadn’t the luxury of comfort before, when Simon was Ghost and you were a rookie under him, but he’d granted you a life you sought only in your dreams. The first few days in paradise, you were torn over appreciation and resentment at the act, bandages wrapped around your chest – but you’d healed and found the irreversible damage etched into the hard plate of your clavicle – a rounded, discoloured scar. 

You’re glad you’d left that life behind. 

Padding out to the kitchen, you pour yourself a drink. The cupboard underneath your sink contains only bourbon – blended, straight, kentucky – so you fish out juice from your fridge. It’s sickly sweet, all natural sugars, your ass. 

“Shouldn’t drink that stuff.” A voice cuts the tranquillity, rugged and choppy on harsh consonants – a cockney accent. You soothe the alarmed surprise racing in your gut, a gentle smile turning your cheeks. 

His eyes pierce back at you, a smudge of white against an otherwise charcoal canvas. He’s sitting at the dining table, just across your kitchen island, his massive form illuminated by the warm light you’d turned on. You don’t know how you missed him, but then again, the man lives up to his name. Ghost; creeping up like the dead. 

“We’re all out of milk.” You respond, your tease lilting to an affectionate whisper when it hits your tongue. Simon scoffs. “Not like whiskey’s any better.” 

You pour him a glass regardless. 

He’s still equipped in his tactical gear, his gun set on the chair next to him. It adds unnecessary bulk, layers on layers of insulation, conservation – impossibly, he looks bigger like this. Larger than life. Your hands run along the coarse material of his bullet proof vest; you think you can feel his muscles tense, despite the surfaces separating you. But he takes the bourbon with little fuss, wrapping a strong arm around your legs so your knees knock the side of his thigh. 

“Hi,” You giggle, beaming down at him. 

“Hey.” He mocks, setting the drink down. 

His hard-shell mask conceals any tells you may glean. In just the balaclava, you can catch the shape of his lips, the curve of his nose, when he smiles – the painted fabric pulls taut over his features. But a skull stares back at you, and all you have are his eyes, framed with ashen lashes. They’re only enough to tell you one thing; he’s happy to be home. 

You love the way they catch the light, a subtle glimmer in them. 

For a while, the two of you just stand there, revelling in the weighted company of one another. His gloved hand presses circles into your flesh, just under the hem of your sleeping shorts, while yours find every bit of exposed skin you can. There’s not much – just the small stretch of neck you can reach, tucked behind his collar before the rest of him disappears. But you find it with reverence, smoothing over it, his heated body slowly easing by the minute under your ministrations. Some part of you realises the desperation you observe him with, the hurried glances at his back, his stomach, his legs. You look for darkened, sticky fabric. You look for blood. 

You don’t have the courage to speak your fears into fruition. 

Simon slowly begins to pull the heavier parts of his armour off. The night vision goggles on his head, the packets of ammo stuffed into available pockets. You move to help him, humming, shifting as you unbuckle the back of his plate carrier. His groans are wicked, deep waves of relief stemming from somewhere in his chest, and you hide the blush that arises at the sound, throwing the layer into an unknown corner. You remember the soreness, the knotted shoulders from days in the same kit, your spine in aching need of a good long stretch. You make a mental note to rub his back later.

You take off his gloves. There’s little give – they’re crusted in dried gore and gunpowder, the bones on their front almost entirely camouflaged. A sharp tug is what it takes to peel them off his hands. But then his skin is bared to you. You survey the grit that dusts the contours of his veins. Dirt has sunk through the fibres. 

When he’s left in just his mask and underclothes, he finally slumps, posture altering from that of a soldier’s to one of a tired man. His legs spread, thick thighs filling his pants, and he reaches for his drink again, lifting the bottom of his mask and balaclava to take a large gulp. His newly revealed Adam's apple bobs with the motion.

I missed you, you want to say, but you know it’ll do nothing to change this routine. You settle on a question he’ll have a response to, for all it can do to uncover thoughts he’d want to bury deep. 

“How many men?” You speak into the space. He pauses, his pink lips pursing at the brim of his glass. You have half a mind to regret asking, but you do this for your own solace. 

“Jus’ three.” Just. To anyone else, he may sound indifferent, his tone etched in that low timbre, unwavering with the grief over lost comrades. To you, you know that his pain is cavernous, a bottomless chasm he’ll undoubtedly return to. Indicatively, he pulls his mask back down over his face. It isn’t just three men. It’s three too many – but it’s on the lower end of the casualties the 141 usually faces. 

