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wlw-imagines · 2 months ago

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Left Alone - Amelia Shepherd x Reader (Grey's Anatomy)

summary: You fall for Amelia slowly, the kind of quiet, tentative love that builds over night shifts and secrets. Amelia seems to fall too. But every time things start to deepen, she flinches. She pulls away. Changes the subject. Laughs it off. It’s subtle. It's forgivable. Until it isn’t.

Part of Mayloncholy 2025: Day Three, shattered trust of @may-lancholy

The on-call room is dim, the only light coming from the hallway outside. You’re both still in scrubs, shoes off. The room smells faintly of antiseptic and cheap coffee.

You’re curled on one end of the old vinyl couch, knees tucked up, a paper cup cradled between your palms. Amelia sits on the floor beside you, leaning back against the couch, her head tilted just enough to rest against your knee. Her eyes are closed, not quite asleep, but close, enjoying one of those fleeting moments where silence feels sacred.

You break it. Softly.

"We should talk."

"Hmm, we should sleep." She replied, voice slightly croaky.

You hum, “Do you always deflect like this?”

Amelia’s lips curl into a lazy smile without opening her eyes. “Do you always look that deep?”

You don’t answer. You sip your coffee instead and watch the way the shadows stretch across her jawline. There's a comfort in this, in her proximity, in her steady breathing, in the way she always knows how to fill silence without words.

She opens her eyes, looks up at you. “Rough case today.”

“Yeah.”

“You carried it well.” She sighs as she lifts her body up and sits back on the couch next to you.

“No,” you murmur. “I just didn't speak up about it.”

Amelia shifts slightly, her shoulder brushing yours. “Same thing sometimes.”

You let that sit. Your heart beats a little faster when her hand finds yours, unhurried and warm, fingers brushing like a secret. You don’t pull away.

She offers you the other half of her granola bar like it’s an act of intimacy. You take it.

She murmurs something into the quiet. You can’t hear it fully, just the shape of the words, like she’s confessing to the couch or maybe to herself.

“What was that?”

Amelia glances up, mischief flickering behind tired eyes. “Nothing. Just thinking.”

“About?”

“You.”

Your throat tightens a little. “You’re full of shit.”

“Maybe.” She grins. “But I bring good coffee.”

She nudges your cup. You look down. There’s already a new one on the floor beside her, hot, with just the right amount of creamer, the way you like it. You hadn’t even noticed her swap it out.

You look at her for a long moment. The way she always makes room for you without asking. The way she gives you small things. Whether that be silence, coffee, a glance that lingers a little too long. She gives you these things like they mean nothing. But you feel them. All of them.

You don’t say thank you. She wouldn’t want it.

Instead, you lean forward, press a quick kiss to her forehead. She doesn’t flinch.

“You’re staying tonight?”

She shrugs. “Depends. You gonna steal the blanket again?”

“Probably.”

Amelia smiles as she settles in, her head finding your shoulder like it’s always been there. “Then yeah. I’m staying.”

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

There’s a lull between cases. Long shifts blur into one another, but for once, there’s no siren-call in the middle of the night. No trauma waiting at the end of a phone line.

You and Amelia sit on the fire escape behind the hospital. It’s late, or it might be early, and the city glows with a quiet haze. Her jacket is too thin for the cold, but she doesn’t shiver. She never does.

You, on the other hand, are hugging your knees, her hoodie wrapped around your shoulders. She handed it over without a word when you stepped outside, even though you hadn’t said you were cold.

“I used to hide in places like this,” you say suddenly, the words tasting like memory. “When I was a kid. I liked the quiet. The space. The metal under my feet. I think I wanted somewhere that didn’t feel like anyone else’s.”

Amelia doesn’t interrupt. Just takes a slow drag from the thermos of tea balanced beside her leg.

You glance at her. “You’re doing that thing where you let me talk, but don’t say anything.”

She meets your eyes. “Would you rather I talk over you?”

