#also he's kind of an ass in this one but i feel like being an ass is kind of on brand for him more often than not

[dilf-docs]

You're a Daydream, Stay A While

joel miller x younger!reader

summary: you're jackson's designated bartender. well, your dad is, but after the arrival of a new face in town, maybe the inspiration to finally step up to your obligations kicks in.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap, smut, p. in v., oral (f. receiving), fingering, foreplay (mostly breasts), creampie, breeding kink (kinda), angst/comfort, insecure!joel (love touch etcetc starved), needy!joel, pov switch mostly joel (he's down bad as well), collected shitty puns from across the internet like thanos collected the infinity stones

word count: 6,136 words

side note: yk what's worst than simping for old men? simping for old men who don't exist. since y'all know, tlou II trailer dropped, which got me searching for joel's ***** to brace/prepare myself. umm so, why did no one tell me jackson!joel is the hottest thing ever? can´t wait to see pedro being senior citizen level of hot and dying (again) on his bday month! 😍 anyway, this is based on this request and well, yes! i too would flirt with an old ass if he looked like that™ hope u like it bc for some reason I'm not sure of it JSJDLKDFK also 400 followers GUYS STOP (pls don't) IT'S TOO MUCH (give me more) HELP!=="))??! (that i do need tysm)

The truth is simple: you hate working.

An apocalypse later, you figure there are more important things. But on Jackson, it feels like the world before fungus and violence, and everyone's got a role to play. As the daughter of Tipsy Bison's owner, yours is to help around the bar, something no matter how much your dad scolds you, you don't seem to care enough to even do a decent job.

Of course, it could be worse: patroling, keeping the cattle or crops, but not even then you're moved enough to give a shit about it.

Enter Joel Miller.

He, who made sure his arrival in Jackson didn't go unnoticed, making heads turn at it, not only because of his emotional reunion with Tommy, the little girl with him, or the fact that he left yet still returned. But also (mainly to you) because he was hot. Very hot.

Joel was the type of handsome that was rough in the edges, his closed-off demeanor and overall mystery adding to the thrill. His face seemed to be in a perpetual state of grief and darkness, sprinkled with grey and wrinkles, that in your opinion, didn't mean about age but just something that made his features all the more attractive.

It was a lie to say there weren't any boys your age in Jackson, good-looking too, yet you felt yourself gravitate towards Joel's musky presence. Yes, he could be your dad, but again, it's the apocalypse, and there are plenty of things to worry about than some age gap.

That doesn't stop the talking, anyway. It may be the end of the world, but gossip is just like cockroaches: it never dies.

The Tipsy Bison owner's daughter is in love with Tommy's older, much older, brother.

It didn't bother you, thought. You were pretty open about it, giving Jackson more to talk. Whenever Joel arrived at the bar, all heads would turn in your direction, ready for the shameless flirting and compliments you showered the oldest Miller in.

Maria had warned you, of course. She was the closest you had to a friend―sometimes being like a big sister, and she seemed to know what he was up to before, at the QZ in Boston, thanks to Tommy. Safe to say, you didn't care, despite listening to every word she had said.

Joel could break your heart, yet in a dying world, you weren't afraid to live.

Which is why now, as he enters the bar, you offer your dad to take his place.

"Go rest, I'll take this client" you offer with kindness, but he knows better. You're his daughter: in the end of the day, he's aware Joel is here, your shift in attitude warning him about Miller's incoming presence.

"If you will take this client, take the rest too" and before your dad can throw a speech about everyone being equal in Jackson, you're accepting to do the job properly, despite your grumbling and lack of interest to anyone who isn't Joel.

"Joel" you greet as soon as he sits, one of the many flirty smiles you have for him only adorning your face. He nods, avoiding your eyes that look at him like he could give you the world. He can't, so he keeps focused on the glass you're pouring in front of him.

"See? Didn't even need to ask. I already know" you seem proud of it, and the ghost of a smile brushes his lips.

"Well" he raises the glass, "it's an easy drink"

You feign hurt, "is that how you treat your bartender? I could poison your drink" Joel now truly smiles, knowing you could never, "or I could just strip you of your my favorite customer rights"

Now he feigns hurt, playing along for the first time in ever.

"Copied" he raises his arms in surrender, not before taking a gulp. You watch hypnotized the way his adam's apple bobs, the liquid sliding down his throat until it looses itself in the peak his two buttons undone give, of what looks to be a broad soft upper body, blessed with a patch of greying messy hair.

"Have they ever complimented you before, Joel?"

You. He refrains from answering, scared as to where little encouraging had led you and your shameless mouth to. He can feel the rest of the people behind him whispering, holes burning his neck. He can't let you win again: make him seem a pathetic excuse of a man who can't say no to a sweet doe-eyed delusional girl.

But you don't stop, despite his silence and the growing pit on your stomach.

"I'll take that as a no. Wanna know why?" he takes a much needed sip, "because all the good pick-up lines are taken"

This he can handle, Joel thinks. It's silly, proper of your age-

"But you aren't"

Ah, of course. Hasn't he learned?

You have the nerve to laugh, free as a wind chime softly carresed by the wind. His face burns, and even thought he's heard plenty of worse from you ("No pen, no paper but you still draw my attention", "Well, here I am. What are your other two wishes?" "You must be a dog person because you look fetching"), nothing had affected him this much.

Which is why he tries to pull the mask that had accompanied him since he first knew what grief was, so no feeling would ever made him weak again in a world hardened with pain. He's so good at it, wearing it like a second skin that doesn't scrub off no matter how much he wastes Jackson's water supply away, he sometimes sees the way your face is crestfallen at his indifference.

But you're young and stubborn, as so was he, before all the suffering and broken dreams.

So you won't listen to the past or doubts: the moment he stepped a foot into the community, you knew it was over, beating so loud you could barely hear your own breathing or him, when Maria introduced you and he shook your hand with his much bigger one.

"Joel" he'd said, with the sexiest voice you'd ever heard. His hands were covered in gloves, but despite that and the cold winter, the warmth that pooled from his palms had spread across your cheeks and chest. It had taken you a while to realize you hadn't said anything.

"Y/n" you hate the way your voice sounded small.

He nods, a way of saying Nice to meet you in his withdrawn nature. Then walks away, with Tommy and the girl, who looks curiously at you, Joel completely oblivious of how he's just turned your world upside down.

"Welcome to the museum!" you had said.

He tilted his head in confusion, Ellie's stare intense. "I thought this' Jackson?"

"This is a museum, because you're a work of art"

The tip of his ears instantly reddened, and the laugh Ellie was containing bursted like a bottle of champagne.

"Look at you, old man!" she laughed at him, making you wonder their relationship and how closer they seemed to be, despite initial assumptions. "Can't believe a girl gets the big, grumpy, scary Miller to blush like a boy"

You think that's the reason behind his apathy towards you, barely reacting to your pick-up lines or "subtle" flirting. It's probably not a reason as childish as that, but you'd rather be wrong than accept he may never feel the same way you do.

Because for a moment, despite the times you lived in, life made sense.

So no matter the stares, Joel's guarded posture and lack of reciprocation, you'll always be there, waiting: riding the roller coaster, enjoying the high.

The speed brings you closer, even if that means you'll crash.

Unfortunately for Joel, he knows who you are.

He's not even ten patrolling jobs closer to owning a bottle of whiskey of his own (he thinks earning it is bullshit, hasn't he done already enough?), so he's forced to go to the only place where he can get it.

And of course, there's you: a name and face he couldn't place upon his arrival, even if you had introduced yourself with your shitty line (which made him blush and Ellie laugh, so maybe it was a grudge what made him bent on removing you from his head) yet now is ingraned into his mind.

He doesn't know what's worst: your flirting or the fact that you seemed genuine about it. Or maybe it's the fact that he can tell you apart from the rest now, with a face full of life, always ready to give him your best smile and serve his glass the way he likes.

He needs to be the bigger person in this mess and stop it, Joel thinks. He isn't one to care about the talking, years of being brutal hiding any possible feeling that isn't rage. But then Ellie smuggled her way in his life, he found Tommy again, and Jackson was a reminder of old days when he would allow himself to feel anything else. So, in a way, he's become a bit susceptible to the talking behind his back.

How could he entertain a girl that could be his daughter? hushed, behind his stool. But then your fingers brush "accidentally", and his dick twitches between his legs when you bite your lip, pronouncing a Sorry like no one has said before: a tone so low and sultry, he's convinced wasn't even possible. Then you bat your eyelashes, and laugh (a sound both as delightful as addictive) before you're saying: "Don't mind them. They're just jealous you've got all my attention" and for a brief second, Joel let's himself believe he's special and worth of your time.

It's now a while since he's been there in Jackson, slowly settling into a life that doesn't involve running and fear.

If he thought your little crush was a phase, he's wrong.

You're still giving him time.

He's not supposed to get attached to you, Ellie, Tommy and Maria (future nephew in the way) more than enough. But then, when he's alone in a house too big for two people, Joel misses the way your loud voice fills the eerie silence that's followed him since death has been tracking his every step. Or how your interest on his life doesn't seem an act, listening to every word he says with tender eyes and soft smile, sometimes even making the effort of bringing things he's said before into new conversations; remembering. His heart flutter at your compliments, no matter how dumb they are, probably because he's not used to that stuff. As he lays awake at night, brain clogged with wounds too deep to bear, he finds comfort in things he has a feeling he's too old to get worked up about.

"Joel" you had said one day. God, he loved his name on your lips. The way you say it so sure, as if you'd follow him wherever he'd go.

He coughs. "Yeah?" and you smile, because at least he's looking in your direction.

"The chance of meeting a person like you is the only reason I talk to strangers"

The way your tone was straight, not flinching or faltering scared him. How something akin to sincerity dancing in the sparkles of your eyes, that now seemed to waver not out of whimsy but out of vulnerability, perfectly hidden in what could pass as another one of your attempts to woo him, but Joel's lived and seen enough to know it means much more.

So now, whenever there's darkness, he finds light on replaying those small moments on his head.

Dear God. What's he become? Ellie can't find out or he'll never hear the end of it.

But this things you don't know. All you see is a wall, and you're getting tired of hitting it.

The few words he spares your way are now a punishment you endure, cruel reminder that it's all you'll ever get.

Could you be in love forever? Could you even love?

It was a new feeling. Foreign, in fields of inexperience, but familiars in others. You may have never felt it, but the way your beat was steady when he showed up, worn out boots against the wood creaking under his weight, makes you believe when you know, you know.

"Hello, Joel" your father greets before you speak. Today, no matter how much you tried to shoo him away, he stayed.

You send a small smile his way, but he doesn't return it. You feel small, like a kid, undeserving of his attention. There's a bit of relief knowing your dad's there, so you let him take Joel for you.

There's always a first, and when both your dad and Joel notice, the latter feels a little sting on his chest.

But he's caused this, he thinks. It's what he wanted, after all: for you to stop chasing a man with scars in and out, bearing sins and blood where you had innocence and love.

"We're having a party tonight" he comments, making Joel quirk an eyebrow as he sips.

He gives you a brief glimpse, lost in the curve of your ass in those tight jeans, you giving him your back. He dryly scoffs on instinct at your deliberate choice to ignore him.

"Why's that?"

"My daughter's birthday"

He sees your body tense in the corner of his eye, wiping the glass in your hand with a bit too much force.

"Happy birthday" Joel speaks up, and you mutter a weak Thanks.

That's all he gets? No smile, no looking his way. Just a dry thank you that sounds more like something he would say.

Oh.

Was this how you felt?

"Time sure flies by" your dad sighs nostalgic, completely oblivious to the whole thing. "I feel if it was yesterday we came home from the hospital with you"

You smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes, despite the obvious adoration for your dad.

"Don't get sappy on me" you sound embarrassed.

"I don't care. Twenty-one years later and an apocalypse in the mix, you're still my baby"

"Dad!" your cheeks heat up, and Joel almost forgets he's there, his body back to life when your face goes back to its normal color and happiness.

"Which means" your dad goes back to Joel, "you're invited"

Your laughter dies and Joel's chest tightens.

"You need to stop saying that. All Jackson is invited" you respond, making him flinch. The bite is obvious.

You're not special, is what you try to say in between lines.

"I'll be there" tone daring, and your father feels something has shifted in the air.

You don't answer after that. What are you supposed to say? Don't come? I hate you for making me feel small? He doesn't owe you anything, but it still hurts.

"It's at seven" there's a sharp edge to your tone when looking at him.

"I'll be there" he repeats, still, but it sounds more like who he really is trying to convince is himself.

Joel is there, as promised. You don't know why, but after what happened earlier, for the first time ever, seeing him brings you dread.

He catches you in a corner, sipping on some drink.

"Hi" it's soft, the tone new, and it doesn't help the pit in your stomach.

"Hey"

"Why are you here?" he's curious., "ain't this supposed to be your party?"

It's funny, really. The way everyone else mingles around you, laugh and talk, yet here you are, bitter inside the shadows of your corner.

You raise your glass and chuckle dryly. "Well, cheers to that"

"You shouldn't be here" he insists, and you roll your eyes. Then, his voice goes soft. "Is... Is this because of me?"

You scoff, venom falling out of your bitter laugh. "Wow, big ego you got there. Newsflash: the world doesn't revolve around you"

He's so used to your pinning, it's hard to bear the change.

"I wasn't saying that, I just-"

"Please don't" you cut him off. "Don't ruin my birthday more than you already have, thanks"

You decide to walk away, but Joel won't let you.

"I don't want that" he insists, blocking your steps. "I want you to be happy"

"Don't bullshit me" your tone is icy, cutting like daggers. "Please, leave me alone"

"Not until you're fine"

You scoff at his incomprehensible behavior.

"Oh, now you care? Drop the act; you're just angry I'm not stroking your ego anymore like a lovesick puppy. Truth is, you don't owe me anything, Joel"

He looks like you've slapped him across his face.

"I know" his voice darkens, filled with tension. "But-"

You get tired at Joel's sudden insistence, overwhelming you with confusion. This is the same guy that has uttered less than fifty words your way, indifferent to your flirting and special treatment. Of course, it may have been a little silly of you to expect so much from a guy older even than your dad, but his apathy was borderline rude, and that you can't excuse. Or understand. Or let go.

So yes, you're being petty. And yes, it also feels good to have him begging to have your attention, the roles reversed.

"But what, Joel? Is there anything you can say, really? It's not that serious" you empty the glass in a chug, feeling dizzy. "Live a little and stop being so obssesed with me"

He shoots you a look hard to decipher. There is hurt: from all the emotions available, he chose the one thing you didn't think he'd be capable of feeling. Hell, he looked rather more like the cause than the affected on the other end. But then auburn fires flash behind his eyes, and the circle repeats itself, the danger and rage Maria warned you about.

"Obssesed with you?" his eyes carry a wild light in them. "If anyone is obssesed, well, it ain't me"

"I need air" you push past him, done with his shit.

"I'm sorry-"

The cold wind hits your face as you storm outside the bar. Is this a lesson to be learnt? Was this how heartbreak felt? The only thing you know is you need to get the farthest you can, even if your footsteps feel heavy with the weight of the snowed streets and frigidness of your heart.

"Y/n, wait!"

You turn around. Unbelievable: Joel Miller is running after you.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Joel?!" you shout, "why can't you just leave me alone?!"

"Because I-"

"There's nothing for you to say" you counter, pinching the bridge of your nose in frustration. "If this is some sort of guilt thing, I need you to let it go. What I did- I mean, you should probably forget about the whole thing. It's my fault, and I'm sorry my reaction is immature and what not, but I should've known to read the signs. You're simply not interested in a girl who hasn't truly lived or known what pain is"

After you confession, you hear a laugh. You raise your eyes, anger and hurt flashing in tears.

"And you have the nerve to fucking laugh?! Fuck you, Joel" you want to walk away to save yourself from further embarrasment yet your feet seem to be stuck.

"Oh, sweetheart. I'm not interested?" you roll your eyes, but he pins you by your shoulders, as if knowing you'd walk away. "Listen, I need you to know somethin': I'm not who you think I am"

"I don't care" you interrupt, defiant. "You're right, I don't know who you are. But I want to. Who you where outside this walls... It doesn't matter, not to me. You did what you had to do to survive, and that brought you here. Jackson... think of it as a second chance. You can still be happy, you know?"

With me, dies in your throat, not wanting to give more of yourself away.

"It's better this way" Joel insists, "hell, you'll even thank me one day. There's plenty of young boys here who'd love to be with you, trust me"

"I don't want them, Joel. What's so hard to understand?" what makes you get closer to him, you don't know, but in a sudden rush of force, you find the courage to look at him, body standing still as you exhale, fears condense in the air. "I only want you"

"You don't" you should roll your eyes again at his stubborn character, but his voice comes out so small, almost as if resignated, that it tugs your chest.

"I do" you reply firmly, cupping his cheek with tender care. He leans in your touch, despite it revealing his true desires when it comes to you.

"Why me?" Joel whispers, bigger hand covering yours, as to prove it's real and the warmth isn't a joke. "Why not a younger, charmin', happy boy your age? Why a broken violent older man?"

His voice breaks after the admission, quietly seeping into heavy silence that falls like the snowflakes in his hair.

"Joel" you call his name softly, making those sad brown eyes look at you. You gulp, nervous at the storm of emotions inside them, "is it so hard to believe you can be loved?"

Your words make him falter, his grip loosing strength as he tumbles back.

"Love?" he repeats with disbelief, as if you'd just say some kind of tale. "There isn't love in this world left for me. Men like me don't deserve good things, especially if they comin' from a pretty girl as yourself"

You shouldn't be blushing at times like this, but the maroon splash on your cheeks betrays you, warm as the drink from before and red as the dim lights casted by Jackson's Christmas tree in the middle of the town.

"Joel" you call again, and he's surprised you're still there. That you hadn't turn your back on him, or looked into his eyes and saw the monster in him, running away to never come back.

"If you let me" you hold his hands to steady him even as they tremble, "I could"

I could love you.

The promise hangs unspoken in the air, the wind now barely above a humming.

"You'd take me" his voice falters, "with all I've done, knowing I've hurted people?" Killed people, but he can't bring himself to say it when you look at him like that: like he could learn to love you.

"Yes" your voice doesn't waver a bit, "every part of you"

"And you'd take me knowin' that I'm years ahead in hurt, age and life?"

"Yes, Joel" you giggle. "Are making me do an exam on your life? Because that's not fair, you've barely spoken to me, or anyone else for the matter!"

He chuckles, shaking his head.

"I s'ppose life ain't fair, sometimes"

"But it could be" the moonlight of the now clear sky shines over your eyes, and Joel is sure that the stars would be jealous.

"It could" he repeats, as to believe it himself.

Silence settles again, but it doesn't feel suffocating anymore.

"You know, we should probably get inside"

You dissmiss his words. "Nobody has even noticed we're gone"

"What about the cake?"

Your chest feels warm at his concern. He may not believe it, but the old-world Joel, the one who was a contractor in Texas and had a daughter, is still there, somewhere.

"Jackson is real, but miracles not" you laugh, "we don't have those. The party really is just an excuse for dad to drink with his friends during labor hours"

"And yours?" Joel inquires, "where your friends at?"

"Left early" then you lean to his ear, hot where skin meets cold. "I told them to"

He tries, but all words die on his throat.

"Wanna know why I did it?" your fingers wander to his tense jawline, tracing your sharp nails until they descent to his neck, sprinkled with loose hairs from his beard.

"Why?" voice barely above a whisper, his cock painfully hard between his legs. That you don't know: just the glint of dark on his hazel eyes.

"Why don't we find out?" and your hand takes his to lead the way. When he doesn't move, you try other way.

"I'm the birthday girl" you tease softly, but your orbs sparkle with something akin to dangerous. "You better make it up to me"

You've walked this road so many times, yet it's never felt longer.

The house is alone, you'd say, and Joel followed you because well, he'd follow you anywhere. He notices you said 'house', an indicator you still live with your parents. He wonders if you're embarrased, but by the way you smile, inviting him inside, to a part of you intimate and unknown until today, he knows he's chosen right.

When you open the door, cold creeps in through the cracks of warmth. You lead the way to your room, and once you're inside, he thinks it's very you.

"Very me?" you giggle, taking a seat in the bed. Joel watches from the doorframe, his bulky arms crossed. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It's cute" and you think it's not a frequent word in his vocabulary, thanks to the pink dusting his cheeks.

"I'm cute?" you repeat delighted, and the shade of pink turns darker.

He just nods, avoiding your gaze.

"Joel" you call, then pat the spot next to you "why are you so far away? Are you scared?"

He grumbles something under his breath before walking over to where you showed. The bed creaks under his weight, and now that he's closer, you hear the wavering beat of his heart and ragged breaths.

"You are scared" you repeat, a statement now. He thinks you're mocking him, until your sure hand grabs his. "It's okay"

Before he can add on that, your face is too close, your breath tickling over his nose. He feels the moist of your lips press over the brigde of it, with a tenderness that brings ghosts of tears he has since long shade to his eyes.

Then they smoothly move to catch him in a kiss. He lets out a shaky gasp against your mouth, letting himself loose on the whiskey drops inside, an intoxicating mix against his own. His hands find your waist, gripping the soft skin with calloused fingers, refusing to leave it. He squeezes your curves while infiltrating your mouth with his tongue, until he pulls to breath, making you whine.

"Fuck, sweetheart" he nips your lower lip, "ain't you the sweetest thin' to ever exist?"

The kiss gets more heated, his hands now traveling to your face as they hold onto you for support, rough digits meeting peachy skin. Just the mere act of kissing makes him groan against you, too old to be shameful about the needy sounds coming out of his mouth.

"Joel" you whimper his name. He stops and takes the time to bore his gaze over your flushed face, your own dazed eyes mirroring his.

His fingers find their way to your hips again, pulling you closer. The moment caughts you and the bed off guard, the furniture creaking while your eyes move to the hardness visible on his worn-out jeans. You move your head to free your mouth to talk, but that doesn't stop Joel, who hungrily kisses the trace of your jaw and the road starting in your neck and finishing on your collarbones.

"Is that because of me?" Joel whines against your lips, yet you can't stop staring at the very big silhouette. "Oh, happy birthday to me"

Joel whines when you tear way from him, his hands loosing grasp on your body. You move up against the headboard, spreading your legs for him to put himself in between them.

You take off your clothes, and his eyes don't leave your body as if it's a show for him. He can drool at the sight of your breasts, rosy skin waiting for his tongue and teeth to sink on it. He leans closer, eyes looming at moles he could beg to kiss.

Now you, your expectant eyes plea. Joel's posture adquires a guarded air, as he grows self-conscious.

"Stop staring at me like that" he nervously chuckles.

"Is there something wrong?" your sweet voice inquires, laced with concern. He gulps, kind of afraid and embarrased of what you would say.