You wait for him to say the words you’re looking for. 

“They’re alright.” 

You nod. Al Bravo team was not amongst the fatalities. Gaz. Price. Soap. You cling onto the reassurance of your friends’ continued survival, a buoy until the next raging storm. 

Simon’s hand returns to its place on your leg, tracing long lines along the back of it. You shiver, suppressing the heat that spreads up your tummy like wildfire. His steel gaze is indecipherable as he looks up at you; your emotions flit across your face erratically. You wish he’d take the mask off, get on even footing with you, but it takes a while for him to come down from his missions. For as long as he’s racked with enduring adrenaline, he’ll keep his guard up. 

He’s surrounded by the safe walls of your – his – home, but he’s in over his head. 

You bow down, placing a gentle kiss on the curve of his jaw. The arm wrapped around you draws you closer. 

He smells like saltpetre, guncotton, hints of kerosene floating in the air between you. You push your face nearer to his, and you’re able to catch a faint whiff of his aftershave, traces of the cleanliness and cologne he leaves behind here, with you. You open your mouth to comment on it; he beats you to your cause: 

“Lovely girl.” He squeezes the flesh on your upper thigh – not quite your ass, but almost. 

“Mmm, Simon.” You start, capturing his eyes. They bear down on you with an intensity that makes your core ache. “Y’Can’t keep doing this to me.”

You imagine he’s smirking when he retaliates. “Can say the same for you, expectin’ me to focus out there when you look this good.” Like a giddy schoolgirl, you bite your lip at his compliment. 

Stirring to kiss his jaw again, you slowly start to unzip his windbreaker. Your fingers span the front of the black hoodie underneath, tracing the hard plane of his chest, feeling it rumble with a noiseless groan. His legs spread wider. You catch a telling bulge in your peripheral. 

“Need help?” You murmur, purring when he slips underneath your shorts to give your rear a feel. His callouses dig into you.

“Need you.” He says. 

The hand that was on his chest inches downward now, your nails raking along. You give a half-suppressed laugh as his abdomen tightens, bracing against your ticklish assault. You want to feel it bare – to extricate the exhaustion from an uncovered torso and watch as his muscles roll, solid brawn unravelling with the slightest touch. But you’ll settle on this, you know he needs it. His mask does unspeakable things to you, anyway. 

“Relax.” You encourage with a breath. Simon doesn’t listen; he still kneads your flesh with an unforgiving grip. His thumb brushes close to the soaked patch on your panties – with the appreciative grunt he gives, you know he senses the arousal emanating from you. 

His cock strains his pants, taking up all the space it can. You coo, poor thing, as you cup the underside of it. He gives you a reproaching spank, and your hips buck in tandem to his. As you do, you realise now how uncomfortable of a position you’re in – your neck cramps in this angle. Really, it’s a silly thing to be hung up about, but Simon must read the subtle cringe you give, for he urges you to kneel, guiding you by your head to crawl in between his open legs. 

You’re halfway under the table when you look up at him again, cheek pressed adoringly against his knee. He’s seemingly content like this, petting round your forehead to the ridge of your chin. His palm is large, dry, warm. You quickly lose trajectory as he caresses you, all droopy eyes and small smiles. 

He catches when you rub your legs together, chasing a friction that will never amount to him. You can never escape his scrutiny; Simon captures everything. 

He pats your cheek and pinches it before his touch leaves you. Newly awake, you perk up, perching on your haunches to lean further into him. You’re always eager, but his chuckle at your barely concealed anticipation beckons a stone to lodge itself in your throat. It’s a ball of desire, denser than most things, snowballing with every passing moment in his presence. You’re tuned in on him, rapt to every subtle thing – the deep exhales, the anchoring of his boots to hardwood floors. It’s take, take, take, an absorption of anything he’s willing to give. It tends to be like this after he comes back –  was like this back on the base, when you’d known nothing but his moniker and callsign. 

You recall rubbing one out to the staticky crackle of his voice over the channel, your headset pressed tight to your ears. You’d never told him that; you figure now’s a good time as any. 

“Used to fantasise about you, y’know.” You sigh, ironing over his calves. You move your brushes to his hulking thighs when he begins to undo his pants, wetting your lips. 