“No.” You smile faintly. “Just wondering if you’re ever gonna share anything back.”

Her expression flickers, something small, something careful. Then it’s gone.

“I’ve left too many pieces of myself with people who didn’t deserve them,” she says, almost too quiet to hear.

You straighten a little, surprised.

“And you think I’m one of them?” you ask.

Amelia doesn’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, she leans forward and kisses you. Not rushed. Not performative. Just soft. Measured. Her hand finds yours like muscle memory, like she’s known you longer than either of you will admit. The kiss lingers, lips brushing yours as if trying to memorize them.

When she pulls back, her eyes stay closed for a second longer than necessary. Her breath warm against your cheek.

You wait. For something. An explanation. A follow-up.

Nothing comes.

You squeeze her hand gently. “You don’t have to be afraid of me.”

“I’m not,” she says, too quickly. Then quieter: “I’m afraid of what I’ll leave behind if I let myself be all in.”

You rest your head against her shoulder. “You don’t have to give me everything. Just... something real. Something yours.”

The metal beneath you groans as the wind picks up. Amelia turns her head slightly, brushing a kiss to your hair. She doesn’t say yes. But she doesn’t pull away.

And for now, that’s enough.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The call comes at 3:17 a.m. The kind of hour where the world feels paper-thin.

It’s a nurse’s voice, quiet and apologetic. A parent. A diagnosis. It doesn't look good. You would know, you're a doctor. The words don’t land right, they slide off your skin, leave bruises without breaking the surface.

You don’t remember hanging up. You don’t remember finding your coat. You just remember Amelia. The only place you want to go.

She’s waiting outside your apartment building, like she knew. Like some invisible thread tied the two of you together in a way neither of you fully understands.

You crumble in her arms. Right there on the sidewalk, in the yellow spill of a streetlamp. Her hands are steady, her voice low and soothing.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

That night, she holds you through the shaking. Through the silence. Through the sobs that come too late, after you’ve already said you’re fine.

She doesn’t ask questions. Just keeps brushing your hair back with fingers gentler than you deserve.

For a while, she stays. For a while, she’s everything. But then something shifts. She goes home.

The texts take longer to come. The calls go unanswered more often than not. She cancels a dinner with no real excuse. You shrug it off. Once. Twice.

Then she stops sleeping over. Says she needs space to clear her head. Says she’s tired. Says she’s working doubles.

You believe her at first.

But then it’s been a week. Then two. You knock on her door one night, soaked through with rain and heartache. Her lights are off. No answer.

You wait. On her stoop. For twenty minutes. Then an hour. She doesn’t come home.

When you show up to work the next day, Meredith meets you in the break room with a look that doesn’t quite know how to be gentle.

“She took some time off,” she says. “Didn’t say where.”

Your chest sinks. There was no warning. No goodbye. Just silence, all over again.

You nod like that’s fine. Like it doesn’t feel like your bones are coming unglued.

Later, alone in the locker room, you whisper it out loud. Just once. Just to the tile and the echo.

“She always leaves, doesn’t she?”

And it’s the worst one yet. Because this time, you really trusted her. This time, you believed in something.

And she still left.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The ache is quieter now.

No crying in the shower. No clutching your phone like a lifeline. Just… silence. Thick and suffocating.

Amelia’s apartment stays dark. The spare key she once slipped into your palm burns a hole in your pocket, untouched. You don’t go. You don’t call again. What’s the point?

The team doesn’t ask much. They give you space in the way people do when they don’t know how to help. You catch Meredith watching you sometimes, not at all judgmental, just worried. But she doesn’t press. You think maybe she knows more than she’s letting on.

And then one day, she comes back to you. “She took a little more time.” Meredith says, shoulder brushing yours as you stand at the Nurse's station.

You glance up from your case notes, slow and guarded. “What kind of time?”

She shrugs, apologetic. “Didn’t say where. Just… left.”

You nod, once, like it doesn’t matter. Like it isn’t your heart still parked in her driveway. Like your chest isn’t aching from the weight of things unsaid.