"I'm..." his voice comes out strained, "I just-"

His mind briefly wanders to Tess, how she never said anything, rather busy seeking the warmth of his body without commenting about it. The act mattered over the feelings, which where in her eyes but not his heart. But now, his heart beats in a different sound, one where he wishes you won't judge a body crossed with the roughness of scars yet the softness of extra weight.

"M' just warnin' you, doll" the nickname brings butterflies in your stomach, "this body's seen better days"

He removes the layers of clothing: flannel first, and then tight white long sleeved shirt. He's left in his jeans, unbuckling his belt that falls to the floor with a thud. His breathing turns to panting, afraid to meet you in the eye.

"Joel" you repeat his name, bringing him back to reality. "Look at me"

He's killed people, faced raiders as much as infected, and other countless things, so he dares himself to look up, breath hitching when he finds you eating him with your eyes.

"Fuck, Joel. I didn't know you were so pretty under those dirty ass flannels"

You knew he'd be handsome; that's literally the reason why you chose to flirt with him. But now that he's completely stripped off his layers of warm clothing, it's even better. You can't stop your hungry eyes from roaming his body, lingering on the soft swell of his stomach, hanging over the waistband of his underwear. A scar that looks deep is near his belly button, and you wonder if he'll ever tell you why. There's a patch of hair over his soft chest your tongue wants to lick. And of course, his strong arms packed with broad shoulders that make you want to scream.

"Stop lying" he chastises, but there's a smile adorning his features. A true smile on Joel fucking Miller's face. What a rare sight; you need to see it more.

"W-where your condoms?" he asks, nervous.

That catches you off guard, too busy cooing over how a man so big and sturdy could fold that easily, looking and sounding small.

"I'm not sure. I mean, maybe on my parents room but I-"

You cut yourself. Joel's concerned gaze finds you. "Yes?"

"I want you, Joel" the intensity of your stare terrifies him. "All of you"

He falls closer to you, forehead against your own. He can't bring himself to look at you, so he closes his eyes and dares to ask:

"Are you sure you want this?"

Are you sure you want me?

"Don't you trust me?" you're all smiles, even if your voice is soft. "I want you. I truly do"

He's hiding his face into your shoulder until you feel his lips pressing against your now bare skin, making you shiver.

"Where you want me, birthday girl?" he says between kisses. "Tell me, sweetheart. I'm all ears"

"Please, Joel" you unhook your bra, letting your breasts free. His lips begin to kiss his way to your breasts, tongue teasing the skin before nipping it. Joel's teeth catch the hardened nipple, grazing it lightly.

"S'pretty" he sounds drunk, and you love the way he looses himself in the pleasure haze.

He continues kissing your breasts before positioning himself right so he can hover above you. The kisses turn wet and sloppier, as if all his energy was to be spent into the rosy skin.

"Can I taste you, sweetheart?" he lowers his head to your entrance, already soaking wet with your arousal. "Fuck me, if this ain't a meal"

"The best in all Jackson" you joke, but the laugh dies in your throat when Joel's nose ghosts over your throbbing pussy.

"I- fuck, Joel" you moan when he licks your folds, his tongue an expert. For a brief moment, you think of who came before you, and if this is what they got or you're getting the best version. His saliva mixes with your dripping juices, making you whine as his tongue licks your swollen folds. His fingers then slowly inserted themselves inside at the same time, moving in and out of your puffy walls. His groans mix with the sound of your whines and the furniture creaking, the sounds obscene and feeling so far from the outside world.

"You're so good at this, baby" his sweat mixes with the blush on his face because of the nickname, nose pressed against your clit as he keeps up the ministrations. "D-don't stop"

"This pussy's so pretty" he says, "and s'only for me, yeah?"

"Yes, Joel. Only yours" you whine, your orgasm approaching. All of your body feels on fire, every touch inching the burn in your stomach closer as his head remains between your legs, tongue insatiable. You come all over his face, your hands digging into his damp locks as you scream his name to the air.

Joel raises his head to capture your lips on a wet kiss, the taste of you inside your mouth and dripping from his coated beard.

"Ain't you sweet" you open your legs further. "You're such a tease, sweetheart. Gon'be the death of me"

"I just like seeing you like this" you admit.

"Means?"

"So fucking needy"

A borderline primal grumble births from his throat. "You've a filthy mouth on you, sweetheart" he chuckles while wrapping your legs around his waist and lining himself up. Joel's tip runs up and down your folds, grazing your clit long enough to make you gasp.

"And you're s'fuckin' tight" he mumbles under his breath. You gasp for air as you try to adjust yourself to the huge size of his girth, afraid you bit more than what you can chew. His pace starts slow but gradually picks up a rougher and quicker pace. Joel grunts between thrusts, yet takes his time to make sure his lips kiss every mole sprinkled across your face and chest, his favorite just above your left eyebrow.

"I want ya' to come first, like a present" blush crosses through his face again. He leaves teasing kisses against your face, as you wail, finally hitting you.

"I'll wait for you" you whisper, your hips aiding you to sustain his sloppy thrusts, "want you to come too. Inside"

You feel his softening dick twitch, suddenly rock hard again. Oh, so he was into that.

"Don't worry, I have a pill" you explain. "So go ahead, pretty boy. Show me if the size matches the talk"

"Bet" his voice acquires a darkness to it. "Gonna fill you with all of it, until you milk my cock dry. Gonna fill this pretty pussy until it's full of my seed and it leaks for days"

He follows right after, groaning into your shoulder, where he bits the skin. His tongue wets the area, to relief the pain, yet you like it. Thick ropes of cum paint your puffy heat creamy, Joel panting as he stares down at you.

"What?" you chuckle.

Maybe Jackson was a safe haven. Heaven incarnate. Maybe second chances were real, and for the first time in years, he feels safe.

"I don't deserve you" he voices his thoughts, forehead pressed against yours as he tries to even his breathing, yet each breath seems more labored than the last.

Your hands travel to his face, cupping it with tender hands. He leans on the touch, because despite his crimes and past dawning upon him, he's a man: one seeking comfort on a pretty face and anything that'll remind him of distant emotions that can still exist despite what the world has become. Joel's hands travel to yours, thumb brushing skin free of scars and pain. He envies and loves the beauty in your face, eyes full of something akin to affection looking back, blurring the pain mirrored on his own. You kiss him again, and he can feel the emotions in the tip of your tongue.

"You're wrong" your voice holds a quiet determination. Time was a precious gift, but in Jackson, time could be, and the resolve longing tells him you'll be there. I'm not going anywhere, Joel. Not without you. "We all deserve love, Joel"

Joel Miller is a man who finds it hard to trust, yet, when he takes a look at your eyes―warm as coffee, he allows himself to believe in you.

[ang3ltine]

𝐖𝐞'𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 '𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬'?- College au

⤿ 𝖿𝗍 𝖬𝗎𝗌𝗂𝖼 student 𝖲𝖾 𝗆𝗂 𝗑 𝖥𝖺𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗈𝗇 student 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝖲𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒: this is just a small headcanon that shows how it would be like to have a roommate like Se mi.

𝖶𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌: mentions of alcohol, drunk Se mi, smoking, suggestive themes, abusive relationship and violence (not too extreme).

𝖠𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌: Don't worry this mostly contains fluff!! Also I hope you enjoy!

𖦹 It was the start of a new year in College and you had decided to swap roommates with another girl. The reason was that your old roommate was a pain in the ass and you'd had enough.

𖦹 By the time you had entered your new dorm room, another girl was unpacking her stuff. She was tall, had short dark hair and piercings on her nose and bottom lip. Honestly you had mixed feelings, she was super hot but also kind of intimidating?

𖦹 Nonetheless, despite you two being polar opposites of eachother. You both got along pretty well. Your roommate was a music major named Se mi, her aesthetic was more simple and darker than yours. Whereas you liked your pinks and whites and was a Fashion Major.

𖦹 You thought that Se mi would be the type to keep to herself and not talk much with you, but you were dead wrong. She's super kind and caring but was also a big tease.

𖦹 Furniture shopping!! You guys would go to the mall to buy cute furniture for your dorm room. Se mi picked out cute matching cups with Cherries for you guys to share ♡

𖦹 Se mi legit lives in your bed at this point. She loves how your mattress was much more plush and comfortable than hers. You'd always have to kick her out if you find her sneaking under your covers at night.

"Se mi? What the hell are you doing??" You hissed through your teeth as Se mi slips under your covers.

"What..? Oh don't mind me, just go back to sleep and pretend you never saw me," she'd state casually while snuggling further into the blanket. This had been going on since maybe the 3rd week of the 1st semester?

Groaning in annoyance while you face palmed, you had to calm your heartbeat down. At some point you had begun to grow a small crush on her but blamed it on your lack of success in your love life.

𖦹 Speaking of your love life. It was a legit mess. Every boy you had been with had either cheated on you or was just a fling. The most recent 'boyfriend' you had was super manipulative and controlling. Feeling like you didn't really have a choice , you stuck with him. Because he gave you what you thought was love.

𖦹 Se mi hates this man with her guts and believes you deserve better. Literally has an existential crisis because she doesn't know whether the feelings she has for you is platonic or much more.

𖦹 Finally she had enough when she heard you crying by your bedside, keening down and clutching your stomach. He had punched you, hard. Without a second thought, she stormed her way through the boy's dormitory and confronted the guy. Leaving him with a broken nose and a clear message.

"Don't mess with my girl."

𖦹 Se mi likes when you style her clothes or pick out outfits for her. Also she absolutely loves it when you actually make clothes for her! Literally adores every accessory or shirt/sweater you design for her.

𖦹 She's a smoker and gets drunk from time to time. This was so she could cope with her own problems, until you coerced her to drink less and smoke outside. As her birthday gift, you got her the vivienne westwood heart shaped lighter that had been on her wishlist. You may or may not have taken a look at it while she wasn't looking. She so wanted to marry you on the spot when you handed it to her.

"Please marry me!!" She'd scream, literally almost waking up the girls next door.

"Geez! Ok, fine! I'll marry you, just be quiet!" You whisper shouted as she hands you a makeshift ring that she totally didn't make right infront of you.

𖦹 Don't worry, she gets you a real one with a golden band and a pink gem in the middle. Which you love and Cherish ofcourse! You two would definitely have matching promise rings, with hers being a silver band and a black gem.

𖦹 Both of you collect figurines so you two definitely go to popmart together! She likes Hirono and Kubo whereas you liked Skullpanda and Molly figurines. You'd decorate your room with showcases and get matching labubu's together!! So cute

𖦹 Would drop you off at your class before going to hers cause both the music department and fashion/design department are close by.

𖦹 Gives you privacy whenever you need it and isn't the type of person to eavesdrop in a conversation that you're having with a friend. Unless you personally come to her for advice.

𖦹 When you two started dating, she was the one to ask you to be her girlfriend. She knew you had feelings for her too but you didn't know how to tell her. Which she completely understands, this was something new to you. She took her time with you and eventually you got more comfortable in the relationship.

𖦹 Ideal dating spots would be around or near campus, unfortunately. This is due to your busy schedules and you both take your majors seriously. If you guys are on break, she definitely take you outside the city to the beach. If you didn't want to travel far, she'd take you to cute cafés and arcades to have fun and chill at the same time.

𖦹 Very much into PDA! Holds your hand/waist when your walking to class or talking a walk around campus. Would teasingly whisper obscene things into your ear just to get a reaction out of you. Often resulting in you both making out in the girls washroom or a janitors closet.

{Nsfw}

𖦹 Oh Lord you're in for a long ride. Yall share the same washroom so expect shower sex from time to time. You'd have to shove her out the bathroom because she wouldn't leave, when you just wanted a peaceful shower.

𖦹 Is surprisngly super sweet and soft during intimacy. A soft dom most of the time but can be a switch too. However, if she's feeling frustrated then expect her to be a little rough. But she'd give you the best aftercare, making sure to rub your sides and stomach. Would give you painkillers and a warm bubbly bath. If you wanted, she would join you. If not then she'd wait until you've finished first.

𖦹 you guys share a bed at this point, so now you both have a small double bed with a super plush mattress and insanely fluffy pillows and massive duvet. Will never keep her hands to herself so expect lazy morning sex or insane makeout sessions.

"Why're you so embarrassed? I've literally seen you naked so there's no need to be shy~" she'd say teasingly while cuddling with you in bed.

"God you're insufferable..!"

Safe to say you two didn't make it to your first class.

[sylvesterelle]

Meditations in an Emergency Part 2

Reader/Simon "Ghost" Riley/John "Soap" MacTavish

“Like it feels so good to get and give a compliment and we should normalize doing it more often. Strangers reaching out across the great abyss for a moment of connection,” you say, leaning back and gesturing broadly. “Ships passing in the night with naught but a toot-toot of mutual appreciation.”

“I don’t think that’s how the shipping industry works.” Or: How to live well and get railed through the power of compliments.

Part 2 of 3, 14.2k words, explicit

Read part one I Read on AO3

Author's note: Hi hello somehow the supposed-to-be-5k part 2 of this accidentally turned into a 15k-and-going-strong porn extravaganza, so I've split it up and will post the last bit in a few days. Please enjoy!!

Also if you've left a sweet comment here or on AO3 please know I have shrines to you in my heart (even if I don't often respond) (because I am very easily overwhelmed by the kindness of strangers) (but I am kissing you all on the mouth)

Your blood’s running so hot you’re surprised you’re not steaming as you hurry through the freezing streets. It’s a proper blizzard now, flurries glittering in scattered streetlamps and the air shining with that strange, magical half-light of winter nights (a result, you cheerily inform Soap and Ghost, of snow being the number one most reflective surface on earth). The streets are quiet and still and it feels like you’re the only people left in the whole world; a small pocket of time and space for you to get utterly lost within. 

Ghost spends most of the short journey craned over so he can press his nose into your neck, nipping at your throat as he drinks in the scent of you, while Soap’s got his big hands glued to your ass, groping away like he’s gagging for a public indecency charge. You’re all near panting by the time you make it to your building, the pair of them urging you on as you fumble with the main door and drag them up too many flights of stairs—a cosmic insult to your sheer levels of desperation.

“Could just fuck on the staircase,” Ghost mumbles on the second-to-last landing, gnawing at your jaw, cheek, throat. “Just a little. To vent the pressure, like.”

“Just one more floor,” you promise breathlessly, pausing just a moment to lean into the delicious, blunt edge of his teeth. Soap growls his impatience on your other side, hands greedy at your waist, teasing at the button of your trousers.

“Catch me if you can,” you say with a grin, breaking away and darting up the stairs as the men sputter and charge after you. Your laugh bursts out of you as you run, high and free like a kid and that’s exactly how you feel, fucking giddy with joy as you tear down the hallways, uncaring that you’re probably waking your neighbors. You’ll be moving on soon anyway, and tonight you don’t feel like stifling a single, blessed sound. 

Their footsteps are swift behind you, but you weren’t lying about how very fast you could move when you want. Enough to pause and blow them a taunting kiss before rounding the last corner, grinning like anything at their outraged expressions. Every part of you is alight as you crash against the front door, sending the doormat skittering as you shove your key in the lock and the men swear colorfully behind you, promising all sorts of delicious retribution. 

You make it through the entry and halfway to the bedroom before a body crashes into you, lifting you clear off the ground and pinning you with enough force that the wall art rattles and threatens to fall. Ghost, you realize as your fingers scrabble clumsily at his masked face. 

“Off, off, off, fucking kiss me,” you demand, and he holds you aloft with a single hand under your ass as he yanks up the mask, exposing his scarred jaw for you to mouth over. You’d marvel at how very much you’re turned on by that show of strength, but you can’t seem to think of much at all when he puts those plush lips against yours, licking into you like he’s memorizing the taste. 

You don’t even realize you’ve closed your eyes until you feel a touch on your chin, fingertips still cold from the outside. You whine a little as you’re tugged from Ghost’s kiss, and Soap shushes you with a laugh. “Oh, none of that, bonnie,” he says, “Just wanted t’get a taste of ya.”

He leans down to pick up Ghost’s good work, licking against your lower lip, nipping at the corner of your mouth, sucking a little at the tip of your tongue—all playful provocation to Ghost’s possessive devouring. The combination is making you weak in the fucking knees as they pass you between them, and you find you’re unutterably grateful those muscles aren’t just for show, taking all your weight like it’s nothing.

Well, maybe not nothing, given the way Ghost is rutting against your hip and Soap is making feral little noises as they kiss you into oblivion and you’re suddenly not quite sure you’re going to survive this. Vaguely wonder about the possibility of spontaneously combustion, given how hot you’re burning for them.

"Bed—bedroom?” you break away long enough to ask, cocking your head in that direction and giving Soap the opportunity to trail kisses down your neck.  

“I dunno, I seem to remember something about promising you a screw against the wall, bonnie,” Soap says cheekily. You feel his smile when he brushes against the ticklish spot where your throat curves into your collarbone and you don’t stifle your giggle fast enough. He presses his advantage, rubbing his scruff against the spot until you’re wheezing with laughter, stomach literally aching with it as you smack your head against the wall, trying to wriggle away in a desperate frenzy.

“Fucking ow, you bastard,” you laugh-wheeze as Soap finally breaks off from your neck, cupping your head gently and murmuring an apology. 

“Don’t break the bird before we even get a chance to play with her, Johnny,” Ghost admonishes as he squeezes your ass, rolls his hips against you filthy-sweet. You shoot him a dirty look and he captures your lips, kisses the thoughts right out of your head until you’re scrabbling at their shoulders, needing them both infinitely closer to you.

“Fuck, how should we, how do we—fucking wall logistics I don’t know. Too horny to think,” you say, letting your legs fall open with an impatient groan. You jolt, swearing roughly when you feel Ghost shift just right, his trapped cock moving to kiss directly against your core. He grinds languidly and you shiver at the feel of him, thick and throbbing even through his jeans, enough to make your cunt clench in anticipation. 

“Why don’t you go ahead and give us your first one here. Just like this,” Ghost says, mouthing at your throat. “You can do that for us, can’t you, bird?” 

“’Course she can,” Soap coos, “lookit her—nearly there already. Look so lovely like this, bonnie, rubbing up against Ghost all desperate and sweet,” he praises, tucking a messy strand of hair back behind your ear and leaning in to kiss you soundly. 

You can’t help but gasp against Soap’s mouth at the pleasure that crashes through you; their kisses, their hands, the delicious grind of Ghost’s cock and the feel of their bodies cradling you in their arms. You can barely breathe with it, all this sensation, and you squeeze your eyes shut briefly to stem the wetness you feel gathering at the corners. 

You feel Soap’s thumb run gently under your eye and open to see him bring it to his lips, flicking out his tongue to taste the salt of your tears. “Why are you crying, sweet?” he asks, voice gentle despite the hungry edge to his gaze. “Is it too much? You want us to stop?”

You don’t even think as you grab at his arm, dig your nails in just shy of painful. “Don’t you fucking dare,” you gasp as Ghost thrusts sloppily against you, the sound of his low, animal grunts driving you up the wall literally and figuratively. “Just too horny,” you sob, unable to stop the fat tears as they spill over your cheeks. 

While you crying during sex is not an unheard of occurrence, it usually only happens when you're fucked out and sex-stupid, at the tail-end of being railed six-ways-to-Sunday. If you’re this wrecked from a few kisses and a little heavy petting, you shudder to think what you’ll be by the time they’re finished with you. 

The thought is enough to have you grabbing them a bit desperately, requesting their full attention even as your body trembles with want—so close to the edge a stray breeze could blow you over. “Aftercare,” you impress upon them, gripping tightly so they know you’re not fucking around. You’d been left shaking and alone in a cooling bed before and you refused to do it ever again, even if this was a just a one-time thing. “You can fuck me nice or fuck me mean, I like it both, but if you don’t stick around long enough to make sure I’m okay after I will end you,” you threaten. “Kat will totally lend me the shotgun behind the bar.” Honestly, she probably wouldn’t–but she’d shoot them for you, which is tantamount to the same thing.

“Aw bonnie, you don’t gotta beg for a thing like that,” Soap cups his broad palm around the back of your neck, thumb rubbing slow circles and calming the thread of anxiety that threatened to unspool your pleasure. “I promised we’d give you what you need, didn’t I? All you gotta do is feel good and let us take care of the rest, yeah?” he asks, nipping at the curve of your ear like he just can’t help himself. 

“Though I do like it when you threaten, little rabbit,” Ghost adds, chuckling as he leans in to gnaw a little at your cheek, greedy for the taste of your tears. 

“Previous experience would tell me otherwise,” you mutter darkly even as you press up into their starving mouths; feel their hands tighten gratifyingly on you in response.

“Just point me in their direction. I’ll let ‘em breathe long enough to apologize,” Ghost rumbles before a particularly wicked thrust like he’s aiming for your clit, hang the clothes in-between. “Maybe let ‘em watch us fuck you right before putting ‘em out of their misery.” And oh, you like the violent promise in those words; the dark and unfamiliar thrill of someone so casually offering their anger on your behalf. Their retribution. 

It makes you ache with a wanting so vast it takes you the rest of the way there and you sob as Ghost rocks up into you and Soap paws at your tits, groping over your shirt as you fall apart entirely in their arms. You feel their foreheads come against yours, grounding you even as you give yourself over to the delicious waves of sensation. Don’t even mind the hot breath that fans against your cheek, feeling too fucking good, too fucking grateful to think about anything else.

“Beautiful, birdie,” Ghost praises, sucking love bites into your throat and grinding more languidly now, easing you through it. “Came so pretty, so easy for us.”

“Didn’t even hafta get a hand on your pussy,” Soap crows. 

“Yeah, m’fucking easy. Have you seen yourselves?” you huff out a laugh, gripping a bit desperately at the back of Soap’s neck and threading your fingers through his mohawk just to give yourself something to hold on to. 

Your first orgasm is usually enough to take the edge off; sometimes a good fucking while before you could even get going again. But this time it feels like a watering can on a wildfire, like you’ve been burning for days. You wonder, a little deliriously, if somehow they rewired your body while you weren’t looking, reoriented you to them like true fucking north. 

At least the haze has cleared enough now that you can take a second; maybe turn on a damn light. 

“Down, boy,” you instruct Ghost, snorting at the displeased growl that follows—though you’re not sure if it’s at the command, the wording of it, or both. You sweeten the deal with a kiss that he quickly takes over, leaving you breathless and dizzy when your feet touch ground. Maybe it’s a strange word for such a man, but Ghost looks adorable in that moment; wide mouth all pink and lush, mask rucked up messily against his nose, dark eyes blown with want. 