His next exhale is torn, steadiness ripped to shreds by your less-than seductive words. “Oh yeah?” He remarks, scooping into his boxers to pull his heavy cock out. “What about?” 

It springs free just then, angry head flushed a deep red, blood supplied by pulsing veins that branch to the top. You keen at the precum that beads at the top, rushing to catch it with your index to slip it onto your tongue. He says nothing, merely contemplating as you wriggle with the heady taste of him. 

“This,” You add after a long moment, before licking a long, wet stripe up the base of his dick. His whole body jerks unexpectedly, and he grabs onto your head to steady your impatient efforts. 

“Fuckin’ hell.” 

“Gone soft on me? I see.” Chortling, you play with his tip, batting it back and forth to tap your lips. He is anything but soft – regrettably, though, the rise you get from teasing him is too great to pass up. 

“Shut it, pet, before I turn your insides over.” He urges you forward once he’s settled. You don’t tell him how much you’d really like him to. In due time. 

Your lips wrap around the bulbous head, sides stretching to accommodate his girth. You’re familiar with the drill by now; hollow your cheeks, keep your jaw nice and loose. Use some teeth, he chokes at the pain. 

His skin moves with you as you sink down , rolling your tongue over the ridges that cross your path. Your breath is hot, your mouth even hotter – sweltering, you suck him in and coat his rock-hard with a film of saliva, which aids you when you bob back up. You can’t reach the root of him, not yet – he’s way too big – so your hand wraps around the length not in your mouth. 

“That’s it.” Simon rasps, now pushing you down in support. Your hum is lost in the lewd slurps, but he twitches with the vibrations it produces. A glob of drool leaks from you, seeping down to gather in his scruffy curls – you use it as slick to twist your wrist around his base. 

He’s ripe with the salty taste of sweat and precum, a dizzying combination – you hope you’re subtle as you slip your free hand down your pants, pressing up into the plush of your cunt. You find where you’re most sensitive, a tight bundle of nerves, and touch yourself, all the while savouring the masculinity that engulfs you – his muscled thighs by your ears, his giant hands pressing down on your head. 

A particularly loud groan sounds from above. You triple your efforts, delighted at your part in helping him unwind. At one point, his added pressure pushes you down all the way. You gag, blubbering with choked gasps, but your lips stay sealed around him, an unforgiving vacuum. His happy trail scratches your nose,

“Gonna cum, you lovely thing. Righ’ down your throat. Take it all, understand?” He asks. You’re able to discern the wobble in his abrasive voice – his balls spasm at your lips, ready to erupt at any moment. You nod, gaping at him earnestly, with wide, watery eyes. His own soften, downturning at the corners. “‘Atta girl.”

With the hazy memory of his face before he’d left, you can draw an abstraction of what he might look like right now. You trick yourself into thinking he’s smiling down at you. Gentle, caring. 

You don’t have to try as hard to believe it. 

Your fingers work fervently over your sopping cunt, slipping between velvet folds. Your exertion, combined with his pure fucking magnetism, is almost enough to tip you over the edge. A cluster in your gut stiffens, grows, upends. You stroke yourself impossibly faster. 

Simon curls inward, his mask now directly above you. A bit of his cock drags from your mouth – your bottom teeth scrape a vein in consequence. He jolts. Then, rich, long ropes of cum shoot into your awaiting mouth, painting you with musky white. You keep jerking him as he does, urging more, more, more, milking him to spill his all into you. 

A tap of your shoulder is all the evidence you need to pull off him with a pop. You didn’t cum, it doesn’t matter, you hardly feel the mounting desperation amidst the grand scheme of things. Simon’s back hits the chair, his head tilting as he takes you in. 

“C’mere,” He grunts, pushing backwards to allow you space to stand. You oblige, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand – it only serves to smear the mess across your cheek. Your back brushes the table – he beckons you closer – until your bruised knees hit the edge of the chair. 

When he’s satisfied, his hands run up your sides, starting at your arms, then downward, so they can hook into the waistband of your shorts. You lock onto his all-consuming stare, dark with an unspoken question, his pupils blown wide with lingering lust. 

“Go ahead.” You coax. 

He nods and pulls your shorts off with one, swift movement. 