Back at home, you sit in the quiet. Her mug is still in your sink. Her sweater still hanging behind your door. You reach for your phone before you can stop yourself.

You scroll through the messages, both yours and hers. You reread the last one she sent, three weeks ago.

“Don’t worry about me. Just breathe.”

And then nothing. It’s not the first time someone’s left. But it feels like the cruelest. Because this time, she told you she loved you. This time, she kissed your forehead like a promise.

This time, you believed her.

You lie back on the couch, Amelia's hoodie on the side. You pull the zipper open, wriggle into it, let yourself take one deep breath.

You think about calling. About screaming into the voicemail, “You could’ve told me. You could’ve said goodbye.”

But instead, you whisper it to the ceiling. To the absence. To the space where she used to be.

“You didn’t lie to me. You just left.”

And somehow, that hurts more.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

It’s nearly midnight when you see her again.

The ER is mostly empty. A calm that normally sets you on edge, but not much is pushing through the barrier you've put up recently.

Then there’s movement. A presence.

You look up.

Amelia’s just standing there. Her hair’s longer. Her face thinner. Her eyes- God, her eyes.

You don’t speak.

“I didn’t know how to come back,” she says, voice hoarse.

“You didn’t,” you reply, flat. “You just left.”

Amelia’s lips part, but no excuse comes out. Good. You don’t want excuses. You want time reversed. You want the version of yourself that still had hope.

She steps forward, slow. Careful.

“I panicked,” she says, like it’s enough. “I thought if I stayed, I’d break something.”

You stand. The chair rolls back slightly behind you. “You did. And you weren’t even here to see it.” Your voice shakes at the end. You hate that it does. “I needed you,” you whisper.

Amelia nods, eyes glistening. “I needed me more.”

And that... that burns. That takes everything inside you and turns it to ash. Because it’s true, she should be allowed time. And yet it still feels like betrayal.

You cross your arms over your chest. “Then why did you say you loved me?”

She looks at you then, like she’s seeing you for the first time since she ran. “Because I did. I do.”

You nod. “You didn’t lie to me,” you say. “You just left.”

That silence again. The one that hums like grief. The one that used to be filled with sleepy murmurs and shared secrets and forehead kisses in the dark.

Now it’s just absence, again.

You grab your coat. She moves, like she might try to stop you. But she doesn’t.

You walk past her.

And you don’t look back. Someone else can cover the ER. Someone else can stand in that room with her and probably be kinder. Not you. Not right now.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

The stairwell is quiet. A nice place to be with your thoughts every now and then. You’re halfway down, heading out after a rough case. Just another day where you’ve kept your head down, heart on lockdown.

Then, her.

Amelia’s sitting on the steps like she belongs there. Same hoodie from months ago, sleeves chewed at the cuffs. She looks up when you freeze.

You don’t say anything at first. Neither does she.

Finally, “You look better,” you offer, soft. Not quite kind. Not quite cold.

Amelia shrugs. “I’m trying to stay.”

You nod slowly, keeping your distance. “Good.” A pause. A breath. “Just… maybe not here. Not right now. Not with me.”

There’s no bite to it. No anger. Just tiredness. Honesty. She nods back like she understands.

“I didn’t come to fix it,” she says. “I just didn’t want the last thing between us to be silence.”

You sit on the step above hers, a safe amount of space between you. “Then thanks for showing up.”

She lets out a shaky laugh. “Progress.”

You don’t say anything else. You sit together for a few more minutes in the hush of the space, nothing solved, but something seen.

Then, a few days later, there’s a knock at your door.

You open it slowly.

Amelia’s standing there, hands in the pockets of a soft green jacket, eyes searching.

“I’ve got therapy Tuesdays,” she says, voice even. “And Thursdays. I’m not here to fix everything overnight. I just… I want to try again.”

You cross your arms, but you don’t close the door.

“I’m not the same person you left,” you say. “One wrong step, and I’m gone.”