Soap clearly agrees because he makes a soft, fond noise at the sight, reaching out to cup Ghost’s cheek with a tenderness that near breaks your heart. He trails his thumb across Ghost’s jaw and full bottom lip before tugging him close, taking his mouth with his own. And oh, you were right to stop yourself from imagining this before—brain shorting out at the sight of them falling together with something more than want, knuckles gripping white with how fiercely they’re holding on to each other.

You prop your chin on Ghost’s chest to better observe, greedy for the chance to just watch; bask in the sights and sounds. The delicious noises Soap makes as he presses against Ghost like he wants to crawl inside his skin. You know the feeling, surrounded entirely in the circle of their arms and still desperate for more. 

“Bird’s drooling on my sweatshirt,” Ghost mumbles against Soap’s mouth, and Soap breaks the kiss with a laugh.

“Aww, fucked out already, bonnie?” he teases, thumbing at your chin. “Haven’t even gotten to bounce you on my cock yet; let you come cryin’ on it.”

You stick your tongue out at him and step back, determined to make use of the natural lull while you’ve a brief moment of clarity.

“Not tapping out, but I am calling a strategic timeout. For optimum enjoyment, you understand. I’ll get the lights. Ghost, you’re on sex playlist. Alexa’s over there,” you point to the bookshelf near the balcony door. “Soap you can…wait, did you leave the fucking door open?” They did indeed leave the fucking door open, which means you’re not going to be able to look your neighbors in the eye ever again. On the bright side, Ghost stopped long enough to hang your bag on the hook before he tackled you into the wall, so, small mercies. “Soap, you’re on door, Christ. Alright, break.” You clap your hands together in the universal signal for let’s move so you can fuck me into oblivion, please and thank you.

Though bemused, they comply.

You avoid the big light like the plague it is, though you’re not interested in a fumble in the dark. No, you want to see everything; spoil yourself with looking. Already dizzy as a Victorian at the mere exposed wrist and neck you’ve been allowed thus far, half-tripping over your feet as you flick on the lamps and fairy lights dotting your apartment, the space filling with a warm, soft glow. 

You pause for a moment to push your hair out of your face and catch your breath, revel a little in the anticipatory tingle in your belly. Can’t help but grin at the sheer unexpectedness of it all. The sweetness of it. 

Something melodic and soft starts up through the speaker, snagging your attention. You know those chimes, that opening, you swear and—

“Is that The fucking Cure?” you yell, utterly delighted. “You’re so fucking weird, please come and kiss me.”

Ghost snorts but ambles over obediently with his hands in his pockets, lets you take his face in your hands with only the tiniest, indulgent eye roll. “It is extremely attractive to me that your first thought when you hear ‘sex playlist’ is Robert fucking Smith,” you tell him very seriously. 

“Shoulda warned ya he’s got shit taste in music,” Soap snarks from the open kitchen, pulling the Brita from the fridge and just making himself right at home. 

“You shut your whore mouth,” you call back, not taking your eyes from Ghost. You go on your tiptoes and press a kiss to his mouth, short and chaste and meaning it. “You are absurd. A pastiche. I think I’m a little in love with you.”

“I’ll only break your heart, birdie,” Ghost says, his little satisfied smirk doing little to help your predicament. That fucking dimple.

“S’what hearts are for though, isn’t it?” you thumb at the divot before letting him go with a grin. “Seems a little silly to complain about a feature.” 

He lets you tug him to the kitchen and that’s a high in itself, isn’t it? Him letting you be in charge. Just a little, just for now. 

Soap passes you a mug of water with a mischievous smile, one of the novelty ones the apartment came stocked with and the only bit of personality in the place. Providentially, it’s one of your favorites: a little silver spaceship mid-abduction over a farm, a cow floating in the air with a bored expression, as if to say “What, this again?” Not for nothing was Fox Mulder your first crush. 

“You’ll need to stay hydrated, bonnie,” Soap tells you altogether too smugly. “You’re in for a long night.” 

“Oh, and you think you lads will get off easy, do you?” you say as you slurp indignantly—because water’s actually not the worst idea right now. Little touched that he’s thought of it, if you’re being honest. 

Ghost leans against the island, tugging you against him as Soap snorts. “I seem to remember you saying exactly those words a moment ago, yes,” he says, raising an eyebrow. You can’t help but reach up, trace your thumb curiously over the small, pale scar that bisects it, Soap’s eyes softening as you do. You make a mental note to ask later, but first– 

“Objection, I said that I’m easy. Not that I was going to go easy on you.” you say, dropping your hand. “Crucial semantic difference, and if you play the tapes back you’ll see I did not perjure myself.” 

“Tapes?” Soap asks, clearly amused.

“Metaphorical,” you say, waving a dismissive hand. “The cassettes of memory, if you will.” 

There’s a beat of silence. 

“You’re an odd bird,” Ghost remarks, not displeased. 

“Glad you’ve noticed. Now I think there should be something snackish around here,” you say, digging around the drawers you can reach from Ghost’s hold, the man seeming unwilling to let you go at present.

“Et voila!” you say triumphantly, holding aloft a packet of mixed nuts. “Protein. Very important for marathon orgies.” 

“Thought you needed more than three to qualify as an orgy,” Soap points out, like a damn pedant. 

“Do we not each contain multitudes?” you say with faux solemnity, bestowing a handful of nuts upon him.

Ghost shorts, the sound muffled where his face is buried in your hair. You lift the mug up over your head in offering and he raises his head long enough to take a sip, nipping playfully at your fingers when you offer up a few nuts. The last of your buzz from the bar had mostly dissipated between the cold walk and the excellent orgasm, but you feel better knowing you’ve all had at least a bit to eat and drink, for now. For later, Luigi’s around the corner stayed open 24/7, and there was nothing quite like an after-sex calzone, in your experience. 

But that was getting ahead of yourself.  

“Ok, rapid fire. Likes, dislikes, hard lines, what’s the play?” you ask, emptying the last of packet into your mouth before tossing it over your shoulder. To their credit, neither hesitate. 

“Mask and gloves stay on unless I decide otherwise,” Ghost says immediately, and you nod your understanding. “Other than that, just wanna fuck you, bird. Don’t much care how.” He comes up to thumb consideringly at your mouth. “Though if you want to put those pretty lips around my cock I wouldn’t complain.” 

“Done,” you agree easily, leaning back to nip a little at his jaw, his large hands tightening pleasantly on you.

Soap’s eyes rake over your body like he’s planning the fastest way to take you apart, lingering hungrily where Ghost’s skeleton-gloved hands splay across your waist. “Wanna get my mouth on you first. Your tits, your pussy, both if you’ll let me. Make sure you’re all good and messy before we take you,” he says with a shark-like smile that promises the best kind of trouble. “Liked seeing you ride Ghost like that, too. All mad for a bit of friction. Could you give us another like that, ya reckon?” he asks.

“On board. Very much on board,” you say, his words sending a little flutter of heat through your belly. “Bites, hickeys, bruises, et cetera?” 

“There you go threatening us with a good time again,” Ghost chuckles low. You feel his smile as he nips at your ear, just a touch too sharp. “Go on then, rabbit; we can take it a little rough.” 

“Excellent, let the record show we’re all agreed on some light mauling,” you adopt a businesslike tone.

“Condoms?” Soap asks very responsibly. And you know what your answer should be, know what you would counsel literally anyone else in your situation. And yet…

“I have an IUD,” you blurt. “And I’m clean—I mean, I get tested regularly. I have the results on my phone if you want. I mean, assuming you’re also clean and even want to come in me. Or on me. Which. I mean. Do you? Because I want you to. So much. So, so much.” you say, mouth doing that thing where it just goes off on its own again.

“Fuck yes, bonnie,” Soap sounds wrecked, eyes intense as he crowds you against Ghost. Shoving your legs apart and making himself right at home between your thighs. “Wanna see it on your pussy, your tits, that pretty little face. Want you fucking dripping with us. Yeah, L.T.?” 

You actually feel Ghost’s cock twitch at your back. “Gonna fill you up good, birdie. Get you all sweet and sloppy for us,” he promises, pressing a kiss to your temple before whispering wicked in your ear, “maybe I’ll even let Soap lick you a little after, as a treat. Clean you up nice, like.”

“Hnngh,” you say coherently. Nod a little frantically, just in case. “Mhm yes that, that’s. Good. Two thumbs up from me.”

“Glad you’re on board, sweetheart,” Ghost’s voice is low and satisfied and you have the (not entirely unpleasant) sense that the gravity of the room is shifting suddenly and inexplicably in their favor. “Anything you wanna tell us before go back to lookin’ after this pretty pussy?” Ghost asks, and you quake when he fits his hand over your clothed cunt. Just rests it there, all casual possession in a way that makes you feel a bit faint. To so sweetly be claimed by somebody. To be kept.

“Talk,” you blurt, quickly squashing that dangerous line of thought. “To me, about me, I don’t care. Just keep talking. Christ,” you swear as Soap presses forward, trapping Ghost’s hand and adding just the tiniest bit of pressure—not enough to actually do anything, just tease you with the delicious weight of him.

“Anything else, bonnie?” Soap encourages. “Want t’ make it good for you.” He noses against the sweat that’s already beginning to bead at your hairline and it occurs to you, a little deliriously, that you’re still wearing your winter coat.

“The rest you can work out for yourself. I’ll let you know if you do something I don’t like, but I already told you—I’ve no interest in going easy on you,” you tease, leaning up to bite a little at Soap’s jaw. You run your fingers across his waistband and dip just a hair below the edge to brush against bare skin, delighting in the way his muscles jump beneath your touch. You can’t help but hook a finger through his beltloop and tug him closer, wanting more of that delicious pressure. Hum happily when he gets with the program and leans down to kiss you silly. 

You’re endlessly pleased you’re all on the same page on the importance of foreplay as the two of them make a meal out of kissing you, passing you back and forth until your lips are swollen and flushed and you’re whining high in your throat, desperate for more touch. Only then does Soap push your coat off your shoulders, run his hands greedily down your arms and circle them around your wrists. He lifts your arms in the air so Ghost can tug your shirt off over your head, tossing it away as Soap reaches around to unclasp your bra in one single, smooth movement–an impressive display of silent coordination that has no business being as hot as it is.

“Jesus, Mary, and fuckface Joseph,” Soap swears when he gets an eyeful of your tits, bra dropping forgotten to the floor. 

“Whassit, Johnny?” Ghost asks, occupied with marking up all that newly exposed skin, biting sharp before licking over the hurt, soothing the sting in a way that makes you melt. You grab Ghost’s hands, guide them to the piercings that made Soap’s jaw go all cute and slack, silver barbells angled in a pretty vee. 

“You like ‘em?” you ask Soap a bit breathlessly.

“Oh bonnie, like isn’t the half of it.” Soap’s drinking you in like he can’t decide if he wants to get his mouth or his hands on you first, an excited glint in his eye like a child with a new toy.

“Got ‘em with my best friend the night before graduation,” you tell them as Ghost hooks his chin over your shoulder to stare at your tits appreciatively. “Don’t tell my mo—om,” your voice hitches as he starts rubbing dizzying circles over your nipples, tugging occasionally in a way that makes you pant.

“Christ, that’s a pretty picture,” Soap says fervently, thumbing your chin and pressing a desperate kiss to your lips. “Lemme get my mouth on your tits, bonnie. Make you feel so good, I swear; just wanna suck on ‘em a little,” he begs. He kisses your cheek when you nod, then fucking face plants into your chest. 

It’s sloppy and uncoordinated and perfect as he mashes his face between your tits, licking and sucking and biting around Ghost’s groping hands until you’re a babbling mess between them. After a while Ghost spins you around, letting Soap have a go at your throat while he pets appreciatively over your spit-slick breasts, weighing them in his gloved hands, kneading just shy of too hard. “Don’t go quiet on us now, sweetheart,” he chuckles when your eyes slip closed, losing yourself in the sensation. They fly open when he slaps at your tits a little, gasping as you cant your hips in a desperate movement that precedes thought. 

“Need something to press your pussy against, doll?” Ghost says with pretend sympathy, the ass. You forgive him utterly when he shifts a moment later, slotting a massive thigh between your legs and pressing right up against your aching cunt. Your hands scrabble for purchase at his arms, the big bastard so tall that you’re off-balance when he tugs you forward, feet almost coming off the damn ground.

Soap’s hands come around your waist, steadying you. Petting over the sensitive skin there, reaching up to play with your tits just a little, like he can’t quite help himself. “Go on, then, darlin’, give us a show,” he murmurs, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. 

It’s not like you to forgo a comeback, but you’re too fucking grateful that that there’s finally something for you to grind against to care. You sink down with a sweet shudder of relief, bracing against Ghost for leverage as you roll your hips experimentally. You gasp when you find a good angle and just get lost in it for a few minutes, barely aware of the desperate little noises spilling from your throat. 

“Look fucking gorgeous like this,” Ghost praises as he thumbs wickedly at your nipples, tugging sharp as you hump sweetly against him, chasing your pleasure. “You gonna give us another so soon?”

“More, need more please,” you shake your head. You hook your fingers in the collar of his hoodie and tug him down, mouth a little desperately at his jaw. “Wanna feel you bare.” 

“Johnny?” Ghost commands over your shoulder.

“On it, L.T.” Then Soap’s making swift work of your zipper, chuckling at the displeased noise you make when Ghost lifts you off his leg long enough for Soap to tug off your trousers and discard them along with your shoes and socks. 

“Oh darlin’, is all that for us?” Soap says adoringly, looking at the wetness between your thighs, all sticky and slick where you’ve soaked through your underwear. 

“Given that I’ve had to do all the work myself,” you pant, rolling your hips pointedly, “I would say it’s for me, actually.”

“Oh, well we can’t have that now, can we,” Ghost tuts, turning you to face Soap as he trails his fingers maddeningly down along your sides. Hooks them in the band of your underwear and drags down in a long, smooth glide. He crouches to slide them off, tapping at your ankle until you obediently lift one, then the other, bracing yourself on Soap’s broad shoulders and shivering as the cool air hits your overheated core. 

Ghost smirks as he tucks your soaked panties into his back pocket, running his hands up your thighs as he stands and leaving goosebumps in his wake. “You hungry, Johnny?” he asks, voice casual as anything as he fits his hands to your ass, squeezing appreciatively. 

“Aye, L.T,” Soap answers, eyes glued to the thatch of soft curls between your legs. “Fucking starving.”

“Oh, get fuck–ed,” you yelp as Ghost suddenly lifts you into the air, fitting his forearms under your thighs and spreading you open for Soap’s hungry gaze. Soap drops to his knees with a punched out noise, running his hands reverently along your knees, thighs, the crease of your hip; nipping and caressing and stubbornly refusing to touch you where you need it most. 

“Didn’t anyone tell you not to play with your food?” you grouse, the effect somewhat lessened by the way your cunt clenches. What can you say–the realization they’ve got you naked and dripping while they’ve not removed so much as their coats is really, really doing something for you. 

Ghost chuckles at your words, mischievous and low. “Hey Johnny, how’s a bird like a Happy Meal?” 

Soap groans, knocking his head against your thigh in exasperation. “Spare us, L.T. I’m begging you.”

“Tasty meal and a toy to play with, too,” Ghost chuffs, much too pleased with himself as he shifts you in his hold, ripping one glove off with his teeth and finally, finally getting a hand on your pussy. It’s too fast and too rough and you don’t fucking care because it’s good, Ghost rubbing tight circles over your clit as you grind against his palm and Soap bites maddeningly at the soft skin your thighs, marks that will flower pretty and purple in the morning. 

You can’t work up a lick of embarrassment over the desperate, wanton noises that spill from your mouth, head thrown back against Ghost’s chest as you come right up to the edge–as much from the stimulation as the unexpected gift of his bare skin. You keen when he suddenly moves his hand away, hips chasing forward futilely as you try to follow. 

“Why,” you whine, utterly betrayed.

“Aw hush yerself,” Soap soothes, petting at your thigh, “We’re not as mean as all that.” Then Ghost’s got both hands on your thighs, spreading you impossibly wider as Soap gets his mouth on your pussy, licking into you like he’s been waiting an eternity for a taste. It’s sloppy and eager and when he grazes your clit with his teeth that’s it, you’re coming, you’re coming, pressing desperately against his wet mouth as he swirls his tongue around that sensitive bundle of nerves, stretching your orgasm into a dizzying eternity. Soap pulls back to watch your pussy drip and twitch as you ride it out, the barest ring of blue visible around blown pupils, pretty mouth slack and glistening. Unwilling to even blink lest he miss a moment of it. “Fucking beautiful,” he whispers fervently, diving back in as you wail. 

“Shoulda warned ya, Johnny’s a messy eater,” Ghost says, indulgent and fond as Soap eats you out with his entire fucking face, stubble rubbing sensitive and raw as he slobbers over your clit and slips his tongue into your hole. Before you know it you’re tumbling headfirst into another peak, writhing in Ghost’s arms as every part of you trembles with the force of it. You’re panting and weak-limbed as a kitten when the aftershocks finally peter out, hands scrabbling anywhere you can find purchase. 

“Can you—kiss, kiss me, please, I need—” 

You can’t get the words out but Ghost’s there, cupping your face, kissing you soundly and narrowing your world to just the feel of his mouth against yours. Grounding you with deep, languid kisses until your rabbit heart slows and you get your feet back under you—figurative and literal, Soap making soothing noises as he eases you down from Ghost’s arms. 

“That was a big one, huh, bonnie?” he says, running his hands over your shoulders and back, gentling you.

“Get fucked,” you mutter, rubbing your cheek against Ghost’s chest, the surprisingly soft fabric of his hoodie. 

“That’s rather the idea, love,” Soap chuckles, draping himself across your back like a large, Scottish sloth. 

“They will never find your body,” you hiss even as you soften beneath his warmth. You’re close enough to feel both their cocks jump at your words and can’t help but laugh. “Violence doing it for you again?” 

“Oh sweetheart, you have no idea,” Ghost chuckles, looking wryly at Soap.

“S’it a military thing, then?” You feel them stiffen at that, pull back a little and no, no thank you, none of that please. “I’m sorry, was that supposed to be some kind of big secret? You mentioned a captain earlier,” you point out to Ghost. “And you keep calling him L.T., which I can only imagine is short for lieutenant,” you say to Soap, raising an eyebrow. “It’s not the riddle of the fucking sphinx. Though what British soldiers are doing in America is another question; seem to remember we settled that fight a couple centuries back,” you say dryly, more than a little irritated they’re wasting valuable time on this. Is there no respect for a person’s afterglow? 

“And even if ‘Soap’ and ‘Ghost’ weren’t obviously fake names,” you carry on, “Ghost keeps calling you Johnny. Which, by the by, is an adorable name and suits you very well,” you tell Soap, his eyes softening on you. “So with all of that in mind, it’s not a leap to think the names you gave me are military nicknames or—fucking, what do they call ‘em in Top Gun? Call signs. Also, I repeat: have you seen you? Normal people don’t look like that. Kat assumed gym rats, bodybuilders or some shit but I had a feeling…”

“Gym rats?” Soap recoils, sounding wildly offended. “The cheek of it. I’ll have ye know I worked for these muscles, lassie. Could a gym rat clear a compound in sub-3 minutes? I think the fuck not.” 

Ghost lets out an amused huff at Soap’s little rant, but you’re not quite able to read his eyes when they land on yours. He’s quiet as he considers you, and you let him look; take the time he needs. Although you can’t help but feel just a little like you want to point out you’re as open and vulnerable as you can possibly be here, given you’re conducting this conversation in the nude. 

“Simon,” he says finally and oh, that’s—yeah. That fits. 

“Simon,” you try it out, rolling it around your mouth, considering the taste of it. “I like it,” you tell him, and mean it. 

He smiles a little at that, just the slightest, crooked thing that makes something in your heart sing. “I’ll even tell you what we’re doing here, at least a bit of it anyway. We’re on leave as of—oh, what’d you reckon, Johnny?” 

“Eh, six hours, give or take,” Soap says, fitting his hands delightedly to your waist, coming back around you like he never left.

“…leave as of six hours ago,” Ghost finishes, tugging you both against his broad chest as he relaxes back against the counter. 

“Well-deserved leave, if you ask me. After the shitshow of a mission we had,” Soap groans, cracking his neck and shaking his head a bit like he’s clearing the memory. Ghost reaches out to press at Soap’s shoulder, digging his thumbs into the tightness there. 

“No fun?” you ask. You’re pleased to have them properly back around you now, let yourself bask in it a little, burrow into the warmth of their bodies. Maybe you should make them grovel a bit more for thinking you wouldn’t pick up on basic fucking context clues, but in your defense you’re still buck ass naked and the kitchen is cold. 

“Oh, plenty of fun. ‘Specially near the end, there,” Ghost smiles wickedly, his dimple on full show. You reach out to touch because you simply cannot help yourself and he nips at your finger playfully, chasing it with his teeth as you smile. 

“The lass don’t want to hear about things like that, it’s not polite,” Soap says, smacking Ghost in the arm.

“D’ya think she cares about polite, you muppet? Or haven’t you been listening?” Ghost says with a snort and oh, you’re touched by that; the swiftness of his understanding of you. 

“Strictly speaking, I like the idea of it. I’m just not very good at knowing what constitutes polite most of the time,” you offer generously.

“Because it’s fucking bullshit,” Ghost says evenly. 

“Because it’s fucking bullshit!” you smack him in the chest, unreasonably pleased that he got the unspoken part. 

“Aye, that’s true enough,” Soap admits. “Still, there’s better bedroom talk.” 

“For you maybe,” you tell him skeptically, raising your eyebrows as you jut your chin toward Ghost. “I think this one’s got his wires all crossed.” 

“Oh, aye,” Soap chuckles, squeezing you soundly. “More than a little.” 

“Glass houses, MacTavish,” Ghost drawls. 

“Oh, we doing last names then Riley?” Soap challenges, leaning over you so he can nip sharp at Ghost’s mouth. You’ve a sense this is some odd bit of foreplay for them—part of some larger dance you’re glimpsing just a small part of. 

Still, it’s a good fucking view, and you snuggle happily between them to watch as Ghost takes Soap’s mouth, kissing him into an oblivion you’ve now had first-hand experience of on both sides. 

Soap looks appropriately wrecked when Ghost finally pulls away, petting a little at Soap’s mouth before he checks in with you, tucked up all warm and safe and momentarily sated. “How you feelin’, birdie? Want to play or keep watching?” he asks without judgement. 

It’s not even a question; as much as you like watching them, you like touching more. Plus, you’re sick of being the only one with skin in the game. Literally. “Want to touch you. Properly, this time. Clothes off,” you specify, tugging at the pocket of Ghost’s hoodie. You tilt your head as you look up at them, mind running away with all sorts of delicious possibilities. They’ve been patient about their own pleasure, and you’re feeling generous coming off three stellar orgasms of your own—more than ready to give some pleasure of your own. “Ghost, would you want to fuck my mouth, maybe? Gimmie something to suck on while Soap gets me ready, puts me on his cock?” you offer, pressing your hips back against Soap and smiling when he predictably drops a hand down for a squeeze. Ghost hums his own approval into your throat, hands tightening almost painfully on your waist. You’re pleased to find that, once again, you’re all on the same page.