Cold air meets soaked cotton – you tremble, whether with goosebumps or the weight of his study, you don’t know. You’re the farthest thing from a blushing virgin, but Simon manages to propel you back into that bashful headspace. Every time with him is ruthless – stifling broken sobs while adjusting to his width, utter pleasure and the smallest bit of pain. 

Perhaps you’ll forgo that this time around. He’s quickly softening against his pelvis. You understand – stamina tends to dissipate after holding out for so long. Though he’s anything but a selfish lover.

He guides you to straddle his thigh. 

You squirm, hip flexors burning with the strain of splitting over the breadth of him. He keeps you steady with his hands on your waist – you clutch onto his wrists. His sleeves have rucked up to reveal his tattooed forearm. You trace the ink, reverent, requiring as much skin-to-skin as possible. It flees the fastest, that sensation, running up behind him when he exits the door. The bruises, the bites, the cramp from hitting your cervix one too many times, on the other hand – they all endure, keeping you sated long enough so that you aren’t compelled to rejoin him. He might do that on purpose, in fact. 

Your clit folds as it meets his leg – a new surge of slick spills from you. 

“A-Ah! Simon, y–” 

“I know, pet. Jus’ ride me, yeah, like that.” 

Your bottom half ruts into him, finding purchase on the solid surface of his thigh. Your panties slide, preventing the potential for divine friction, so you push them to the side, wedging it in the crevice of a lip and your pubic bone. You stutter apologies to Simon for the mess – your natural lubricant smears onto his cargo pants, sullying the fabric. He assures that he’ll wear it proudly. You’re a prouder medal than blood. 

You’re whimpering now, wailing about everything and nothing all at once with your face tucked into his neck. He embraces you – sturdiness forcing you to stunt your movements to short, hurried grinds – and says nothing. 

Something terrifying begins to burn in you; promising a cataclysm. It’s him. His scent, his strength, his size, his presence. I missed you. I missed you. Your impending orgasm crawls up the tendons in your pelvis, seeping into bone and flooding like a high tide. Your pants grow shallower. Your lungs feel cramped. Something about this, here, with him, lights every synapse in you, flashing bright with colours and promises and safety. I miss you. 

“I miss you,” You finally gasp, broken as you peer up at him. He stills – you keep your pace. Sweat beads at your temple. 

He slowly removes the mask. 

The balaclava follows soon after. 

Simon then bows down, pressing his lips to your furrowed brow. 

And then, everything in you compresses, fierce and tight. You wind your fingers into his hair, pulling his head back to bite the column of his neck. You do it to muffle the sob that bubbles when you erupt in searing agony atop him, back arching, toes curling. Your body goes completely rigid. 

He groans with the cut of your teeth, and your cunt pulsates again, spilling down on him, your fluids draining to double your mark on the man. 

“Missed you too.” Simon rustles in response. You seize his mouth with yours, uncaring for how messy it is. It’s what you need; to feel your teeth knock, to bind yourself to him. 

You kiss in him the intent to never let you go. You know it won’t last, but for now, it’s enough.

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[greenorangevioletgrass]

fever pitch (b.b) - prologue

soundtrack: mastermind - taylor swift pairing: footballer!bradley x popstar!reader synopsis: Bradley shoots his shot in public, but will he fumble when he meets you in person? warnings: language, drinking, meet cute notes: my first series in a while! this is shamelessly based on the epic Taylor Swift/Travis Kelce saga currently happening rn, and combine that with my innate love of football (the kicking kind, not the NFL kind) and... voila! I hope you enjoy this. Let me know what you think in the comments, reblogs, and asks. Happy reading! <3 ✨I do not have a taglist. Please follow @ficsbygreenorangevioletgrass and turn on the notification to get the latest update on my fics✨

Soccer Sensation Bradley Bradshaw Fails To Shoot His Shoot With Y/N At Her Concert?

Arsenal captain Bradley Bradshaw may be among his club’s top scorers this season, but even he misses a chance in romance like the rest of us.

The 29-year-old athlete spoke about his missed opportunity with the multi-platinum songstress Y/N while speaking to his former teammate Héctor Bellerín on the latter’s podcast, “More Than A Footballer”, earlier this week.

When asked about any fun stuff he did last weekend, Bradshaw replied,

“I went to the Y/N concert at Wembley [Stadium]... it was awesome. It was pouring rain, but it was amazing. I don’t remember Wembley ever being that electric aside from, like, cup finals. She was sensational.”

Bellerín nods in agreement, having heard great things about the famed singer-songwriter’s live concerts.

Unprompted, the American midfielder then continued,

“If you’ve heard about the tour, there’s this tradition of trading friendship bracelets. And I actually made one with my number on it, hoping I could give it to her after the show…”

The Cockney-raised Spaniard cackled in surprise and teased him, “But she didn’t wanna see you, bruv? [That is] legend!”

“No hard feelings!” Bradshaw raised his hands in defense over the Zoom call. “She needed to dry off and get warm. Gotta make sure she stays healthy, protect those vocal cords. But yeah, I was a bit bummed out about it.”

Bellerín laughed and jokingly addressed the camera, “Y/N, if you’re watching, give my boy a chance, will you?”

Mononymous pop sensation Y/N is hot off of her Kaleidoscope North American Tour, which wrapped in September. Her six-show run at Wembley Stadium this November officially kicks off the European leg of her sold-out tour. 

Will they be the next pop royalty and conquer the stadiums with their own crafts, or will this fizzle out as this week’s viral anecdote? The ball is in your court, Y/N.

Y/N’s representatives have not responded for comment.

***

Your Miu Miu heels click and clack against the ground. The pavement gleams after the rain and glistens under the streetlights. Everywhere you look, your eyes hurt. Down, and you worry about slipping into a puddle and falling on your ass. Forward, and a million camera flashes are ready to give you an aneurysm.

All in the name of reporting your night off of work, performing live in front of 90,000 people in a stadium.

In other words, all in a day’s work.

There’s a moment of reprieve, when the silvery white blitzes disappear into the dim tangerine lighting of the lobby. The flight down the stairs is so dark, you’re seeing green. It takes your eyes a moment to adjust, but as soon as they do, the thumping bass line of some dance music hits your ears. Clashing perfumes doused on the dancing, dressed-up bodies that you have to weave through.

You are seriously regretting your girl friends’ invite to a night out. You could’ve just had them over to your hotel, open a bunch of red wine, and you would’ve still had a blast. But no. You had to say yes to going to the Cuckoo Club with Lacey, Amara, and Jo.

And this evening is making you feel quite cuckoo.

There’s champagne at your booth and you’re much too eager to take a glass and start a toast. “Cheers, bitches!” you yell over the music, clinking your glass against theirs before downing the whole thing in one go.

It’s nowhere near enough.

There’s not enough buzz to dull the assault to your senses—not even after the three glasses of wine at dinner earlier. Everything is still too loud, too bright, too crowded, too… much.

“Hey!” you nudge Amara, who is sitting right next to you. “Let’s do shots!”

She turns to you, eyes widening at the slightest. “I thought you wanted to take it easy tonight!” 

“Changed my mind,” you shrug, as you get up to the bar.

While you make your way through the crowd on the dance floor, Bradley Bradshaw looks up from his booth and does a double-take at the girl who just walked by. Even in a high-end club full of the well-dressed and well-heeled, people still get starstruck. And why wouldn’t they? You’re about as famous as an iPhone. 

His eyes widen and immediately whips out his phone to shoot a text to his oldest and most trusted friend Natasha Trace.

‘Dude, I’m in the club and Y/N just walked in. What do I do??’

Natasha thankfully texts back almost immediately. Then again, maybe being a Communications Director for a major company requires her to be a good texter. ‘Wdym what do you do? Just go talk to her.’

‘You were supposed to introduce us!’ Bradley replies, eyes darting between his phone and you at the bar, conflicted.

Natasha is a mutual friend of yours, too, and when the Bracelet-gate clip went viral, she laughed in his face for a full 5 minutes before deciding to set the two of you up. But the schedule never really aligned, so he hasn’t got a chance to see you. Not even after he went to your concert with a friendship bracelet and a dream.

And now, seeing you here in the same room at the same time as him…

‘What do you want me to do, get down there and do it for you?’

‘...Can you?’

He senses the judgment even as the three dots appear on his screen. 

‘Stop being a pussy, Bradshaw. Let me Netflix and chill with my gf in peace.’

Bradley scoffs, half-annoyed and half-fond. ‘Asshole. Have fun.’

The dance floor clears up, just enough to see that you’re right there. Leaning against the bar in your dress like a dirty daydream, talking to the bartender, and he couldn’t just let you go without a word. He thought about it, and he simply couldn’t.