“Should we—couch?” Soap says a little desperately, pawing at your ass.

Or maybe not. 

“I have a perfectly good bed, you know,” you point out. “Throw pillows and everything.”

“I dunno, birdie,” Ghost says, “I rather like the idea of defiling every room of your very beige apartment.” 

You snort at the unfortunate accuracy. "It came furnished," you explain with a shrug. "Hideous, but does mean you can take me as hard as you want against the furniture and I won’t care if it breaks,” you offer.

“Brilliant. We’ll start with your fuck-ugly couch,” Soap declares and, well, who are you to argue with that?

...

Disintegration is still going strong over the speaker, Robert Smith crooning his little goth heart out as they pull you into the living room, discarding coats and shoes and pulling their shirts over their heads as they go. Ghost falls onto the couch, pulling you on top of him as Soap crowds behind, short-circuiting your thoughts a little with how good it feels, all that skin-to-skin contact. 

“Go on then, bird,” Ghost says indulgently. “Said you wanted to touch us.”

You take the invitation for what it is, getting your hot little hands all over their skin. Eager to map out the shape of them, trace your fingers over the constellations of freckles and moles on Soap’s back, the swirling lines of Ghost’s tattooed sleeve. Can’t help but frown a little when you register the sheer number of scars on each of them, brutal topographies of jagged, raised lines and rough patches from injuries both healed and fresh. It’s not unexpected, given the conversation you just had, but there’s the abstract knowledge of what it means to be a soldier and then there’s seeing it live and up-close, and you don’t like the thought of their pain. 

What you do like is the way they press up eagerly into your hands, pleased little noises and murmured praise spilling from their lips as they let you take your fill—as if such a thing could exist. You can’t imagine an end to this hunger for their skin against yours; think you could spend hours just getting used to the size of them, marveling as you splay a hand over Ghost’s thick waist or Soap’s broad shoulders. Reveling in all the plushness of relaxed muscle, healthy layers of fat you want to bite. The thought’s intoxicating enough for you to take a cue from Soap, face plant right into Ghost’s chest with a contented sigh. 

Soap barks out a laugh. “Simon’s got fantastic tits, aye?” he says, bringing up a hand to tweak one of Ghost’s nipples affectionately. “Always tellin’ him so, but he disnae believe me.”

“They’re perfect,” you moan, muffled as you rub your cheek against Ghost’s pecs, loving the plumpness, the way he hisses when you sink your teeth into them. You’re determined to pull out more of those intoxicating noises as you leave a trail of bruised hickeys and little bites down his belly, nosing against the thatch of blonde hair that leads in a promising line beyond his waistband. 

You shoot up when you hear the sound of Soap undoing his buckle behind you, unwilling to miss even a second. Ghost has to steady you as you twist around too fast and off-balance, but you’re immediately rewarded with an eyeful of black boxer briefs and luscious thighs covered in whorls of dark hair. Your mouth fair fucking waters when you notice the growing wet patch on his underwear, damp fabric clinging Soap’s leaking tip. 

“Pretty,” you breathe out, hands twitching with the urge to reach out, to touch, to lean forward and get your mouth all over the delicious length of him.

Soap laughs a little at your dazed expression, kissing you sweetly before turning your head back to face Ghost. “You’ll get plenty of me later, sweetheart,” he promises. “Right now, you focus on gettin’ Simon feeling good for me, yeah?” he asks, running warm hands over your arms and tucking his chin against your neck to watch.

You’re more than happy to comply, reaching down to pet over the line of Ghost’s cock, squeeze where he’s thick and straining in his jeans. You roll your hips slow, smirking when you see the muscles in his arms jumping, feel his hands tighten around your waist. Loving the way his eyes shut briefly at the feel of you, hips jerking up with a punched-out noise. 

“You feel good too,” you whisper against his mouth, licking into him as you undo his belt and ease down the zipper, enjoying the tease. He helpfully raises his hips so you can tug his trousers off, leaving his underwear for now—black boxer briefs, just like Soap, and you feel something tender and silly at the thought of them doing their shopping together. Their laundry. Domestic. 

You slip to the carpet in front of the couch, smiling your thanks when Soap slips you a throw pillow for your knees. He tucks your hair behind your ear—what you’re realizing is a thing for him—and kisses the tip of your nose with aching sweetness before molding himself to your back to watch, greedy for the sight of you worshipping Ghost’s cock. 

Ghost’s already got his eyes on you when you turn back, eyes wicked and dark as he watches you curve your hands covetously around his knees. You wink at him before shoving his thighs apart, making yourself at home in the spread of them. “Turnabout’s fair play,” you sing-song, Soap laughing delightedly.

Ghost shoots Soap a dirty look over your shoulder and Soap leans over to kiss the frown from his face. “Aw, haud yer wheesht,” Soap says, tugging at Ghost’s mask playfully. “The lass is right and you know it.”

“You’d best remember that, too,” you mutter, running your hands over the fat spread of Ghost’s thighs, shivering at how good it feels to be tucked between them. You tease along the cuff of his boxer briefs, lingering over the illustrations inked into his skin—larger and more lush than those he bears on his arms, old school sailor designs lined thick with black. 

“You’ve been around Cape Horn?” you ask, tracing the tall sails of a fully-rigged ship on one thigh. One of your earliest writing jobs had been a historical piece about the founding of the Merchant Marine and you’d been very taken with all those hidden meanings, delighted with the maps and personal histories encoded into each sailor's tattoos. If you’re reading Ghost’s right, he’s crisscrossed the globe more than a few times over.

Soap makes a little surprised sound at your words. “Is that what that one’s for, then?” he asks Ghost, leaning in to take a closer look. He runs his fingers over the shape of it, brushing his fingers over the pale blonde hair of Ghost’s thigh, lingering on the delicate blackwork of the mast and the billowing negative space of the sails. 

“Antarctica mission,” Soap whispers in your ear, tapping the ship. “Very cold, very classified. But the penguins, lass.” Ghost growls a warning, apparently knowing what’s next. "Little black-and-white fellas thought Ghost was one of their own,” Soap crows. “Followed him around the whole damn time like he was the little ones’ mommy. Cutest damn thing I ever saw.”

“Please tell me you got pictures,” you beg, eyes wide with anticipation.

“Just one, but it’s a doozy. I’ll show you later if you’re good,” Soap promises. “So go on then, bonnie," he says, chucking your chin because he is, you are beginning to understand, a bastard. "Show Simon how good you can be.”

You stick your tongue out at him but obediently tug Ghost’s underwear down, his cock slapping wetly against his stomach. It leaves a little train of precum you chase with your mouth, his abs tensing under your tongue and his hips jerking up on instinct. “Fucking hell, bird.” 

You smile at him, pulling back so you can get a good look at what you’re working with and doesn’t your jaw just ache at the sight. He’s as long as you expected but eye-wateringly thick, too—red and swollen and leaking at the tip, all pent up for ages. 

“Christ. I’m gonna fucking cry on that thing,” you blurt, feeling a wild burst of heat when his cock twitches at your words. 

“Promises, promises,” Ghost chuckles, trailing down your neck and cupping around your nape. He looks at you with a question in his eyes and you nod, then he’s tugging you forward till you’re mouthing at the tip, dipping your tongue into the slit to taste him as he groans beautifully.

God, you love this. The weight of him in your mouth and the closeness of his thighs around you. Getting to focus all your attention on someone; get lost in the desperate noises they make, the unconscious reactions that will tell you exactly how they like it, if you take the time to notice. And you do notice; watching and listening to Ghost carefully as you snuggle between his legs. Lick at the underside of his cock and nose at his heavy balls, find all those sensitive little spots that make his breath catch and his grip tighten on the back of your neck.

“Jesus, birdie,” he swears when you return to the head, drag the flat of your tongue over the purpling tip. He’s so hard it must be painful, the vein that runs up his length swollen and throbbing when you soothe over it with your tongue. “You like suckin' my cock?” he asks, and you’re not ashamed to nod eagerly. Because you do, you really do. Like that he’s wet, leaking like a tap, and you hum happily as you take him into your mouth. 

You hear Soap laugh as Ghost jackknifes at the wet heat of it, swearing low as his hand moves to cup your cheek. “Look so fucking pretty like this,” he croons, thumbing a little desperately at the corner of your mouth, all stretched open wide for him. “Stuffed full of cock, starin’ up at me with those gorgeous eyes.”

He thrusts shallowly a few times, letting you get used to his size, teasing your gag reflex. When the tears begin to gather, he pulls back and traces over your lips with the tip of his cock, wetting them before leaning down and kissing you messy. Soap groans brokenly at the sight, reaching around to play your tits as Ghost sucks the taste of himself from your tongue, his spit-slick cock bobbing obscenely as it drips neglected onto the floor. 

You whine high in your throat, displeased at the sight of it all cold and alone. You push Ghost back against the couch, sucking him back down and zeroing in on the sensitive frenulum, laving over it. His moan is a rumbling thing in his chest, petting at your cheek and pressing a thumb in until he can feel himself thick inside you. “Alright then, sweetheart,” he says rolling his hips like a hussy. “Give you what you want.”

He watches your eyes closely as he pushes in deeper; an inexorable slide until your nose meets the thick, blonde curls at the base of him and the back of his cock pushes at your throat. Your eyes flutter shut as you’re surrounded by his warmth, his scent—masculine and intoxicating and yours, if only for this one, perfect moment. You can only take a few seconds before you gag, have to pull off for air, but god you want more. Dive back in immediately and do your best to breathe through your nose as he fills your mouth, fucks a little at your throat.

“Good fucking girl,” Soap swears behind you, hands everywhere—over Ghost’s thighs, your shoulders–your tits, frequently. “Taking Ghost’s cock so well, bonnie, making him feel so good. So proud of you,” he murmurs, and your blood sings with the praise, redoubling your efforts. 

The next time you come up for air Soap grabs your face and takes your mouth, all spit-slick and swollen. He moans when he tastes Ghost on your tongue, trailing greedy fingers down your back until he’s brushing against your cunt. “Can I start openin’ you up, sweet, get you ready for me? I’ll go mad if I don’t get my cock in you soon, bonnie, I swear it,” Soap begs, pressing in just the tiniest bit, just enough to have you wriggling back against him.

“Please,” you whine against his mouth, liquid with want.

“So polite, sweetheart,” he says, kissing you thoroughly in reward. “All fours for me then, pup,” he commands with a light smack to your ass, Ghost chuckling when you shoot Soap a dirty look. You shift forward, deliberately arching your back and wiggling your hips a little in retaliation. You hear Soap choke on his spit and grin, winking at Ghost when he gives you a knowing look. 

Soap takes his sweet time groping your ass, pulling apart the globes and tilting up your hips so he can get a look at where you’re dripping for him. You clench at the thought of what he must be seeing, thighs all shiny with the slick of three orgasms and pussy rubbed swollen and red from his scruff.

“Aw, look at ‘er saying hello,” Soap crows at the sight. “You miss me, love? I know it’s only been a little while but I missed you too, sweet,” he coos against your pussy, an adoring finger tracing over your folds. “Can’t wait to taste ya again, feed you my cock if you’re good.”

“Wonderful, we’re anthropomorphizing my vagina. You gonna name her then, too?” you ask dryly, raising a brow as you look over your shoulder.  

Soap lightly slaps your cunt and you keen, rocking forward and shivering in pleasure as goosebumps erupt on your skin. That’s definitely new for you, but you’re into it. So, so into it.

“I’m fine with just callin’ her ours,” Soap says pleasantly, rubbing gentle over your pussy as if he didn’t just short-circuit your entire cerebellum. “Now as much as I like hearing you talk—and I’m not just staying that, bonnie, really, I do—I believe there are better things you could be doing with that mouth.”And look, when he gives you an opening like that—

“Yeah, like calling in a hit,” you can’t help but snark. He smacks your pussy again and you make an embarrassing, wanton noise, any other smart remarks lost to the pulse of blinding heat that goes through you. He does it again, then once more as you cry out in desperate pleasure. God that’s good, like lightning in your fucking veins; speedrunning you to the kind of full-body shaking, wailing, libidinous mess you haven’t enjoyed in far too long.

Pussy slapping, who knew? 

Soap laughs only a little meanly when you whine and press back against his hand for more. “Brat,” he says fondly, petting over your swollen cunt. 

“What was I just sayin’ about glass houses, Johnny?” Ghost chides, pumping his big cock in his hand while he watches the two of you play, an indulgent smirk twisting his scarred lips.  

“Awa’ an bile yer heid,” Soap says smartly before ducking down, lapping at your cunt.

“Christ,” you yelp, pressing your forehead against Ghost’s thigh as Soap fucks into you with his tongue, takes you apart through sheer force of will. As worked up as you’ve been, his first two fingers slide in easy as breathing, and Soap wastes no time seeking out all the spots that make you squirm. He works at you with an intensity that borders on rabid, a fucking artist with it—doing things with his tongue that you’re reasonably sure are illegal in several states, licking around his fingers and swirling around your clit before pressing open mouthed kisses to the crease of your hip, laving at the skin there. The hand not stretching you open is anchored to your hip, five points of contact to ground you within the onslaught of sensation.

It’s not enough, and you mouth at Ghost’s thigh until he gets the message, taps his cock on the side of your cheek until you open for him with a happy sigh. 

“Wish you could see her from here, Johnny,” Ghost says, eyes not leaving your face as he fucks back into your mouth. He reaches down, thumbing again at your spit-shiny bottom lip with an expression you can’t quite read but looks shockingly close to wonder. “Fucking beautiful.” 

By the time Soap gets a third, then a fourth finger into play, you’re near drooling on Ghost’s cock, eyes hazy and half-lidded, pussy so wet that the sounds Soap elicits are bordering on the obscene. “Gonna tease her all night, Johnny?” Ghost hums after an eternity of Soap dangling you over the edge. “Or do you plan on actually fucking her anytime soon?” And oh, you could kiss him for asking—so you do, pulling off and whining high in your throat till Ghost’s bending that big body in half, kissing you so, so sweetly, tugging your lip between his teeth when he pulls away.

Soap’s grumbling as he pulls reluctantly away from your pussy, and you take the opportunity to arch a little more, spread your legs wide as you look over your shoulder. “C’mon, wanna feel you,” you cajole, waggling your hips at him. “Faster you fuck me the faster you can get your mouth on me again.” 

That seems to do the trick because you catch Soap shoving down his briefs with a growl before Ghost’s turning you back to him, kissing you so thoroughly that you jerk in surprise when you feel the hard length of Soap’s cock press against your cunt. 

“Get me all nice and wet, that’s a girl,” Soap says as he grinds lewdly against your core, just barely teasing your hole with the tip. “Gotta make sure I don’t hurt you, bonnie,” he murmurs, dropping a kiss on your back with a sweetness that makes you ache. You do consider pointing out he’s prepped you so well you could probably take a fucking Titan missile at this point, but then he’s bumping the head right up against your clit as he humps into you and suddenly find you can’t think of anything at all. 

A gentle tap at your cheek has you opening your eyes, turning to Ghost in question. “You’re alright, bird,” he assures, hooking his fingers under your chin as he thumbs over your wet mouth. “Just wanted to see that pretty face.” You smile at him, soft and sweet, and he slips a thumb between your lips; presses down, just a bit. You obediently open, tilt your face up like a plant to the sun. He pets at your tongue a little as he stares, eyes endless with hunger in a way that should frighten any creature with half a brain. Luckily, you’re working with a cell or two at most right now. 

“Wanna take my spit, birdie?” Ghost asks devastatingly. “Keep it nice and safe in that little mouth?” 

You nod as much as you can with the grip he’s got on you, eyes crossing a little at the thought. Soap’s no better, moaning brokenly and hips giving a violent jerk at Ghost’s words. Soap gets a hand on his cock, slapping it against your wet pussy and rucking the head in desperate, messy circles against your clit until you’re whining as you rock back against him, too lost in the feeling of it to do more than pant and twitch and beg Ghost with your eyes to give you what you need. 

“Go on then, Johnny,” Ghost says like a fucking saint, leaning down to spit messy in your mouth at the same time Soap notches the head of his cock in your hole. “Give it to her good,” he smirks.

And oh, there’s nothing, nothing in your head but the heat of Soap’s cock as he presses inside you and the feel of Ghost’s saliva cupped protectively on your tongue. You’ve given yourself over to them entirely and are reaping the rewards in wildfire burning through your lungs, a desperate pleasure so intense and all-consuming you’re already crying by the time Soap bottoms out, breath hitching as his balls come to rest against your ass.

“Mary mother of god,” Soap gasps, dropping his forehead on your sweat-slicked back, panting against your skin. “The fucking cunt on her, Simon.” Then he’s laying into you, long, deep strokes that let you feel the entire, dizzying length of him from root to tip, just barely kissing your cervix as he fucks back in, grinding his hips maddeningly at the deepest part of you.

Ghost greedily drinks the gasps and whines from your mouth, holding you steady as Soap’s hips pound into you and you can’t do more than take it, let it ferry you over into some realm of pleasure you hadn’t even known to dream of. You’d naively thought he wouldn’t last too long, as long as he’d had to wait, but you’re proven wrong as Soap just keeps going; a fucking machine as he pistons into you, praise spilling from his lips and bubbling sweet in your veins.

“So fucking sweet f’me, bonnie,” he babbles in your ear, “so warm, so fucking wet. Just taking me so beautifully, sweet girl. Best pussy I ever fucking had,” he moans and oh, doesn’t that go right to your head, so stupid and pleased as you pant on his cock. Soap reaches around to get a hand on your clit, rubbing furiously as he increases his pace and you cry out as you tumble into another perfect, beautiful, fucking sublime spiral of pleasure.

“Jesus, bonnie, can feel you milking my cock. Fuck that’s good,” Soap grunts, hand not leaving your clit for one single second. He fucks you through your orgasm with a force that has you scrabbling up, wrapping your arms around Ghost’s waist—not tapping out, but needing something strong to fucking hold on to. 

Soap follows with an almost feral noise, jackhammering into you as he chases his own pleasure. Ghost leans down and pets over your hair, presses his lips against the crown of your head and murmurs praise as you sob, waves of aftershocks tumbling together until you might just be fucking coming again, who the hell knows.

All you do know is you have to, have to reach back one hand back, feel where Soap’s splitting you open as you moan and shake for him, fingers tangling together as he paws at your messy clit and your brain whites the fuck out. When you come to you’re shaking, cunt gushing obscenely all over Soap’s cock and onto the carpet when he pulls out to watch.

“Gorgeous, bonnie, oh so fucking beautiful, so fucking beautiful, Jesus,” he babbles, sounding as fuck-drunk as you feel, the slick noises of his hand as he works his cock sending you into orbit. “God, didn’t know you could squirt like that, baby. Gimmie another, please, sweetheart, you gotta, I need—,” he cuts himself off as he fucks back in you, groaning at the feel of your walls clenching around him, kissing his cock. 

“Can you?” Ghost’s touch is gentle against your face, voice low as he checks in.

“I don’t—I don’t know,” you stutter blindly, “s’never happened before.” Soap moans at that, thrusting directly into your g-spot and oh, no, yeah—maybe you can do this again.

“Should’na said that, birdie,” Ghost sighs, shaking his head. “he’s going to be insufferable now.” 

“That’s because no one’s ever treated you right, huh, poor thing?” Soap coos to your pussy, giving your overstimulated clit time to breathe even as keeps fucking into your hole.

“Can we take a moment to think about the—fuck—the fucking carpet,” you manage as Soap picks up the pace. “My security deposit. I said we could break the furniture, not the floor,” you point out very reasonably.

“I’ll pay your fucking security deposit, darlin',” Soap says like you’re the one being difficult here. “Now will you please, please be quiet and come on my cock?” He drops a sweet kiss on your back and then he’s rabbit-fucking into you like there’s a score to settle, aiming unerringly at your g-spot and refusing to let up until you’re wailing, face bumping against Ghost’s stomach with the force of his thrusts.

You can barely cry a warning before you feel it, you feel it, muscles tensing up almost painfully as pleasure rockets through you, white-hot and unbearably intense as you soak Soap’s cock. Fat tears are falling down your cheeks as your orgasm is wrung from you, body trembling from the force of it and ears fucking ringing,muffled and strange like you’ve gone underwater. Ghost’s warm hands are all over your face, pressing kisses and making comforting noises as you come back to earth, feeling a little bit like you’d been taken apart and remade like some licentious jigsaw puzzle. 

Soap’s got one big hand splayed over your ass, grunting as he strips his cock wildly until he finally, finally coming in hot, thick spurts over your puffy pussy. He half-collapses on your back, fucking through his mess with little, half-conscious jerks of his hips as you mumble inanely against Ghost’s thigh and his broad hand just keeps petting over your hair. There’s nothing, nothing in your head. Just…good. Quiet and safe and good. 

“C’mere pup.” 

You’re already looking up when you feel Soap lift his head, and Ghost’s joy is legion. He chuckles, a low and deadly-pleased sound that has you blinking slow with a sudden, feverish wave of want. How you’re even fucking capable of that at the moment, you’re not even sure. Is there an Olympics for the insatiably horny? 

“Just Soap for now, sweet. Don’t pout, we’ll play in a moment,” he chides as he pets over your cheek, soft. He extends his other hand to Soap, twitching his fingers. “C’mere, wanna feel my lad,” he says with a soft, crooked smile. Soap moves a little drunkenly onto the couch, grinning dopily as he melts against Ghost’s side, pressing happily against him.

Ghost scruffs fondly over Soap’s messy mohawk before cradling his head, taking his mouth long and lush and sweet. Like they’ve got all the time in the world to just kiss, right there on your shitty couch. In front of your naked heart, yearning so desperately you’re sure they can see it shining through your chest. 

But oh, then Ghost’s reaching down like he needs you, too; like you can do something for him and you would, would do anything he asked right now. “Johnny fucked you good, didn’t he, baby? Why don’t you go on and clean him up, gentle like. Say thank you, yeah?” he says, pressing a kiss to your cheek, petting your hair, being so nice. And of course you can do it, are happy to, can’t think of very much else in the world you’d rather be doing, really. 

Ghost maneuvers a warm and pliant Soap onto his lap, pulling him firmly against his chest and spreading Soap’s thighs wide over his own. He presses open-mouthed kisses down Soap’s neck, licking at the sweat-slicked skin there. Holding him open for you in an almost perfect mirror of earlier in the night and you feel something soft and fond kick up in your chest at the realization. Such a thing for reciprocity, these two. They take, yes. But oh, how they give.