“Oi, where are you off to?” His teammate Martin hollers, while the others watch him make his way to the bar in determined strides.

He squeezes past patrons across this jungle of a club, hoping to God that somebody hasn’t beaten him to talk to you yet, or you haven’t ducked out completely. Oh fuck. You’re still there, though. Good. You’re still at the bar, still glimmering under the mirrorball. Just a tap on the shoulder away. You can do it, Bradshaw…

“Excuse me, I—”

You feel the hand on your shoulder just as you turn and stand up, and in a flurry of miscoordination, looks up just as the other person moves in.

In a stroke of dumb luck, Bradley feels the top of your head slamming up against his nose and he groans in pain. “Ohh!”

“Shit! Oh my God…” you gasp, reaching out to the man in front of you. He’s tall, very tall, and you can’t quite see his face with his massive hand clutching his nose. “I’m so sorry…”

“No, it’s okay. My bad…” It really doesn’t seem like it, so he lets go of his nose and smiles sheepishly. Gosh, he must’ve looked stupid right now.

But you see it differently. What you see is a dashing man in a sleek tieless navy suit and a well-groomed mustache, straight out of a Cinemascope flick, ever so handsome despite his reddened nose from the way you just accidentally headbutted him. “No, that was totally mine. Are you okay?”

Your eyes are crystal clear even in the dim light, the concern is palpable in your gaze—and rightly so. It’s just that he’d take the headbutt any day, if it means he can look at your beautiful face. “I’m… I’m swell. Y/N, right?”

There’s a shift in your gaze. First, alert—you’re assessing how much of a potential threat this person is, whether they’re gonna be weird about you— and then it relaxes. Not a threat. Then a slightest hint of mischief, like she wants to know what kind of dynamics they would have. “Have we met?”

And boy, can he.

“We haven’t, actually. But I went to your show at Wembley earlier this week. You were amazing.” He offers a handshake. “Bradley Bradshaw.”

You didn’t quite catch his name over the blaring music, although you shake his hand anyway. “Sorry?” 

He leans into your ear, “I’m Bradley Bradshaw.”

You don’t know which one makes your heart skip, the sudden close proximity, the warmth of his timbre, or the whiff of his perfume.

“Right. Nice to meet you, Bradley Bradshaw.” You accept his handshake, hoping he doesn’t see how flustered you are in the strobing purple light.

“Likewise.” He nods with a smile. “And may I just say… you look stunning.”

“What, this old thing?” You brush down the art nouveau-inspired Balmain dress on your body. You’re just being modest, of course; you know you’re dressed to the nines. You have never been much into facial hair, but somehow that mustache suits him very well. “You don’t look so bad yourself. You remind me of a… young Robert Mitchum. Or Paul Newman— or one of those Golden Age leading men.”

His face lights up. It’s hardly the first time he received that kind of compliment, but when it came from you, it feels… different. It feels special. It makes him just a little bolder. “Yeah? Maybe after a few drinks, I’ll be quoting lines from Butch Cassidy. Or would you prefer Cat On A Hot Tin Roof?”

This piques your interest. A man of culture, it seems. But of course, you can’t be too sure. “I’m more of a Paris Blues kinda gal, I’m afraid.”

Gosh, you don’t swoon so easily and he likes you so much for that. “Makes sense.”

“How so?”

“It’s a good underrated musical movie, for the musically gifted… And Sidney Poitier was just fantastic in that.”

“Huh.” You raise your eyebrows. You honestly thought he was just spouting the famous titles. But the fact that he has likely seen this hidden gem might just mean he’s really into it. “Aren’t you full of surprises.”

He leans in to speak in your ear yet again. “If you stick with me for a bit, I might show you another surprise or two.”

The music drowns out your racing heart just barely, and the bartender places a whole set of tequila shots on the bar top, and it snaps you out of your reverie for a moment. 

“Wanna get some air?”

He seems surprised, but of course he wasn’t gonna throw away this shot. “Sure. Why not?”

You instruct the bartender to send the shots to your booth, not even spending ten seconds to ponder staying in this deafening hell hole. Not when this man looks like peace. Perhaps an undercurrent of mystery underneath, but his whole demeanor is as calm and comforting as those old-school movies you put on to fall asleep. At the same time, something about this person pulls you in, it’s almost magnetic, and you can’t help wanting to see this through.