You take your time about it, let yourself look properly before you ever get to touching. It's the first time you’ve gotten to see Soap’s cock up close and you’re tickled to find it’s as pretty as he is. Flushed pink and glistening, perfect mushroom head and an adorable little curve that explains the way it felt like he was hammering into your g-spot. Ah, well. One of nature’s little favorites. 

You smile when you realize he has a few freckles even down here; fond at the thought of him wandering around buck naked in the sun. Probably torments his teammates with his bare ass in unexpected places, you’re suddenly sure of it. 

Maybe it’s a bit early to be making assumptions, given you know very little about these men apart from their real names, fake names, and tremendous cocks. But you feel you can take some liberties, especially in the realm of asses—of which Soap’s is utterly champion. Beautiful. So fucking firm and bouncy and holy fucking shit—“Is that an ass tattoo?” you yelp delightedly, bypassing Soap’s cock entirely as you grope at his cheeks, lifting up and tilting your head, squinting a little until…

“No, no, absolutely get fucked. There’s no way. Oh my god, you fucking sap. Oh, that’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.” Inked on his left butt cheek is a Pacman-style ghost, all pixelated blackwork with a white patch on its face in the shape of a skull. You melt at the sight, full Grinch grew-three-sizes action happening in your heart as you feel a rush of affection for these fucking weirdos on your couch.

“Lost a bet to Gaz,” Soap groans, passing a hand over his face. “One of our team,” he clarifies at your questioning look. “Ghost got to pick.”

Ghost is looking appropriately smug, big hands splayed possessively over Soap’s thighs. 

“Excellent choice, I approve entirely,” you say, pressing a kiss to the tattoo with an exaggerated smooch and cackling as Soap swats at you.

He pivots to petting over your hair when you duck and take him in your mouth, a slow, savoring slide of your lips–not about teasing, not even about getting off, just about making him feel as warm and safe and sweet as you have in his arms tonight. Grounding you both with the action, gentling your comedown from the dizzying heights you’d climbed.

You press a soft kiss to the tip when you’re done, squeezing at his knees, and they pull you up for a proper cuddle. Ghost’s cock is still hard and leaking against your ass, but he doesn’t seem in any hurry to do anything about it; patient as he holds you both in the circle of his arms and you feel a swell of some unnamable emotion for the pair of them, raw and strong and sincere.

Because the universe has perfect timing and an mean sense of humor, the familiar guitar lick that opens “Friday I’m in Love” suddenly fills the room and you glance at the speaker in disbelief. It’s well past midnight, technically Saturday but—"Alright, I hear you,” you call out with a helpless laugh, not sure if you’re addressing god or the universe or just whoever might be listening. You shake your head, smiling. “Cheeky fuckers.”

“Don’t tell me your apartment is haunted as well as ugly?” Ghost asks with a put-upon sigh.

You purse your lips, consider that for a second. “You know, I have often felt the sensation of eyes on me. But I’m pretty sure that’s just the perv across the street. Gotta get better about closing my windows.” They frown at that, shifting a little like they might want to do something with that information, and you roll your eyes fondly, change the subject.

“Hey, did you know John Hughes once wrote a screenplay based on a song by The Cure? Swear to god. It was ‘The Lovecats.’ I know nothing about it but based on title alone, I’m thinking an unauthorized Cats sequel. Anthropomorphic trad goth cats, can you see it?”

“I’m trying very hard not to,” Soap says, and you smack him in the stomach.

Ghost does not bother to entertain the question, so you settle into a comfortable silence, close your eyes as you listen to the familiar songs and just rest.

You shiver after a short while, cooling skin sticky where you’re pressed against them.  Ghost takes it as his cue to stand up, dumping you both on the couch. He eyes the pair of you, not bothering to shift from where you’d fallen into each other, then looks up like he’s calculating the distance to your bed.

He suddenly crouches, slinging each of you over a shoulder, and fuck if that doesn’t near set you off again, Ghost’s back muscles flexing in the obscene display of strength. Soap’s got to be at least 200 pounds of muscle and you’re no small thing yourself, yet Ghost easily carries you through the hall and to the bedroom like it’s not the scariest, hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

The throw pillows scatter as he tosses you both onto the bed and you bounce with the rebound, eyes wide and quite possibly more turned on than you’ve been in your entire life—though, to be fair, that record’s been broken about half-a-dozen times tonight.

Soap’s laughing at the slack look on your face, pulling you toward him for a messy kiss, more just a happy press of faces together than any real coordination. When you come up for air, Ghost’s passing you both mugs of water and watching to make sure you drink it all as if his cock isn’t right there, angry and throbbing and sticking right the fuck out. But, well, if it’s not a problem for him then it’s not a problem for you—clearly those military men were trained for endurance.

“C’mere,” you call with a small yawn, opening up your arms. Not tapping out by any means, but more than willing to have a little cuddle before he no doubt destroys you on his monster of a cock. Ghost bullies his way between you and Soap, lying on his back as you curve around him like parentheses. Soap’s eyes sparkle at you when he sinks his teeth into one gorgeous, plump pec, a pleased hiss escaping Ghost’s mouth. His sweet sounds only increase when you drag your nails over his stomach, scratching at the blonde hair of his treasure trail and tracing over the delicious vee of his hips. 

You prop your chin on Ghost’s stomach, bright with sudden remembrance. “Hey, I was good, right?” you ask Soap. “Gimmie my treat. Penguin photo, please and thank you.” 

His initial confusion transforms into cheeky delight and he nudges Ghost, widening those baby blues in an obvious ploy. “Be a sweet and grab my phone for me? Think it’s in my trouser pocket. Left cheek.” 

“What, you broken? Can’t get it yourself?” Ghost gruffs without heat.  

“C’mon Si,” Soap whines, “Please? Those floors were hard, m’knee’s all fucked.”

That has both you and Ghost sitting up to frown at him, and you follow Ghost’s hand to caress over Soap’s left knee, the jagged line of a scar curving wickedly around the joint. 

“You should have said,” you chide, squeezing gently and working in tandem with Ghost to knead out a little of the tension.

“I’d do it a thousand times more to see you come apart on my cock like that, bonnie,” Soap says without remorse, grinning as he lets his head fall back and moaninga little when Ghost digs his thumb into a particularly sore spot. “We really will have to take care of that security deposit—you gushed like a fucking storm, darlin’.”

You narrow your eyes at him, lean down to blow a raspberry on his bare stomach in retaliation. Soap jerks as he bursts into a helpless laugh and oh, oh turnabout is fair play as you near tackle him, tickling mercilessly along his sides as peals of laughter fall from his mouth. Soap rolls right off the goddamn bed to get away from you, splayed out on the floor as the last of the desperate gasps shake through him. “Alright, alright, Jesus,” he says, rolling over to his back. “You are a sexual terrorist,” he tells you sternly as you lean back against Ghost, make yourself comfortable.

“Pot, kettle,” you point out, and Soap just winks, stretching that long, beautiful body up and smirking when your eyes go wide, feasting on all that tan skin and thick muscle. He ambles out of the room, swinging his hips a little with the knowledge of your eyes glued to his (perfect, beautiful, biteable) ass.

“Hate to see him leave…” you begin with a sigh.

“…love to watch him go,” Ghost finishes for you and you grin, pressing your smile against his skin.

Soap returns with his phone and a few ice pops he must have scavenged from your freezer, launching himself at the bed and landing half on top of you and Ghost. You let out an audible oof as Soap’s elbow digs into your stomach but quickly forgive him when he holds up the treats, letting you have first pick. “Purple, please,” you say, and he passes it over, Ghost picking blue and Soap seeming quite pleased with pink. There’s a quiet, comfortable silence as you rip open the plastic with your teeth, crunching happily into the flavored ice.

“Half thought I shoulda brought another for your pussy,” Soap tells you, looking down significantly. You follow his gaze to where you’re puffy and red and swollen as all hell, looking as thoroughly fucked as you feel.

He’s…not wrong.

“Later,” you agree, rolling back over to prop up on elbow, lean your head against Ghost’s side as you finish your treat. “Think I’ve got a bag of peas that’ll do the trick nicely. Now, picture please,” you say as sweetly as possible, possibly missing the mark because Ghost snorts and Soap grumbles about impatient lasses, flicking his thumb over the screen.

He passes it over and it’s so much better than you even thought, grinning as you zoom in to examine it closely. Ghost is mostly in profile, white camouflage blending in against miles of snow and ice. He’s got what looks like a black mask and armored skull plate in place of his balaclava, a tactical pair of binoculars in one hand and his arm raised to point at something outside of the frame. And there, just a little bit behind and to the left, out of his line of sight, a handful of small chinstrap penguins are mimicking his movement, each holding one single, tiny flapper aloft.

You cackle at the sight, muffling your laughter against Ghost’s side and setting yourself off again when you see the blush that’s adorably coloring his neck and chest. “This is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen,” you tell him as seriously as you can, grinning like anything. “I want it on my wall. My phone background. In a fucking locket around my neck.” He seems intrigued by that last one, reaching out to brush at the little hollow of your collarbone, eyes considering.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Soap snorts, giving Ghost an amused, knowing look, like he can read the direction of his thoughts.

You’re not sure how seriously to take it; you’d initially gone into this with no more expectation than a pleasant romp in the sheets and maybe an extra round after breakfast, if you were lucky. But that was many hours and five—six?—orgasms ago, and now you feel something within you quietly ache at Soap’s words; a strange, unfamiliar part of you that wants to hold on. Not sure if you're allowed.

You look back at the photo to distract yourself from the thought, zoom out to see the whole thing—including the two men standing closer to the camera, caught in mid-laughter. One is bent fully in half, hand pressed to his stomach like he’s laughing so hard it hurts, face obscured by his camouflaged helmet. The other is—Jesus, he’s gorgeous, eyes crinkled up in well-worn smile lines as he tilts his head back in laughter, hands tucked in the straps of his armored vest.   

You zoom in a little, trace over the incredibly odd facial hair. You’re utterly charmed by it, suddenly sure that this is the captain they spoke of. Half-wishing he’d come with them to the bar tonight—you and Kat would have had a field day with a Franz Joseph.

“Who’s the DILF and is he adopting?” you joke and Soap snorts as you pass the phone back.

“Not you too,” Ghost groans, covering his eyes.

“Ghost likes to pretend he’s above such plebeian things as daddy issues,” Soap tells you, tweaking Ghost’s nipple until he smacks his hand away. “But I’m right there with ya, bonnie.” He leans closer, eyes sparkling with mischief. “And so is Price,” he says, voice weighted with significance.

You hum, narrowing your eyes in thought as you take the bait. “And where might your captain be right now?”

Soap gives you that dangerous, shark-like grin again—the one that promises only the best kind of trouble. “Our transport home doesn’t leave until Monday and Gaz already left for North Carolina—wanted to see some old SEAL buddies of his at Camp Lejeune—so Price all cold and alone at the crash pad, probably tucked up in bed. Old man,” he says fondly, and you smack him in the chest, outraged on his captain’s behalf.

“He’s what, mid-to-late 30’s? That is a man in his prime,” you counter. “Probably fucks like he’s in his prime, too,” you mutter and Soap laughs warmly.

“He does,” he whispers in your ear, and your brain is suddenly very occupied with the images he just put in your head. “Whatcha think, Ghost? You gonna be a good little lieutenant, share your toys?” Soap teases, and Ghost rolls right over on top of him, squishing him under his weight until he can’t speak anymore. You helpfully snag their empty ice pop tubes and toss them on the bedside table before joining the fray, wriggling until Ghost’s stretched out over the both of you, delightful warm and much nicer than a weighted blanket.

“Haven’t even gotten to fuck her yet myself,” he grumbles into your neck, readjusting a little when Soap smacks him in the side, gasping for air. Ghost’s stomach grumbles audibly as he moves, presenting you all with yet another problem.

You crane to look at the clock, the storm that’s still raging outside with no sign of stopping, then finally at Ghost’s poor, neglected cock, all angry red at the tip and throbbing from hours, literal hours of teasing. Do some quick mental math.

“Proposal,” you say, and their eyes are on you with gratifying speed, giving you their full attention. “Two, actually. One short term, one slightly longer term. Maybe a third one longest term, but I’m still undecided on that one.”

“Get to it, bird,” Ghost says impatiently and you stick your tongue out at him.

“Keep talking to me like that, see if I let you fuck me,” you threaten, grin when he takes the bait and presses down against you with a possessive growl. “Only joking,” you pat him on the chest, “very much looking forward to it. Now, short term, there’s a very good all-night Italian joint that does delivery, and, with the snow I’d estimate we’ve got—oh, 30, 40 minutes if we call it in now? If we time it right, you can fuck me silly and still have time for a quick shower before the food gets here. Sound fair?”

Soap shifts around under Ghost’s weight until he can get his hands on your face and look at you head on, blue eyes sparkling with joy. “You are a bloody genius,” he says, plopping an exaggerated kiss to your forehead. You laugh as you press forward, nuzzling obnoxiously against him as Ghost looks on fondly.

“What’s the longer-term plan?” he asks, drawing your attention back.

“Oh, that’s easy. You said your transport leaves Monday, yeah?” They nod. “Well, by the look of this storm it’ll be coming down gangbusters for a while, maybe even the whole weekend. Whole city’s gonna shut down. Might be hard to get back to your crash pad,” you wrinkle your nose at the images the term conjures though, to be fair, you’re not sure you’re working with much better. “Which means,” you say, pushing the thought aside, “the only sensible course of action is for you to tell your captain to get his fine ass over here and spend the rest of the weekend with me—eating takeout, watching movies, and having many, many orgasms.”

Soap and Ghost exchange a brief, silent look, before turning to you, nodding in tandem. You smile, pleased as punch and a little high off their easy acquiescence. You may have been called bossy a time or two before, but you just had so many ideas; could so easily imagine the different ways a scenario might play out. It’s the reason you became a writer, really, and probably also why you’ve enjoyed tonight so very, very much: it’s been the perfect balance of exerting and surrendering control, a playful give-and-take that’s worked so seamlessly it feels like it was always supposed to be this way.

You shove a hand under Soap’s bulk, groping around the sheets until you grab his phone and wiggle it out. A few taps, a brief debate about the merits of calzones versus pizza, and a short phone call later you’re tossing the phone over your shoulder and looking up at Ghost.

“Alright big boy,” you say, grinning up at him. “Show me what you’ve got.”

[olderthannetfic]

https://olderthannetfic.tumblr.com/post/772134036909047808/tumblrcomolderthannetfic772021907545554944elsa#notes

That's fair. But this is mainly about someone who's completely shitting on any concept of ethnicity, culture, heritage, history and lived reality, and tries to make everything "a human-racial classification" to begin with. Same shit applies to latino and Asian. Do they mean East Asian? South East Asian? South Asian? West Asian? Literally none of them are the same. Even with "white" and "black" you're setting your ass on fire, you mean East, West, South, North White/Black? Do we even wanna start with Latino? Latino is probably even more so straddling a line between all that bullshit.

Hell, RACE doesn't make a lick of fucking sense because it's not actually "race" it's clearly 100% about ethnicity and even then it's more shallow than a puddle during a drought. Because even if we went with ethnicity it lacks any kind of intersectionality between identities. But we're just arguing within whatever the fuck the maker of those lists is doing every year.

Just as a sidenote, I know several Saami. That's why I spoke about them specifically. The one dude I know who used to be in my class, who's Saami has never considered himself anything but Norwegian and never really used Saami about himself, but does that make him any less Saami? He just IS a Saami, but he seems to think more of the location he's living. The other guy, he's like 40 year my senior, thinks of himself as a Saami, but his children are both Saami and ALSO half-Saami because of their mother. His children, slightly older than me, share that view about themselves, if you asked they'd probably just say whatever's more relevant to the question at hand. BUT!!! That's also just the people I know, and I also know that there are more Saami who consider themselves only Saami, regardless of their other parentage. 100% Saami, because it's none of anyone's business what their genetics are, they are Saami so deal with it.

Clearly this is 100% more complicated than whatever the fuck that list is making it, or any arbitrary race thinking, and it's complete bullshit to even include "race" when it's this poorly done and this surface level this crosses borderline offensive into straight up offensive racism.

The list is completely ridiculous because it actually tells us nothing. It's a completely arbitrary label slapped onto random characters, without any care what it'd actually mean in real life. Does a black person stop being black because they're also Latino? Or does a Latino stop being Latino because they're black? According to this list? This isn't a math equation where one cancels the other out, but according to the list it does. That's the problem, because it also perpetuates the idea that you can divide people into neat little boxes, and just ignore any kind of "complicated" intersections of a person's identity.

So for Elsa and Anna. Does their indigenous heritage from the second movie erase that they were/are also Disney Norwegian? Do they have the same view of themselves now? Or does one have stronger feelings towards one heritage than the other? Especially since they were raised completely without the knowledge of said heritage. How complicated is it to find out there's an entire half of your heritage you never knew, and now you're supposed to try and figure out how to handle that? Well who knows, because this is a question about identity that has never been answered, because only the people "living"* that reality can actually answer their own view on who they are and with what they identify as. *living in quotations because obviously they're just fictional. So the real answer would have to come from a creator of them. (Hell, just calling from the side, I'm mixed ethnicities, and I identify with both, but my sibling only identifies as one half, and really doesn't care about the other half/is ambivalent towards it. Does anyone have the right to override my siblings view about their own identity and what they want to be perceived as? Or what I want to be perceived as? That's why that list, and any comparable list or understanding of "race" or ethnicity are complete bullshit that should have been flushed long ago because it never includes the nuance of individual perception and identity.)

--

[schlatt-love-bot]

yuck! part 3 - schlatt x reader

[part one, part 1.5, part two, part three (currently reading)]

now listening: yuck - charli xcx 1:04 ────❍── 2:19 ↻ ⊲  Ⅱ  ⊳  ↺

Your face scrunched up in confusion. 

“What the fuck are you on about?” He sighed, shaking his head, letting stray tears continue to roll down his cheeks. 

“I said…it’s not your feelings that are stupid, here. Mine are the stupid fuckin’ ones…” 

Never in your life would you have expected this. You crossed your arms, looking up at him. 

“Explain.” He hung his head low, refusing to look up at you.

“Can’t I come in first-”

“No! Explain. Now.” Bringing his hands to his face, he began to rub, seemingly trying to bring himself back to reality. It wasn’t just the fact that he wasn’t used to being vulnerable, he also wasn’t used to you being so…dominant and asserting. If it wasn’t in this given situation, he would’ve thought this side of you was totally hot, and would need to fuck you badly, but this was not the time, and he was not in the mood. 

“I…toots, I don’t know where to start. I…you….we…” He muttered, trying his absolute hardest to get his mind straight, you could tell by the way his eyes began to scan scatteredly around your room that he had way too many thoughts on his mind, but you refused to budge. You wanted, needed, and deserved an explanation as to why he was being such an avoidant asshole. 

“Sounds like you really do like them, man.” Ted chuckled, causing Schlatt to groan, putting his head into the palms of his hands. 

“No, no, dude. This is not how this is supposed to go…I am not supposed to get feelings! Shit’s so fuckin’ stupid!” He explained, in pure disbelief and shock that this was his current situation. The call between the two started as a new recording for Chuckle Sandwich, and at the end Ted could sense Schlatt was stressed. Knowing he had just come back from what was supposed to be a “relaxing” weekend getaway, Ted knew he needed to ask. In turn, Schlatt began to spill his guts, needing an open ear to rant to about everything that had transpired, and how he was feeling about it all.

“Feelings aren’t stupid, dude! Falling in love with someone…it’s really, truly special!” Ted explained, feeling for the man on the other side of the screen. 

“Just because you’re not used to it, doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it, Schlatt.” Schlatt let out another groan, leaning back in his desk chair this time. 

“You can’t say that, you don’t know that…” 

“Let’s be honest with ourselves…you are a catch! You’re funny, have a steady career going, caring, sometimes you’re kind…not to mention you’re clearly attractive and apparently really good at having sex…” Ted listed, chuckling at the last one slightly. 

“Damn, if you want to fuck me, just say so Ted…” He grumbled, crossing his arms before looking up towards his ceiling.

“Listen…all I’m saying is it sounds like they’re into you, and you’re into them. You’ve been sleeping with one another for what…2 years now? Make a move, dude, before they’ve had enough of your shit and leave your ass!” 

Make a move, dude….

Make a move, dude…

Make a move, dude….

“Jesus fucking Christ, Jay. I don’t have all day for your bullshit…” You said, grabbing the door, about to slam it back into his face as he shook his head, clearly coming back to reality.

“W-wait…wait! Fuck, I’ll explain, I’ll explain…” 

“I’ve been standing here for a good 15 minutes waiting for an explanation from you, and you haven’t said a fucking word, haven’t moved a fucking inch. I’m giving you one more minute, shithead, one more than you honestly deserve right now!” Your voice began to get louder, making him shake his head. He knew he didn’t deserve your time of day, especially right now, wasting your time minute after minute, day after day. He swallowed his nerves, put his hands to his sides, and looked you in the eye. 

“Alright, Jesus…I…I think I have…feelings for you…but I’m not sure.” Your head tilted to the side, trying to read his expression, looking behind him for some sort of camera to be recording.

“Yeah, yeah, sure you do. What episode of Punk’d am I on now? Or is this your new idea for a new channel? Build people up and then break them down, record their reactions for views? Where’s the camera…” His face immediately fell, his eyes getting softer. 

“What? Is that…is that what you really think of me? That I would do this for fuckin’ views?”

“Honestly, Schlatt…at this point, I feel like I don’t know you anymore. I’m not sure.” You croaked, choking back your tears that were inevitable to fall. Watching you and hearing your reply absolutely broke his heart into pieces. He had expected you to take this poorly after the way he had been treating you, but he really didn’t expect this of all things. 

“Leave. Go. Leave me alone…need to think.” You said, shoving him from your doorframe as you quickly closed the door on him, locking it behind you. You sunk down the door, wrapping your arms around your legs as you began to sob. 

“Fuck, no…no, no, no! (Y/N)....(Y/N) please…we…I…need to talk…” You could hear him beginning to choke on his own tears as he banged on your door, every time his knuckles made contact with the wood it shook your body ever so slightly more. 

“Leave me alone, Schlatt…I’ll find you when…when I’m..ready..” Your voice trailed off, constantly getting cut off by the ongoing stream of tears rolling down your face. You felt his presence still by the door as you cried, knowing he hadn’t gone far. Probably couldn’t make it back to his office, he was so weak and shocked by his own feelings and your subsequent reaction. 

You had dreamed of the moment that Schlatt would confess his feelings for you, making it out to be something straight out of a fairytale. Maybe over dinner, a candlelit one to be exact, he would admit to having always felt something towards you, but was so in denial that you could feel the same that he created this elaborate agreement between the two of you as a coverup to get closer to you, and the minute he realized he wanted more, he felt the need to confess. You had always hoped and prayed he was a secret romantic, wanting him to praise the ground you walked on because he just loved you all that much. Now that the moment was here, though…it felt more like a nightmare than something straight from a storybook. 

Schlatt sat on the ground, on the opposite side of the door you were leaning against, silently praying to God that you would grace him with forgiveness. It was at this moment he realized that Ted was right, he really did have feelings for you…but like Ted predicted, Schlatt was afraid it was too late. Afraid you realized just how big a piece of shit you were, how he didn’t deserve any time of day from you whatsoever. He rubbed at his eyes, not having cried this much or this badly since he was a kid, letting out a low chuckle. 

You heard his chuckle, which immediately pissed you off. 

“Really? You really think this whole situation is still funny?” 

“No…no, I really don’t. Just…think the absurdity of it all is funny.” You groaned, leaning your head back on the door. You sighed, if you were going to talk about it, at least let there be a door separating you from him…if you had to look into his crying eyes one more time, you swore you’d be a puddle for him, doing whatever he’d ask, forgiving him for anything he had ever done wrong. 

“When did you realize?” You asked, voice barely above a whisper. 

“Like…came to terms with realizing? Or when did I truly realize?” He asked, matching your volume and tone of voice. 

“Truly realize…” 

“Back in that Russian Literature class…when you came walkin’ up, askin’ if we were partners…” He said with a sigh, thinking back to that moment in time, “I was so nervous just lookin’ at you…I had never felt that way ‘bout anyone ever before.” Your eyes widened. There was no way…

“You can’t be serious…” 

“Oh, I’m deadly serious.” He said, laughing slightly. “Can’t lie about that. I’ve been in denial for…way too long now.” You rolled your eyes. How could you trust him?

“As soon as I saw you, with that stupid fuckin’ mascot sweatshirt on, I thought to myself ‘who is this person, and why are they dressed like they’re not a full fuckin’ 10’...couldn’t take my eyes off you. Made my stomach churn so bad, thought I was comin’ down with a stomach bug…” You hummed, remembering when he had texted you to cancel a work session because he thought he came down with something. “Turns out it wasn’t a stomach bug, it went away as soon as you left, and came back when you’d return. Turns out…those were butterflies. I was in denial.”

You sat in silence, thinking for a moment in peace. Schlatt sat waiting for your response, not pressing you, knowing damn well you were allowed to take as much time as you felt you needed to reply. He felt he didn’t even deserve a response from you, after the way he’d been treating you the last week or so. 

“Just…tell me. Why do all this? Make things tricky?” You whispered, confused why you only became friends with benefits, rather than full-fledged lovers. 

“Didn’t think you were into me that way. Besides, you know…I don’t really think ‘m deserving of any typa love…” He muttered, hanging his head low in shame. You stewed for a moment, knowing you should, realistically, be pissed off at him. Mad that it took him this long to admit things, mad that he drug you through this whole friends with benefits plotline knowing damn well he was feeling a certain way about you…but you couldn’t. You knew Schlatt, knew that admitting something as simple as this was harder than anything else in the world. He felt vulnerable in this moment, and you couldn’t treat him the way he did you. You reached up, unlocking your doorknob before waiting for a moment. Schlatt heard the knob turn, and sat up slightly, so he didn’t get knocked over when you eventually opened the door. You slowly opened it, still on the ground, as he scooted around to face you, his face just as tear-stained as yours was. 

“Why? Why do this…?” You asked, simply looking at him. 

“I…knew my feelings would get in the way one way or another…but once I heard you confess…I shut down. There was no way in hell the girl I’ve been dreamin’ about, the girl I’ve been sleepin’ with under this pact…actually liked me for me. I needed to clear my head, let it all sink in…” He said, sheepishly, looking down towards his socks rather than in your eye. 

“It hurts, you know? The lack of response. The way you’ve been avoiding me all week. How am I supposed to just move on from all of this, Jay? Just…become happy that we’re on the same page finally, take the steps needed to be in a proper relationship with you…without addressing all this hurt?” You replied, staring at him, hoping for even an ounce of eye contact, some sort of form of remorse. Once he did look up, you felt a twinge in your heart, tearing up again yourself. 

“I know I hurt you…I don’t expect us to just…move on like this never happened. It…it wasn’t my intention of hurtin’ you, toots…I just fuckin’ suck at all these mushy feelings shit.” He scoffed, rolling his eyes before looking back into yours, sensing the deep hurt he had put you through. “It’s not an excuse for my actions, though…and I don’t expect for you to accept my apology. Just know…I really, truly am so fuckin’ sorry. I should’ve toughened up sooner, been a man, admitted my feelings….but I couldn’t.” 

You paused for a moment, taking in everything he said before sighing. 

“I don’t accept your apology.” 

“Wait, what?”

“Like you said, you don’t expect me to accept your apology, and I don’t. I understand where you were coming from, Jay…but until you can prove to me that you can change…I don’t accept your apology. You could be pulling shit from out of your ass just to make me feel better for all I know…” You sighed, your eyes looking at him, searching for the truth. “Until you can show me that this..” you pointed between one another, all around your apartment, “can change…I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

His eyes widened, as he hummed at your explanation. A part of him was really expecting you to want to move forward, accepting his apology for what it was, and dealing with the repercussions later. However…he couldn’t say he was all that shocked that you hadn’t accepted his apology. If he were in your shoes, he would be kicking his own ass for everything he had done. Silently, he nodded his head, showing you that he got where you were coming from, before he stood up and headed into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

That conversation happened 2 weeks ago now, and the apartment felt tenser than ever before. You did everything in your power to avoid Schlatt, and he tried going out of his way to catch you, hoping you could talk. The amount of times he stood at your door knocking these last two weeks, begging to talk…you had lost count. You weren’t able to get over the feeling of betrayal, though, or clear your mind enough to go into a conversation openly with him about everything, about the future for the both of you, if there even was one at this point. 

Schlatt was a full-blown mess. Didn’t get more than 5 hours of sleep over the last two weeks, he’d been living off of caffeinated GamerSupps and a daily prayer to God that you would finally talk to him again. Sighing, he glanced at the time…time for another Chuckle Sandwich recording, great. Just what he wanted to do with a broken heart. He knocked on your door one last time. 

“Toots…gotta go record, but I’m still here, whenever you’re ready to talk…please…let me in.” He lingered for a moment, before sighing, stepping away to head into his office and hop on the Discord call. 

“Jesus Christ, dude…you look like shit!” Ted winced, making a face over the call. Tucker nodded his head in agreement. 

“Fuck you, and fuck you, too.” 

“I take it…things haven’t improved?” Tucker asked quietly, not wanting to make the man feel any more shitty than he already was. 

“They won’t even let me in their room to talk about things…not that I can blame them. I wouldn’t let me in, either.” 

“Don’t talk about yourself that way, dude…they’ll come around sooner or later!” Ted said, optimistically. 

“They’ve been holed up in their room all week.” Schlatt groaned, throwing his head back in his desk chair. “Honestly…I don’t know if I can do this, today, boys…I can’t get my mind off them.” 

Ted groaned, knowing that something needed to happen quickly for Schlatt to get back to being his old asshole persona self, rather than this defeated, upset loner for them to get any work done. 

“Give me their number.” 

“What?” 

“I said, give me their number, dipshit.” Schlatt slowly blinked, looking confused. 

“No!”

“Trust me, asshole! Give me their number.” Schlatt groaned, rubbing his hands over his face before looking back at his monitor. 

“What good is that going to do, fucker?”

“I’m gonna talk to them, see where their heads’ at. Let you know your prospects. C’mon, man, what will it hurt? You’ve already fucked this up beyond belief!” Schlatt sighed, knowing he was kinda on to something. 

“Fine…but you better not fuck this up even more, Ted.” He grumbled, typing your number into his text messages with Ted, saying another prayer that you actually answer and hear him out. 

In the room across the hall, you laid on your bed, still numb over all that had transpired. You should use this opportunity of Schlatt working to go get something to eat, maybe take a hot shower, go for a walk…hell, pack your bags and run far, far away from here, but you felt stuck. You couldn’t move. You knew it was due to your conflicted feelings, on one hand, you knew that he had been an asshole, and if that’s any sign of how he’d be in a relationship, you didn’t want it. On the other hand, you knew and saw how soft he could get, and have noticed how truly dedicated he had been to get even the slightest chance to talk to you over the last two weeks. Lost in your conflicted feelings, your phone began to ring. 

“Boston area code…? I don’t know anyone from Boston..” You sighed, clicking your phone off. Two seconds later it lit up again, same phone number. You grumbled, reaching over to click your phone off once again, hopefully sending a hint to this person that they had the wrong number. Nope—here your phone lit up once more, causing you to get increasingly more angry. 

“Hello-” 

“Listen, I don’t know what the fuck you’re trying to do, to sell, to whatever…but I’m not fuckin’ interested man, quit calling me, would you?” 

“Wait! Wait, I’m not a scam caller, not trying to sell you something…you’re (Y/N), right?” The voice on the other line sounded somewhat familiar, but you were still confused as to how they knew your name. 

“Y-Yes…why?” 

“Oh thank God, I thought Schlatt gave me the wrong number…this is Ted, one of Schlatt’s friends.” You groaned, throwing your phone down on the bed. Schlatt couldn’t get you to open the door to your room, so he sent one of his friends to call you? Pathetic…

“Before you get the wrong idea…this wasn’t Schlatt’s idea, trust me. He actually hated it…a lot.” He let out a laugh, hoping you’d give him a chance, hear him out. 

“Oh, really? How much did he pay you to say that?” 

“Not enough….I kid, I’m kidding…listen. I’m really concerned. Schlatt hasn’t been this bad off…ever in my history of knowing him. I know he was like the world’s biggest asshole to you the last few weeks, trust me, I’ve grilled him enough about it…but…just hear him out, please? If not for you…for me? I can’t work with him being such a grouch like this…it’s so bad!” You laughed, hearing him plead. 

“Give me one good reason I should, Ted. Honestly, I don’t even think he’s being honest about his feelings for me, and if he is…why did he wait this fucking long to admit them?” Ted hummed on the other end of the line, understanding where you were coming from. 

“Listen, I get it. Trust me when I say, though…he’s liked you for a while. I noticed it back when Schlatt and I first met, he had this twinkle in his eye when he talked about this best friend he had met during his college days. I asked him about it…he confessed after taking a few shots. Once he was sober in the morning, I asked again, needing sober confirmation…and he did. He came clean, admitted to feeling for you, but not feeling like he was worthy enough of having the title of your boyfriend. When he told me he got involved in this…friends with benefits…mess with you…” Ted sighed, you could feel him shaking his head through the phone, “I told him it wouldn’t end up the way he had hoped. He was so stuck in his thoughts of not being deserving enough, not being a good enough person to be considered as your boyfriend that he reassured me this is what he wanted, and that he was happy with his choice. I can tell you, though, it’s been eating at him the last two years that he couldn’t do more with you.” 

You groaned, knowing this was the kind of information you needed to know in order to feel confident in talking to him again, but that actually meant you’d have to suck it up, let him in, and talk it all out. 

“Thanks, Ted. Definitely…have given me a lot to think about…a lot to consider.” You sighed into the receiver, hearing Ted let out a breath. 

“Does that mean you’ll talk to him, now?” 

“Yes…tell him I’ll talk to him…whenever he’s ready.” 

“Oh, he’s ready now. I’ll let him know…thanks (Y/N).” You laughed slightly, first time in the last two weeks that you did, saying a quick thank you and goodbye before putting your phone back down on your bed, heading to your door to unlock it, so Schlatt could enter whenever. Just as your fingers twisted the lock, his hand twisted the doorknob, opening your door. You stood there, staring at one another for what felt like forever, before you silently returned to your bed, signalling him to follow. He did as he was told, coming and sitting on the edge of your bed, looking up at you. You could tell by the bags under his eyes and just how greasy his hair had gotten that he’s barely survived over the last two weeks without you. Your heart sank slightly, waiting for him to say something. 

“I’m so sorry, toots. I didn’t mean for things to get this out of hand. I was just…scared.” 

“Of what, Jay?” 

He looked at you, rather confused.

“What were you so scared of? Had I not made my feelings for you abundantly clear? Not made it clear just how much I cared for you as a person, not just as a sex partner? How long have I been having these feelings for you?” He sighed, shaking his head. 

“No…no nothing like that. I mean…kind of like that? I was scared of admitting I was the one having feelings for you. Scared to put myself out there to you in that way. Scared that, once I did, you’d realize just how shitty of a guy I can be, break my heart into pieces and then leave.” He said, his voice going to just slightly above a whisper, “I was so scared that you really, truly, didn’t feel the same as I was, and that I’d ruin my chances at love and my only true friend in one single swing.” You looked at him softly, wanting to not accept the words he was saying as true, but you could tell by demeanor alone that he meant every single word he had just said. You stayed silent, thinking. 

“I know I’m not in a position to rush you, but I gotta admit…the longer you sit here and say nothing, the more I think you’re actually not that into me, princess.” You laughed, leaning back into your pillows, looking up towards him. 

“No, I’m just..a little shocked. You’re easily the most attractive, occasionally caring guy I know…what do you mean you were scared?” 

“When I said I’ve never felt this way about anybody, ever, it’s true, toots. Never…” Your eyes widened. 

“Like…never never? Never ever? Not even in high school, ever?” 

“Yeah, go ahead, rub it in, make me feel even worse.” He chuckled, snaking his hand behind his neck, refusing to make eye contact with you. You smiled, sneaking a hand towards his thigh to give him a loving squeeze, before taking the hand up to his chin, forcing him to look at you. 

“Why didn’t you say that sooner, stupid? That would’ve explained so much!”

“Clearly I’m not proud of that part of my history, toots.” He joked, rolling his eyes, “Besides…thought you’d think I was a loser, wouldn’t want to associate, y’know…regular shit.” You laughed gently, shaking your head in disbelief. 

“So instead, you went the route of just sleeping with people? How did you not get attached?” 

“Easy…stare at her tits, not her face, say very little, cum, get out of there. Not as hard as all…this that we’ve been doin’.” You sat and stared at him for a moment, the silence engulfing the two of you heavily. Neither one of you wanted to move, in fear that this would ruin the moment, and you’d be back where you started. 

“Y’know…I think our contract needs an amendment.” You said, looking him in the eyes. He looked confused, why mention the contract now? 

“What?”

“Scratch out the last one. We should be able to fall in love with each other, right?” He smiled as you spoke, a breath he hadn’t realized leaving his lips as he sighed.

“Yeah, toots…I guess you’re right.” 

Needless to say, after that talk, the contract was no longer needed between the two of you.

_____________________________________________

aaaand that's all she wrote! i really, truly enjoyed writing this series more than i could fully express...thanks for all your love and support on all the parts, and stay tuned for more coming series! <3

[wolfofcelestia]

I love coming to you with all my questions, you give a lot of deep answers. I’m curious, what kind of dere types do you think Caleb, Zayne, and Sylus are?

Idk if my answers are deep. I just like to yap lmao. All the boys were designed to have some kind of gapmoe/opposite side to them, so I think the dere types really suit them

Caleb

From the sense I get from the trailers, Caleb is shaping up to be yandere

A character who at first is very sweet, loving, innocent, and overly affectionate like a normal deredere character, but over time begins exhibiting signs of being mentally sick as a result of having a too strong love

But this could easily just be a bait and switch kind of thing like how Sylus was supposed to be this big bad villain LI. But Caleb has potential to be yandere anyway

Zayne

Zayne is the very definition of kuudere. Calm, mature, unshakable. He seems cold on the outside but once you look past his exterior, you see that he's very loving

They are also harshly blunt and straightforward with their true feelings, both good and bad, which often leads to them making sharp-tongued statements

This is not to be confused with tsundere, who actively denies their feelings. Zayne never denies his feelings, he just seems cold at first. Honestly, I could see Zayne as a character who was built around the idea of kuudere

This is also not to be confused with sunao cool, which means a character who is always affectionate and is always calm and almost emotionless. Zayne is firmly a kuudere because he has many instances of him breaking his calm, cool, collected facade in different cards (exclusive tutorial, snow serenity, absolute zeal, etc). Also when you touch his dick/ass

Sylus

Sylus, honestly, I can see as a tsundere. Especially when he was a grumpy cat boy who wanted MC to pat his ass but wouldn't say it outright. He would use his tail to pull her hand to his ass but he wouldn't say it lol

But outside of him being a catboy, I can see him being a hinedere in the main story and basically if you take MC out of the picture. Not fully hinedere but a very light one because Sylus doesn't have that badly of a distorted world view, but he embodies this sentiment:

They are someone who has been wronged by the world somehow in the past causing them to create a cold-hearted and apathetic facade to hide their sensitive and caring feelings. 

Sylus, the leader of Onychinus, could come across as cold-hearted, cynical, and ruthless, but in front of MC, he's a baby boy

[fadelion]

I keep thinking that Signal would fight crime differently than Batman. It's not because of the daytime patrol, but it's how Signal himself goes about patrolling. He's on the streets, not the rooftops, and that puts him in the middle of people. It might be easy to be a target in a crowd, but Signal has that way of not making people want to hurt him, not from fear alone, but a mix of fear, respect, and admiration, leaning more towards that second one.

He'd be the type to feel like he's gotta be a known and trusted face in the city, not myth or a force of nature like Batman. Is he brutal when it comes to it? Absolutely, and everybody knows it. Either by it being daylight or it being in some more populated areas, Signal's greatest hits make the rounds on social media at least once every other month or so. New villains and old keep trying the new hero, and the new hero keeps finding ways to win. (The Riddler doesn't know whether to be frustrated, frightened, or flattered that Signal's been studying his tricks for years.) But he'd take that whole "Batman keeps candy in the belt for the occasional kid he runs across on patrol" thing to the next level. It'd take a lot of work, but he'd start to be treated like one of those police officers who make themselves known and not just their presence.

I also think that this would eventually give him that kind of worst kept secret identity that Daredevil does (or like Black Lightning wben he was Secretary of Education under Lex Luthor's term as president), where a whole bunch of people know his face or maybe exactly who's under the helmet, but if you press them, it's "Man, I ain't know nothing about no bat. All I know is Signal is Signal, he wear bright ass yellow, and he the type of MF you can flag down if he ain't moving full speed, and instead of needing to know who he is, you NEED to start dapping him up instead of hating on his ass." People could probably pick him out of a lineup, but they'd intentionally not do it. He'd have a bunch if people willing to come to him with a problem or give him a tip or something.

It's rough at first, because everybody sees him like just another Bat, and everybody in the Narrows has a story of how somebody they know or love got done dirty by the big bad Bat. ("That MF powerbombed a guy off a second story balcony onto the roof of my car. Woulda lost my damn job if my auntie ain't give me a ride after her night shift. Almost died, cause she tired as fuck after that double. Bat done broke all my windows and shit. I just got that MF detailed and tinted too!) He's almost seen like a cop at first, and people in the Narrows are wary at best and downright hostile at worst, criminal or not. (Duke gets it. He's as much "Fuck the Police" as he is "Be the change you want to see in the world.") But they notice Signal seems to be a lot more careful than the other bats. Stick Robin is a coin flip on whether he actually cares or is just getting info or stopping crimes, and Sword Robin doesn't give a fuck how uneasy he makes you. The girls are fine, unless they after you, then you paying Ms. Rita or Mr. Raymond to set your bones back and maybe getting some crutches from Shawn that fell off the back of a truck or out the pawn shop or a neighbor or something.

("Red Hood, like, he a'ight. I mean, he killed Unc and them, but his rules really did make it a bit better out here tho. Just took a minute.")

But Signal? If he got you, you really did that shit. Like, you was talking to people you shouldn't have been talking to and making deals you shouldn't have been doing. Signal will give you the chance to turn yourself in, or just stop, or something. You'll be breaking in the trap house for the first cook, and Signal will just pop in like "Did you know Mama Shirley about to retire from her job at the post office?" And he'll just look at you like you're stupid until you turn off the stove, and then he'll pat you on the shoulder and leave. And when you finally get that job, within the first week, Signal calls you by name and asks how the job treating you. Signal will stop the robbery at the corner store and then drop the robber off at his granny's house because that punishment would feel way worse than jail time. Signal having people to call off drive-bys because he was spotted on the next block playing basketball or getting lunch at that one food truck or talking with the old heads or something.

(When the Flash, on a rare trip to Gotham, notices and compliments him on it, Duke grins responds "I'm just trying to get like you.")

[sschizoid]

Wait let me cook

how about the tulpar crew on the beach together. omg.

oh you're cookin' alright (⌐■◡■) 👌

--

curly

while its no secret that he prefers winter over summer, he can't deny the feeling of absolute bliss he gets from feeling water on his skin and sand between his toes. he'll spend a good amount of time in the water, but tries not to get his hair wet. it dries out his curls and just kind of leaves him a frizzy mess

after swimming, he likes to lie down and let the sun work its magic by drying him off the good old-fashioned way. once settled in and comfortable, he's definitely gonna lie back and give a dreamy sigh before tilting his sunglasses down and looking over, saying "you know what? I really needed this."

applies sunscreen everywhere but the back of his neck. you'll never guess where he gets sunburned

jimmy

he hates the sun, it's way too bright and sunglasses do almost nothing for his headaches. he hates the heat, being sweaty feels gross and makes him chafe. he hates sand, its scratchy and rough and always finding its way into his clothes. but he goes anyway because he doesn't want to be left out and has fomo

tans super easily. he can be under an umbrella the entire time and still manage to gain more color than someone like curly, who will be actively trying to tan yet barely succeed in gaining a rosy hue

despite his attitude toward the beach, he can usually be persuaded to play a bit of frisbee if bothered hard enough. with him, persistence is key. but don't even bother trying to get him in the water

anya

spends the first hour or so beachcombing, looking for interesting shells, sand dollars or sea glass. she ends up finding a really cool piece of coral skeleton as well as some sea urchin fragments, which she plans on adding to her little home collection of oddities

not too big into swimming, but absolutely loves to sunbathe! you can find her in the back, lounging with a floppy hat and a pair of massive sunglasses with her own personal radio playing her favorite tunes

she'll bring a book with her, but will fall asleep with its pages spread open over her face and her arms at her sides, out like a light. at least she's better protected from UV rays?

swansea

absolute grillmaster. tell him what your favorite protein is, how you want it prepared, and he'll have it ready for you in less than 10 minutes and cooked to perfection. also, charcoal is the superior way of grilling. don't even try to argue with him, because he will die on this hill

he has a soft spot for the beach, as he always used to take his dog to them, either for a walk or a good old game of fetch. he remembers how much of a pain in the ass it was trying to brush sand out of that long fur, but it was worth it to see that wagging tail

consistently applies sunscreen every two hours, yet still somehow manages to get sunburned?? he blames his ancestry

daisuke

is trying so hard to convince someone to bury him in the sand. he needs to know what it feels like. wants to feel the pressure around his ribs and the granules in his teeth. he heard that pirates used to torture prisoners by burying them neck-deep, but he's "built different" and thinks it would feel calming like a weighted blanket

besides baseball, surfing is one of his favorite sports. that isn't to say he's particularly good at it, but he loves the adrenaline rush of trying to navigate a wave while keeping your body balanced and mind focused

one of his first jobs was volunteering at an ice cream shack on the boardwalk when he was 15, so he views the beach and frozen treats as synonymous and pretty much the perfect pair. his go-to is dippin' dots, by the way. specifically the banana split flavor

[zepskies]

Awww that makes me so happy, friend! 🥰 There's definitely MORE coming soon. 💜💜💜

i’m usually a bit squeamish when it comes to anything that involves hunting, but the opening scene was written so nicely, it was the perfect amount of descriptive without being like, graphic? if that makes sense :) and although I feel sad for the lion (major cat person, lol) i’m glad dean was able to prove himself, even without the child’s bow :p💘

Ooh I totally get that, but thank you so much for that compliment. 😊 I tried not to make it too graphic (I love cats too! 😭). Dean will have the chance to master the bow soon enough though! 🏹

i’m also glad mila’s words got through to šóta and he showed dean some grace and kindness 😭🤍 it’s what my boy deserves <33

He needed that proverbial kick in the pants, didn't he?! And Dean finally gets someone on his side besides Mila, poor guy lol.

meanwhile otaktay youuu trifling miserable conniving bitter bitchhhh :| pardon my language lol i’m so glad he got the whoopin he deserved! the absolute audacity of that dude. 🤦🏽‍♀️ — got ahead of myself cause I like to review in order of events lol but he really grinded my gearss [insert arthur fist meme]

Oh Otaktay IS a trifling ass bitch. 😤 Even his own people are looking at him sideways for what he's done (or what he tried to do). Lolll totally understandable. Otaktay grinded my gears just writing him. 🤣

i loved all the little insights into how dean is with mila :’)🩵 they are so sweet to each other 😭 love them <3 it’s also nice that various people (minus one ofc) were seeing how well he treats his wife and how respectful he is 🙂‍↕️

Aww honestly I loved trying to figure out their dynamic as a married couple. I also feel like this was a time where a man like Dean would've been raised to respect the women in his life, especially his wife. 💜💜

checking in with her beforeeee getting down to business 🫠 [he’s a good man savannah 😔💖]

Damn right. 😏 Dean is gonna handle his business, but first, needs to check in with his girl.

aaand this is when I knew otaktay was in dangerrr lol

oh 100%. Guy's marked now. 😅

ohhhhhhh 😭😂 when I read this i thought to myself, dang maybe the fight wasn’t so bad in comparison to what’s coming to him 🤣 mama is nottttt gonna be happy

lmaooooo you know what, you're probably right! A little reveal there that Eyota is Otaktay's mother--and he's about to get another whoopin'. 😂

I adoreee this ♥️ and he’s worthyyyy🥺🤍 I loved the respect everyone finally showed him <3 the circumstances were not the greatest of course, but he has more than earned that respect by now :’) also when he was called honorable I thought of THC which i’m not sure if it was intentional or not, but either way, so cute!🧡

Aw thank you, my lovely. 🥹 Dean IS worthy, and finally getting the respect he deserves from everyone involved. 💗

Omg I hoped readers would notice that connection to THC! It was very intentional. 😘

i’m also glad they had that talk! it was so important, i’m glad it was reassuring for them🫶🏽

Oh yeah, Otaktay didn't put the thoughts in Mila's head about her and Dean's long-term struggles, and their future kids, but it sure did fan the flames. It was an important convo for her and Dean to have and get through together. 🫶🏽

meltinggg this was the sweetest thing🥺💗 home is where the heart is indeed<3 overall another amazing chapter lovely!💞

Aww thank you, my lovely. 🥹 That was probably my favorite line for this mini series, let alone this chapter. I'm so glad you enjoyed that part, and this chapter overall!! 💕

p.s. not entirely sure who’s in the teaser buuut i’m holding out hope for a certain someonee🤠 the anticipation buildss

Ooh you know what, I'm sure you've already figured it out. 😏 But until then...

Outlander - Part 2

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC 

Summary: Dean Winchester has been stripped of his military rank, but he’s living happier with his new wife, trying to adjust to a new life in her tribe. What will it take for her people to accept him, especially when the battle for her heart might not be completely won? 

AN: Here we go! Diving deeper into Dean's (mis)adventures, plus a big Protective Dean moment...

Disclaimer: I first got inspired to write The Honorable Choice for @jacklesversebingo after a recent rewatch of Spirit: The Stallion of the Cimarron (with a tinge of Yellowstone in the mix). I’ve done a fair bit of research for this now ongoing series, both on the Native American Lakota tribe, and on American history during this time in the late 1800s; AKA: the Old West, during the American Indian Wars.

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: Western AU

Song Inspo: The Spirit Soundtrack

Word Count: 6.4K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Mentions of attempted sexual assault (not graphic). Protective Dean, survival situations, derogatory name-calling, hunting (in the traditional sense), angst, blood and violence, hurt/comfort, and romantic fluff and spice.

🐎 Series Masterlist || Bingo Masterlist

Part 2: What is Home

No matter how Dean tries, somehow he never makes his mark with the arrow. His boot even slips on the tree branch he was perched on, and he falls straight into the mud from this morning’s rain shower.

The other six men wait for him on the ground, and they laugh at him. 

Otaktay is the ringleader today, as he is whenever Šóta isn’t here.

“Get up, wašíču. Watch close,” Otaktay says, in his limited English. He and Takoda smoke their long pipes leisurely and blow smoke rings up in the air.

Wašíču.

Fat taker. Greedy White. By now, Dean knows what that means, and it’s worse than Outlander. It makes his jaw clench and his temper spike.

Otaktay gives Takoda his pipe to hold, then reaches behind his back for his bow and an arrow from his quiver. Dean has noticed that the other men’s bows look a bit bigger than his, but Otaktay called it a “training bow.”

He notches his arrow, pulls it back and lets it fly. It hits up into the tree and spears an apple, pinning it to the trunk.

It’s an impressive move, but Dean just picks himself up and cleans most of the mud from his hands. He knows Mila will have something to say about making a mess of the clothes she made for him.

“All right, fine. I am what I am,” Dean says. He meets Otaktay’s gaze head-on. “But I’ve still been hunting all my life.”

Dean used to keep his knife on his belt, but now he wears the pants and tunics the other men wear, and they either strap their weapons in a leather holster around their thigh or to their ankles. Dean unsheathes the knife he keeps strapped to his thigh. 

And he throws it hard. It cuts straight through a branch and brings an entire bunch of apples to the ground by Takoda’s feet; he even has to jump to avoid them landing on his head. The others murmur to each other, begrudgingly impressed. 

Except for Otaktay. His face remains stoic. 

A whistle breaks the tension in the forest clearing. It’s Šóta, who joins them, coming through on his horse. 

“How is the hunt going?” he asks in English, raising a brow over at the wild boar that lies in the grass. Otaktay and the others killed it this morning, so he’s the one who speaks first. 

“The Outsider will bring a whole bunch of apples to feed his wife. How satisfying,” Otaktay says, with a dry edge of mocking. Dean’s jaw clenches, but he tries not to rise to the bait. 

“Maybe he satisfies her in other ways, brother,” Šóta says. “Maybe that’s why he has a wife, and you don’t.” 

His tone is teasing, but is there a reproaching edge there too? Dean’s lips tug upwards, slightly; he sees that Otaktay simmers at the dig, but he doesn’t dare say anything against Šóta.

“Hey!” Takoda calls out. He points at the boar they mean to take back to the village. A mountain lion slips closer down from a tree. He sinks his teeth into the boar’s thigh and begins to drag it away, farther into the forest.

The sight of the wild cat spooks the men’s horses grazing nearby. Even Baby scatters along with them, braying in distress. But the men hustle into action. Even with mud still clinging to his clothes and his skin, Dean grabs up his bow and arrow and runs to grab his fallen knife. He whistles to Baby and calms her down enough to climb up onto her back. 

The others have already done the same with their horses and are chasing the mountain lion into the woods. It zips up a tree, and Šóta, Otaktay, and the others aim their arrows high. They wait and listen. 

Otaktay releases his arrow first. The cat’s angry shriek fills the clearing from above.

“You got him,” Šóta says.

“Winged him. He’s not dead,” Otaktay says. His brows furrow as he listens closer. 

The cat jumps from the tree and takes Dean to the ground. Baby brays and stamps around, and Dean has to both avoid her hooves and try to keep the mountain lion from sinking his claws or his teeth into his neck. 

Šóta’s eyes widen, but he springs into action by whistling to the men and raising his bow. Before he can shoot, he has to stop short at what he sees. 

A moment later, Dean rolls over and heaves the lion’s dead body off of him. His knife comes out of the animal’s chest, slick and crimson with blood. It runs down his muddy shirt as he pants and heaves for breath.

Šóta gets down from his horse, running his disbelieving eyes over the scene.

Dean looks up and finds a hand offered to him. His gaze travels up further and meets Šóta’s. His eyes are an even darker brown than Mila’s. Dean takes his hand and accepts the help to his feet.

The other men hesitate, stunned into silence, but they get down from their horses and help Dean and Šóta heft the dead animal onto the latter’s horse. They will take it, along with the boar they retrieve from up in the tree, back to camp.

Mila returns to camp not long before the men. She meant to start prepping for supper, but she becomes sidetracked while playing Chase with the children. As one of the few young women still without children of her own, she tries her best to give the mothers a break in the afternoon, so they can finish washing, mending, cooking, or even just having a rest for themselves. 

Watching their joy, and even helping them up when they fall and cry, makes her wonder when she will finally be blessed with a child. She hopes they will have Dean’s eyes, so pretty and green.

When the men return, she raises her head breathlessly and smiles. It soon dims, however, as she catches sight of Dean. She gets to her feet and ushers the children back to their mothers before she goes to meet him. 

He gives her a sheepish look when he gets off his horse. Her mouth drops open at seeing him covered in mud and sweat and blood. 

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says, trying to placate her with raised hands. She ignores that and touches his chest, her palms splaying down his stomach as she tries to find a wound. She finds more tears and scratches through his soiled clothes, but no real wounds. Still, she’s not satisfied yet.

“What happened?” she asks. 

“Just a little trial by fire, sweetheart,” Dean says. He grasps her arms to placate her. “Everything’s okay.”

Otaktay pointedly looks away from the scene and moves on along with the other men. Šóta notices, but he goes to his cousin.

“We encountered a thief,” he says, gesturing to the body of the mountain lion they brought back for tonight’s meal. “Dean Winchester not only caught the thief, but made an example of him.”

Mila raises her brows and looks to Dean, as if to say, Is this true? He offers a smile and a shrug. She smiles back.

Šóta rides on, but he glances back and sees how Mila dotes on her husband, touching a gentle hand to his cheek.

In return, Dean holds her by the waist and talks to her with a warmth in his eyes that he only has for her. Or at least, that’s what Šóta finally sees.  

Mila and Dean head back to their tipi, where she grabs a fresh change of clothing for him. 

“I could’ve gotten it,” he says. 

“You’ll track mud inside,” she points out wryly. She holds the bundle of clothes for him on their way to the river. “All you do is give me mending to do. You can’t keep clean, can’t keep from hurting yourself, can you?”

Dean knows her well enough now to realize her griping isn’t all that serious. She was just worried.

“I guess not,” he says, trying to hide his amusement.

She gives him a stern look, but with that cheeky look of his, she can’t stay upset for long. Her face softens into an exasperated smile, and she gestures towards the river. “Go. Wash yourself up. I will have supper ready soon.”

Dean grabs her hand and makes her drop the change of clothes in the grass. 

“Only if you come with me,” he says. He grabs her and aims to toss her over his shoulder, but she squeals in protest. 

“Dean Winchester! I’ll have nothing to wear if you drop me in the water!” 

Dean pauses, his lips tugging at a smirk. “You make a decent point, but I’m just wondering, do I really care if you’ve gotta walk back naked?” 

“Dean!” she giggles, hitting his shoulder. 

He chuckles and sets her down, but he still doesn’t let her leave. By now, she doesn’t want to. He starts helping her undress, followed by him peeling off his disgusting clothes. He hooks an arm around her waist and hauls her with him into the water. She laughs and tries to escape him by splashing water in his face, but he just spits it out. He chuckles and wipes the excess droplets.

He slips his arms around her waist, holds her tight and floats with her for a bit. He takes in a deep breath and finds peace here with her here in the sun-warmed water. She’s become his peace.

Mila takes his face in her hands and kisses him slowly. When she pulls away and their eyes meet again, she smiles.

“I am proud of you,” she says. “Not just for today, but for every day that you stand strong.”

Dean’s lips quirk with a reluctant smile. He doesn’t take praise very well, but her words make the weight on his shoulders feel a little bit lighter. Holding her flush against his chest, every soft, familiar curve is pressed against him. He leans in and captures her lips again.

That evening, the tribe gathers for a feast prepared by the Chief’s wives, Mila, and her mother Weaya to celebrate the warriors’ highly successful hunt.

Šóta watches his cousin with her Outlander husband. Dean follows her lead in divvying out portions of the meal, but still at times with a supportive hand on the small of her back. He even takes the large, hot bowl out of her hand to help serve her and her family—including Chatan, who accepts the offered bowl without a word.

Dean Winchester doesn’t sit until Mila does. They talk together with her mother and the others, though Dean mostly keeps to himself while the women chat. He occasionally responds to a direct question or comment, but overall, he seems content to listen. He’s starting to follow more bits of conversation in their language.

At the end of the meal, he stands with Mila and helps her collect bowls that will be washed. The man is confident, but not prideful. He’s hardworking, self-reliant, and has the makings of a warrior. 

However, Šóta is not the only one who watches his cousin and the Outlander.  

Šóta pulls Dean aside after breakfast the next morning. He takes Dean back to the forest, beyond where the horses are kept in their pen, and puts his own hunting bow in Dean’s hands.  

“Feel the weight of it,” Šóta says. “Does it seem like yours?”

Dean considers it, testing out the strength of the bowstring. “No. It feels heavier.”

“Because it is. We gave you a training bow for children,” Šóta says. He takes the bow from Dean and brings him the one he had tied to a satchel on his horse. “I will give you this one. It belonged to my half-brother, Takoda, before he made his own. I made it for him, and now I give it to you.”

Dean takes the bow. Šóta’s right, it’s taller and heavier than the first one they gave him. Of course they tried to trick him by giving him a kid’s bow. He tries not to be too annoyed about it, because it looks like Šóta’s warming up to him, at least enough to actually train him.

“Thanks,” Dean nods. He runs a hand over the bow and admires the craftsmanship of the wood, smooth and chestnut colored. He already has a quiver full of arrows he’s made himself, but first, Šóta corrects his stance and his posture.

“Your body knows the movements of hold, aim, and shoot, but you think too much,” he says. “How you shoot an arrow is not so different from a gun.”

Dean raises a brow. He begs to fucking differ.

Reading the skeptical look on his face, Šóta smiles.

“My father once told me, ‘A weapon is a weapon is a weapon,’” Šóta continues. “The way you use it might be different, but your mind is the same. Think like the river. Calm and free, yes?”

He throws Dean a thumbs up—something Dean taught him a week ago. Šóta just hasn’t gotten it quite right yet. 

“A river ain’t always calm,” Dean points out. He should know. He almost died on the river in his journey here.

Šóta thinks for a second, tilting his head. “That is fair. Here, let me think of something better—”

“It’s okay, I think I get it. I just gotta relax a bit, is that it?”

“Yes, but stay focused.”

“I can focus. I just need you to back up a little.”

Šóta raises his hands in surrender. He takes a couple of steps back and gestures at a tree to use for target practice. Dean centers himself.

“Remember to breathe,” Šóta says.

Dean shoots him a glance. Again, Šóta holds up his hands, then crosses his arms, pressing his lips together. Dean shifts his gaze back to the target, and he lets out a deep breath. Then he lets the arrow fly. 

It hits just shy of the tree’s center. 

Šóta smiles, giving him another “thumbs up.” 

“Good. Now, again,” he says.

The morning slowly dips behind the clouds into a golden afternoon. Šóta helps Dean catch and roast a couple of fish by the river, which cuts through the forest. Its waters are choppy and shimmering with the light.

This forest used to run almost all the way to the Black Hills, before the U.S. government began its work on the railroad. The tribe has had to move their village more than once out of self-preservation, like they did when Dean came to them. 

He felt bad for it at the time, but he’s also grateful they made that precaution. The last thing he needs is to run into his old unit, let alone for the army to find out he’s still alive. And the last thing he wants is to endanger these people, especially his wife and her family.

He finishes off his second fish and glances over at Šóta.

“Look, I appreciate your help, but…I’ve gotta wonder why,” Dean says. “You don’t like that I’m here either.”

Šóta pauses in his chewing. He swallows before he answers, looking over at Dean in the eyes.

“It doesn’t matter if I like you,” he says. “You are the man who brought Kimmímila home alive. So, I help you.”

Dean nods. He can respect that. He looks down at the half-eaten meal, then at his hands, calloused and worn. They hold the weight of his past, his choices, and also the man he’s trying to be.

“I won’t hurt her,” he says.

The simple truth is that he’d give his life for hers. No hesitation.

“I know that, Dean Winchester. That is the other reason you are still alive,” Šóta says, with a slight smile. “You are brave. I will give you that.”

Dean smiles. “I guess there’s no winning over the others, is there?” 

At that, Šóta pauses. “You are doing better than you think. The others see you aren’t afraid. They see you work hard, and you try to respect our ways. You just don’t know them. They don’t know you.”

“I get it,” Dean says, nodding. “Like, uh, Otaktay. Right?”

“Ah,” Šóta rubs his clean-shaven chin. “You will have a harder time with him.”

Dean quirks a rueful smile. “What’s his deal?”

“His deal?” Šóta questions.

“His problem,” Dean elaborates, “with me.” 

Šóta sighs sharply. “Our men are warriors bred. Otaktay. His name means, ‘kills many.’”

Dean raises his brows. He slowly inclines his head.

“Riiiight. Of course.” 

“Names have power, Dean Winchester. Otaktay takes his name like a challenge he will win, but he does it to protect our tribe above all else,” Šóta says.

If that weren’t enough, the man levels Dean with a more serious look.

“But there is something else you should know.”

Dean doesn’t think he’s going to like whatever’s coming next. He nods, wordlessly urging Šóta to continue.

“Otaktay has always watched my cousin, admired her spirit and her beauty,” he says. “Mila has known this, and maybe she would have accepted him, had she known…but he planned to ask Chatan, my uncle, for Mila’s hand.”

Dean’s chest tightens, as does his frown. “What happened?”

“She disappeared,” Šóta replies. “When Mato was taken, she couldn’t accept it. She left the village to find him against my uncle’s command. Then she found you.” 

Dean isn’t exactly surprised by that. His wife is many things, defiant chief among them. Also, it makes a lot of things make even more sense. It explains her father’s tough outer shell, and clearly, it means he’ll have to keep a sharper eye on Otaktay.

She had been successfully avoiding him, until now.

Mila had just left the horses after helping Takoda feed and brush them, and she was planning to wash up before helping her mother and some of the other women cook for the entire tribe again this evening. Today is the last moon of the summer months, and so they’ve been preparing the wild game that the men had hunted for the past two days. Tonight, they will have an even greater feast.

She feels a shadow at her feet as she ventures through the village. They’re getting bigger as a tribe, harder to move when they need to, and it’s more mouths to feed, but it’s also a good thing. Despite all the challenges the past few decades have brought, their people are enduring. 

However, Mila pushes these thoughts to the back of her mind when she feels a prickling down the back of her neck. It’s followed shortly by the strong hand that closes on her wrist, and the man that calls her name. 

She gasps and whips around. He’s there, gently shushing her. She glares at him and tries to pull her hand out of his grip. 

“Ota,” she snaps. “What are you doing?”

“I just want to talk to you,” Otaktay says. His brown eyes are earnest, but he doesn’t let go of her hand. “You have been avoiding me.”

“I can’t be any more honest than I have been,” Mila says, and finally she manages to free herself from his grasp with a sharper tug. “Enough of this.”

She begins to walk away from him. The distance between the horses’ corral and the village is short, just over the gentle slope of a grassy hill and down below…but her cousin isn’t here. Her husband isn’t here. Otaktay believes this is his only chance—his chance to make her see reason. He stops her again, this time with his words.

“Do you think it will be that easy?” he says. “The Outlander will bring death upon us all.”

Mila stops short. She turns on her heel to meet him with a glare. 

“His people think he’s dead,” she says.

Otaktay approaches her with slow, measured steps. “And what if they find him here? Every day their iron caravans invade our lands. Every day their patrols come to take from us, to destroy us. How many of his own do you think he will kill for you?”

He raises a pointed finger. “And your children. Your children with that man will be cursed. Forever in the shadow of two worlds, forced into one, and hated by the other.”

His words pin Mila to the ground by her toes. Her body stills, because she’s shaken deep within. She doesn’t want to believe him, but she also won’t admit that these are the thoughts she’s tried to push from her mind. What she wants most of all is a family of her own. She wants it with her husband. 

But is it fair?

To them.

To him.

To her people.

She doesn’t know, and for that, her lips tremble. Her eyes burn with tears and she raises a trembling hand to her mouth. 

Otaktay draws closer and attempts to hold her hands, but her brows crunch in anger. You!

She pushes him in the dead center of his chest, so hard that it unbalances him. He’s surprised by her ire, and that satisfies her. She shoves him again, more forcefully this time, but he manages to hold his ground. 

“Kimmímila—”

She doesn’t give him the chance to try and placate her. With a cry of effort and frustration, she slaps at his face with all of her strength. It whips the man’s face to the side and even makes him stumble. He raises a hand to his cheek in disbelief. Already his tan skin is reddening, both from the mark of her anger, and from his own.

When she goes to shove him again, he grabs her by the arms to try and subdue her. Her tears are beginning to blind her, but she doesn’t care. The way he holds her tightly makes a flash of dread coil in her stomach.

In her distant mind, she knows Otaktay wouldn’t willingly hurt her. But his grip reminds her of Roman, the officer at Fort Laramie, who took advantage of the way she was tied to a post in their camp. She remembers his rough hands, the wood pressing into her spine. She remembers his hot breath and his chapped lips trying to claim her, his knee pressing between her legs.

Her own breaths come out in shallow gasps as that well of dread grows in her chest, rising into her throat to choke her. Mila punches wildly at Otaktay’s chest and rakes him with her nails. He finally grits his teeth and grabs her tightly by the hair. 

“Enough!” he shouts in her face. 

She matches him, her voice echoing in the clearing. “Let me go!” 

“Not until you calm down!”

He takes her face in his hands. Looking down into her tear-filled eyes, wild and devastated, he begins to feel remorse; but there too is desire and jealousy, deep and twisted together in the oily dark of his soul. Otaktay believes he’s only been selfish once in his life. Kimmímila is that one.

“Let go!” she shakily demands. She struggles against his hold and tries to run away from him, even though she used to run with him, ride with him through the forest on horseback and across the grassy plains instead of doing their chores. He tries to remind her of it now when he bows his head to kiss her. 

He finds himself ripped away—shoved hard enough to land stumbling into the sun-hot grass. 

“Dean!” Mila gasps. She reaches for her husband, even though the clenched set of his jaw and the tightness in his broad shoulders make her wary. She’s not afraid of him though. She just has a terrible feeling that she knows what’s coming next. 

Dean turns his attention to her first, a firm, but gentle grasp of her shoulder.

“You okay?” he asks gruffly. 

She nods, brushing away tears from her cheek. She holds onto his hand. “Yes.”

“Okay, stay back,” he says, releasing her.

She tries to stop him from advancing on Otaktay, but Šóta holds her shoulders with a grim look on his face. He guides her back and at his side. He and Dean have come on horseback. They jumped down to help her. She doesn’t know that they heard her and Otaktay shouting from several yards away, their voices carried on the wind.

Dean hadn’t been able to understand the words, but Šóta’s sense of urgency and the shrill, angry panic in Mila’s voice spurred him on, urging Baby to a full gallop down the hill. Seeing her tears was one thing, but while he saw Otaktay, in his mind, Dean also saw the night that Roman tried to force himself on her.

The rage that compels Dean now is different from the anger he had then. Back at the camp, he was just doing what he felt was right. Today, this is a protective call for blood. 

Otaktay had barely gotten back to his feet, but the upward swing of Dean’s fist cracks across his chin and sends him back down to the ground. He seethes, with blood in his teeth, but he angrily swipes Dean’s legs from underneath him. It becomes a grapple for leverage as the men tussle in the grass, trading swift punches. Otaktay kicks Dean hard in the stomach to gain some distance, rocking back onto his feet. Dean stumbles slightly, but he does the same.

“Stop!” Mila shouts in protest. Šóta holds her back. Despite her wildness before, she doesn’t want either of them dead. She fears more for her husband, but not because she doesn’t believe in him. She’s afraid of what will happen if Otaktay is killed. 

He plays dirty, spitting in Dean’s face. Dean matches by throwing an elbow into the other man’s throat, grabs his arm, then pivots and heaves him over his shoulder onto the ground. For a moment, Otaktay lies there winded on his back. Dean pins him there with his heavier weight bearing down on him. 

Otaktay sneaks a hand from the sheath strapped to his thigh and twists a knife into his hand. Šóta and Mila both see it, him with a tight frown and her with widening eyes.

She calls out in alarm, but Dean reacts fast. He strikes at Otaktay’s wrist and grabs his arm. A swift elbow and Otaktay’s knee in Dean’s gut forces him to the side, heaving a grunt. Otaktay gains the better position as he presses a knee right over Dean’s chest. He grunts at the impact; it threatens to break a rib. The knife becomes poised over Dean’s face in the struggle, nearing his neck. 

“Otaktay!” Mila calls out sharply, a warning and a plea all at once. 

He hears her. For just a second, he allows himself to glance up at her and see what lies in her eyes. He knows her fear is not for him. 

Still, anger overcomes his heart. He calls out a battle cry and puts his entire strength into bringing the knife down. Dean allows it with gritted teeth, but he positions his hands in just the right way to guide the man’s arm just to the right of his neck, slicing shallowly into his skin. The knife sinks into the earth.

Dean throws a punch that lands across the Lakota’s cheek, then another, and it allows him to kick the man in his ribs, sending him backwards with a heavy grunt. Dean grabs the knife out of the ground, and when he rolls onto his feet, he slashes at the other man’s chest. It isn’t deep enough to be fatal, but it’s enough to make him bleed red rivulets. 

Otaktay works harder than ever, trading blows and kicks that Dean can’t always dodge. But eventually, Dean hooks a boot behind the other man’s ankle and unbalances him enough to drive him to the ground. He shifts the position of the knife and brings it flush to Otaktay’s throat. 

His eyes widen; he never expected to be bested by the Outlander. The sharp edge of the blade bites into his skin, cutting a thin line of blood dripping down to his collarbone.

They’re both heaving for breath, sweaty, bloody, and bruised. It’s then that Dean realizes that they’ve attracted a small crowd. At the center of it is Chief Tahatan. He’s watching closely, his face unreadable, along with one of his wives. A few men stand beside him, namely Mila’s father, Chatan, Takoda, and some of the women too. Šóta whispers to them, explaining why the men are fighting.

Even Dean knows that by the customs of their tribe, he’s well within his rights to end this the way his hand in itching to—by sinking the blade into Otaktay’s jugular. Maybe it will finally earn him respect. Maybe it won’t. 

He glances up and finds Mila’s eyes. She stands frozen with her heart in her throat. All she sees is him. And she’s the only one Dean means to answer to. 

He raises the knife—and he brings it down into the earth beside Otaktay’s head.

The warrior inhales sharply, his brows furrowing in shock and confusion. He stares up at Dean, who looks down at him with the remnants of jaw-clenching anger. In that moment, they come to an understanding. 

Dean pulls back and straightens up, with just a small shake in his bowed legs. His gait steadies as he makes his way back to his wife. 

Šóta lets go of Mila so she can go to meet Dean. She runs her hands over his chest and arms, trying to find injuries she may not have seen before. Her fingers trace around places that are already becoming bruises, but Dean just holds her, taking pains to soften himself. His arms around her are secure, but not too strong. She’s just grateful that he isn’t hurt too badly.

“You okay?” he makes sure. 

Mila nods, despite the tears shining in her eyes. “Yes.”

Her parents watch them closely, even though the couple doesn’t realize it.

Behind them, Takoda shakes his head at his friend, but he dutifully helps Otaktay to his feet. Šóta crosses his arms and levels him with a cold look. 

“Take him to Eyota,” he says. 

“Yes,” Tahatan agrees, his voice deep and grave. “Tell her what her son has done here.”

The rest of Otaktay’s anger drains when he looks up at his chief. He says nothing, and can’t hold the older man’s gaze for long. He reluctantly leans on his friend to help him up and over the grassy hill, down to the village. The others gathered there wait to see what Tahatan will do next. He approaches Mila and Dean. 

“A good man protects his family above his own life. A warrior protects his tribe, even at the cost of blood,” Tahatan says. He looks directly at Dean. “But an honorable man knows when to show mercy.”

Dean’s heart begins to beat fast again. He hadn’t known that his choice was the right one, until now. He’s able to keep his head high without being arrogant. He just isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say. 

“Dean Winchester, you will be called Ikíphi,” Tahatan declares.

Dean blinks in surprise, and also confusion when he notices the way Mila begins to weep silent tears. He tightens his arm around her waist in a wordless question, but she just smiles at him.

“Uh, what does that mean?” he whispers the question to her.

She opens her mouth to respond, but her father is the one who answers. Chatan rests a hand on his daughter’s shoulder.

“Worthy,” he says. 

He meets Dean’s gaze and holds it, giving him a nod of acknowledgement. Dean gives the gesture back to him in kind, and to Tahatan as well. Then Chatan takes his leave, walking back to camp with Weaya, Šóta, and the Chief. The others whisper Ikíphi, offering their nods of respect to Dean before they follow suit, until it’s only Mila and Dean left in the clearing.

She pulls out of his hold just to take his hand. She looks ahead rather than at him.

“Come,” she says. 

Something’s wrong. Dean knows it in his gut.

He and Mila bathe together in the river again, but even though she helps him by washing his back, she’s quiet and distracted. He asks her if she was hurt. She tells him she wasn’t. That’s the only time she looks him in the eyes. 

Later, they return home thoroughly exhausted. Dean starts up a small fire for the coals to help dry them off the rest of the way. 

“There is a feast tonight,” Mila reminds him while she sits on the bedding, brushing through her long, damp hair. Dean sits near the fireplace and uses his knife to shave. He glances her way and lets out a deep breath. 

“I don’t know if I’m up for a party,” he admits. 

She surprises him by agreeing. “I’m tired too. I think Tahatan will understand if we stay in.”

Dean quirks a brow. She loves it when the tribe comes together for mealtimes. For days, she’s been telling him about moon feasts—the music, the games, the antics her cousins get up to, performing stories for the children and whoever else indulges them. 

So Dean gets up and goes over to her. He swipes her hair aside and lays a kiss on her shoulder. She keeps brushing her hair, so he keeps up his path of kisses along her neck, nibbling her ear. She laughs a little and flinches at the ticklish feeling, making him smile. He wraps his arms around her from behind, and she sighs, succumbing to the feeling of him warm at her back. She settles against his chest. 

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks. 

Her smile fades, though he can’t see it. “I should ask you that.”

“I’m fine, baby,” he says, shaking his head. 

“Well, maybe you should not be fine,” she says in a smaller voice. 

Dean pauses, his brows furrowing. “What do you mean by that?”

Mila gently pushes his arms away from her. She stands up and creates distance between them. She crosses her arms to hold herself, not even daring to look back at him. 

“I mean that…maybe you should go home, back to your people,” she says. She manages to keep her voice steady, even though she’s breaking her own heart.  

Dean gets up to his feet, alarm and unease coiling in his stomach. He grasps her elbow and comes around to see her face, and when he does, he sees the truth. Tears shine in her eyes, slipping down with every blink. His furrowed brows ease somewhat, but he still needs answers. He holds her by her arms and stares into her soulful brown eyes.

“Mila, what’s going on? Your family, the Chief, even your dad—they’re all starting to accept me now. Isn’t that what you wanted?” he asks. “What happened today, it’s a one-off, okay? For damn sure, Otaktay’s not touching you again—”

“It’s not that,” Mila says with a sniffle. She holds herself tighter, trying not to let Dean’s concern, his touch, or the intensity of his green eyes affect her so much. 

“Today we have peace, but how long will that last?” she says. “And…and our children. Will they be accepted too? Or will they never find their place, caught between two worlds, but never belonging to either one.”

Mila succumbs to quiet, shuddering sobs. Her trembling hands try to cover her face from him.

Dean’s face gentles. He feels like he’s been kicked in the chest (again). He gathers her to his chest and holds her closely. In the entire month he’s been living here, he hasn’t thought too much about kids. Not in any real way…

Well, okay. Maybe he has, whenever he sees Mila caring for the children of the village for their mothers. Or when they run past him, laughing, playing imaginary games. He would smile, remembering how he and Sam used to drive their mom crazy tearing around the farm when they were little. 

In fact, the thought warms him now. Dean cradles the back of Mila’s head and runs his fingers through her hair. He imagines her holding a little boy who has her dark hair and eyes, and maybe Dean’s chin. He thinks she’d be a good mom.

I wish Mom could meet her, he thinks.

“Sweetheart, look at me,” he says. He pulls away so he can see Mila’s eyes again, honey-brown and shiny with tears. “I can’t go home. I’m already here.”

Mila can’t help but soften, her lower lip trembling. He caresses her cheek; a gentle thumb brushes away stray tears. 

“So it might get harder,” he says. “Maybe we are doomed to fail. Or just maybe, our kids are the ones who are gonna make the peace stick.” 

Mila’s fingers curl into his shirt. She holds onto him, and he can see that her reservations are finally breaking down. He squeezes her waist and earns her gaze on him. 

“All I know is, you’re my wife ‘til the day I die,” he says, more firmly. “I’m not going anywhere without you. You understand me?” 

Another watery path finds its way down Mila’s cheek, but she wipes it away. Her sweeter smile peaks through, along with the amused gleam in her eyes. 

“I understand,” she replies. Her voice is mostly steady; the small quake is no longer uncertainty, just heartfelt emotion. “You take your vows seriously.”

“That’s right,” Dean nods, his lips hinting at a smile. “And you promised me something too last night, remember?”

Her brows furrow as she considers the question. But then, it dawns on her. 

You will never be alone.

Her small smile returns, and she nods.

“Yes. I’m sorry…I should not let fear blind me to the truth.” She takes his hand from where it lies on her waist, and she guides it to rest over her heart. “You live here now, in my spirit.”

Dean has never heard the words I love you said quite like that before. It warms places inside him that he didn’t know were all that cold and dark. For her, he could try to put into words what that means to him, but words aren’t his strong suit. He’s never been that good at letter writing or giving speeches. That, he always left to Sam, or Benny. 

Above all, Dean is a man of action. 

He takes her face gently in his calloused hands, and he kisses her. He gives her everything in that all-consuming kiss, and he hopes she understands what he’s trying to say. 

I’m home.

AN: This might feel like the end, but we have two more parts left! As you can see, Dean's doing his best lol. Do you think he made the right choice with Otaktay? There might be more drama ahead, plus, a special guest finally joins the cast...

Next Time:

Her smile drops with a sharp inhale of breath. 

She hears hoof falls on the earth. A horse treads nearby. 

Slowly, she lowers the wet clothing back into the basin. She sees two reflections growing on the water: a horse and a man. The man gets down from his horse first. 

“Hey there, miss—”

Mila swiftly turns and unsheathes the knife she keeps strapped to her ankle. 

Pronunciation Guide:

Wašíču ("wash-ee-jew") Šóta ("sho-tah") Chatan ("chat-tan") Tahatan ("ta-hat-tann") Otaktay ("ogh-tac-tay") Weaya ("we-ayy-ya") Takoda ("ta-koda") Mato ("matt-toe") Misae ("mee-sah-eh")

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[cementcornfield]

Some of Tee and Ja'Marr's thoughts on the Tee Situation

Tee said to me 'right now I get to play with one of the, if not the, best quarterbacks in the game, I get to play with one of, if not the, best wide receivers in the game, that opens up so much more for me.' And then he said 'this offense is designed for so many different players to be spotlighted, the way that I am used in this offense so plays to my strengths.' And then he said to me, 'can you guarantee I can have that exact situation anywhere else?'

....

So do I think he's taking a home discount? No. But I do think that he is very very smart, he sees the whole picture out there...

....

It's very easy to compare this situation to what Ja'Marr had at LSU with Joe Burrow and Justin Jefferson. And Ja'Marr has said Tee is very different than Justin Jefferson. That every single minute with Justin Jefferson was a competition. That everything was who makes the more dynamic catch, who has more catches in practice, who runs faster? Everything was that way. Ja'Marr had to speak up and demand the ball a lot at LSU, because so was Justin. Ja'Marr told me that he doesn't have to do that in Cincinnati because Tee, and this is a quote from Ja'Marr, is one of the most unselfish humans you'll ever meet.

[albireon]

Pip joins the Panderverse!

[heartsofminds]

and the songbirds are singing like they know the score - sneak peek

"Because doing what’s best for her is hard, and he realizes that when he can feel his friend wanting to put him through a wall over the phone." or Jake calls the landline at 11 PM on a Thursday because his goddaughter is wasted and Bradley is less than thrilled.

A/N: in light of me finishing my second to last semester of undergrad and my undying love for Bradley's precocious daughter from the halloween fic, i thought i would post a little preview of what i'm working on for them! love these characters more than life and def so excited for y'all to get to know them better soon.

No one ever calls the landline. Very few people even have the phone number for the landline outside of Maverick and a few close family friends. Besides, anyone who would need to reach you had your cell phone numbers anyway. 

So who the actual fuck is calling your landline at 11 PM on a Thursday night? 

You hear Bradley yank the phone from its place on the wall and exhale with a huff. After sixteen years of being together, you know that huff is his tell of being annoyed. 

“Hello?” he gruffly answers. His irritation makes the questions sound more like a monotonous statement. 

“Bradshaw –” 

Jake Seresin is on the other end of the line. You can recognize his voice from the other room with his cadence even though you’re not the one on the phone with him. Having “mom ears” does that to a person, you suppose. 

“Why the fuck are you calling my house at 11 PM?” Bradley snaps. 

You’re wondering the same thing, but you’ll have to talk to him about being so rude and huffy. Jake may actually need something, after all. 

“Well you weren’t answering your fucking cell and neither was your wife so I had to do something.” 

Bradley rolls his eyes and looks back into the darkened living room. He’s been more on edge about you lately. 

“You can’t miss me that fucking much to be spamming my phone with calls,” he sighs and leans his back up agaisnt the wall. He notices the open blinds on the back door and starts to walk to close them before he’s yanked back by the phone cord. 

“Don’t cream your pants. I don’t like you that much.” 

Bradley lets out a soft snort in amusement before he remembers that he’s supposed to be annoyed. He opens his mouth to ask Jake what exactly it is that’s so damn important and can’t wait until tomorrow morning when he’s beaten to it. 

“I have Quincy here in the passenger seat and she’s beyond unwell.” 

The statement sends Bradley into panic mode instantly. His voice catches in his throat and he can’t recall a moment he’s had where he’s felt like he’s had to force the breath out of himself like this. 

He lets out something between a huff, a cough, and a wheeze before remembering he can’t make a huge show of himself right now because it’ll also throw you into panic mode. 

“What the fuck do you mean she’s not well? Jake, where the fuck are you?” he whispers into the phone, trying to cover his mouth as much as possible so you can’t even read his lips if you tried. “Is she okay? What’s –” 

It doesn’t take a genius to know that Bradley is panicking. Even Bradley’s beyond intoxicated and passed out seventeen-year-old daughter sitting in the passenger seat of Jake’s truck could piece together that her father is nothing but a raging ball of anxiety at the moment, and Jake is positive that his friend is growing another patch of gray hair as the seconds pass. 

“Oh. . . fuck, I guess I should’ve phrased that better,” Jake admits. His truck comes to a halt at a spotlight and he glances over at his goddaughter. “She’s fine. She’s definitely drunk as shit right now, but I’m on the way to drop her at yours.”

Bradley can feel the obnoxious orange ball of anxiety inside of him shift to a tumultuous rage induced scarlett. His hand tightens around the cord of the phone and he has to stop himself before he yanks it out of the wall. He’s gotten angry like this before, but it never was angled toward his daughter. 

Never toward his sweet, precious girl. Never toward his amazing Quincy. 

But she knows the rules (and she chose to break them) and she knows what was told to her (and she snuck out anyway) and she knows that it’s dangerous to be that drunk (but yet she’s passed out in Jake’s truck). 

And if that isn’t both nerve-wracking and frustrating, Bradley doesn’t know what is. 

“Put her on the phone,” he speaks lowly. 

Jake gulps, knowing that he’s in one of those moods. Bradley doesn’t express anger as often as he expresses annoyance, but an angry Bradley is never someone he wants to be around. And from the way that Quincy made it sound when she called him to come get her from some random party in the middle of nowhere thirty five minutes away from her house at 11 PM on a school night, he knows her ass is being had tomorrow morning by both you and Bradley. 

There’s absolutely no way his goddaughter is coming out of this unscathed. 

“Dude, she’s obliterated right now and I think you talking to her is just gonna make it worse.” 

“And I don’t give a fuck. I said, put her on the fucking phone now.” 

Jake shakes his head and rolls his eyes as Quincy begins to stir next to him in her seat. He’s always been the person she’s called whenever she was in trouble. He always got the first hug whenever she was brought around. He’s always been her source of comfort outside of her parents and he’s never minded it because being around her is easy. 

It was easy to carry her around whenever she asked when she was little. It was easy to give in and let her sit in the cockpit of his grounded aircraft with him and let her play with the buttons when her dad and Papa Mav refused. It was easy to pick her up from school mid-day and take her to lunch. It was easy to bring her back gifts from whenever he was deployed and even easier picking them out because she’s a sucker for meaningless trinkets. 

It was easy to be her godfather and she’s a smart and relatively easy kid, but Jake has never been prepared for this part. 

Because doing what’s best for her is hard, and he realizes that when he can feel his friend wanting to put him through a wall over the phone. 

“No,” he speaks and he can hear Bradley let out a small gasp at the denial of his request, “She fucked up bad, Bradley. I’m sure she knows and you can have it out with her tomorrow morning, but right now, she’s not in any place to be screamed at and made to feel worse. You’re her dad and m’not tryin’ to take that away from you –” 

Bradley scoffs, “What exactly do you fuckin’ know about raising kids, Jake? Huh?” 

Jake grimaces and decides to take the brute of Bradley’s anger. Better him than Quincy, he figures. Besides, he knows Bradley doesn’t mean any of it. . . At least he hopes he doesn’t. 

“You obviously can’t be a dad because you just wanna have fun and dick around all the fucking time. Buying them fuckin’ candy and letting them off scott-free doesn’t do shit. You don’t have what it takes to raise a fucking person.” 

Jake doesn’t know why, but part of him starts to get that prickly feeling in his chest. Usually, every insult rolls off his shoulders into oblivion and he gets off on making people angry and being able to put on the facade that he really couldn’t give a damn if he tried.

But this one hurts because he knows that Bradley is right in some regard. 

He’s a runner and he lets people down. He’s nearing fifty (and God, he never thought he ever would) and has never even bothered to settle down. And he’s made the peace with himself a long time ago that he doesn’t deserve a wife or a family or kids because he would never be able to love them more than he loves himself; more than he loves his career. 

To hear one of your closest friends admit that to you openly, to know that someone outside of you sees it too, makes his heart stop momentarily and forces him to feel the ache of the words meant to stab him in the chest. 

“I understand,” he swallows. He knows arguing with Bradley isn’t the right thing to do at the moment and never will be. “I’m still not putting her on the phone. We will be at your house shortly.” 

The line goes dead and Bradley is overcome with a wave of anger that drowns him like a tsunami. He knows what he said was shitty and that he has no right to do that to someone who he considers a close friend, but he just can’t help himself. 

He knows no allies when it comes to his daughter. 

[dungeons-and-dragon-age]

OKAY. MAN.

[firefl1ezz]

i just. hit s+ rank in splatoon and i never honestly thought this would happen?? am i cool now.. do i get to be a part of the s4? do i get to be watered down to my running joke all the time?

[my-thoughts-and-junk]

my 1 (one) stardew opinion is shane should not have won the bachelor poll

[sunnwalker]

Oghhhh Angel and Timothy's miserable awkward and just horrible dynamic (Thinking about it (I want Angel to rip into him I need her to be mad at him idc she deserves to bully him))