She nods. “Then I’ll walk careful.” She promises, “Just… don’t slam the door.”

You hold her gaze. And this time, it doesn’t hurt to look at her. Not as much. So you step aside.

Just a little.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

It’s late again. Amelia’s curled up on the far end of your couch, blanket draped across her lap, cradling a mug like it might tell her what to say.

You’re in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, watching her with the kind of carefulness usually reserved for breaking things or holding your breath.

Neither of you has said much since she showed up an hour ago with takeout and no expectations.

She doesn’t ask to stay.

You don’t ask her to leave.

It’s something.

“Did you always keep it this quiet?” she asks eventually, gesturing at the apartment, the air between you.

You shake your head, smile faintly. “It used to be louder. Music. Light. Noise helped. After you left… I think I just got used to the quiet.”

Amelia nods, eyes down. “I’m sorry.”

You walk over, sit on the other side of the couch. Close, but not touching. “You don’t have to say it every time.”

“But I mean it every time.”

You nod. It’s quiet again. But it’s not cold.

She glances over. “I missed this.”

You look at her. “We didn’t really have this.”

She meets your eyes. “Then let’s make it.”

It’s simple. Not a promise. Not a plea. Just… a start.

You reach for the blanket, pull it a little closer so your knees touch under it.

Amelia exhales, like she’d been waiting to breathe.

“I still sleep on the left side,” she murmurs. “I still drink my coffee black. I'm still-" She interrupts herself with a shrug, "I know that doesn’t mean anything, but—”

“It means something,” you say quietly.

She blinks.

You set your mug down. Look at her, really look. And your voice is softer than it’s been in months. “We’re not back where we were.”

“I know.”

“We might never be.”

“I know that, too.”

You pause. “But you’re here.”

“I’m here,” she says. And she says it like she means it.

And when her hand inches toward yours on the couch cushion, you let your pinky brush hers.

It’s not everything.

But it’s something.

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lvnchh · 7 months ago

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Burnt Edges

Ellie Williams x Fem reader (with PTSD)

I’m a minor and if you want to complain or insult me about it, just don’t interact. 🙏🏻 It’s my life, and I’m free to write whatever I want as long as I’m not bothering anyone. Also, please don’t judge any grammar mistakes, as English is not my native language. I’m sorry if the whole story isn’t that good.

TW: I have PTSD (DIAGNOSED), and what you’re about to read is based on my personal experiences. Writing about it is a form of therapy for me. If you are sensitive to topics like violence and domestic violence, please do not continue reading. Thank you 🙏🏻

Btw I need more Ellie x PTSD reader stories because I want to feel less alone and represented

story below the cut

The roof was quiet, save for the soft hum of the wind and the occasional creak of the old building beneath you. You leaned back, one hand braced against the rough shingles, the other holding a cigarette lazily between your fingers. Beside you, Ellie sat with her legs dangling off the edge, her posture loose but her expression as tightly locked as ever.

She was like that—a fortress of dry wit and cold deflection. It had taken you weeks to even crack the surface, and even now, the glimpses of vulnerability she let slip were fleeting. Still, you stayed, drawn to her in a way that felt both dangerous and grounding. She didn’t make you feel fragile. She made you feel alive.

“You shouldn’t be up here,” Ellie muttered, breaking the silence. She blew out a stream of smoke, the ember of her cigarette glowing faintly in the dim moonlight. “Roof’s unstable.”

You glanced at her, arching a brow. “What, you care now?”

She shot you a side-eye, lips twitching in the faintest hint of amusement. “Not really. Just don’t wanna scrape your ass off the ground if it collapses.”

“Touching,” you deadpanned, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. The wind carried it away almost instantly, as if even it didn’t want to linger too long.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The quiet between you wasn’t uncomfortable—it never was. Ellie had a way of making silence feel purposeful, like it was meant to be filled with thought instead of noise. You liked that about her, even if she was the most guarded person you’d ever met.

She broke the quiet again, her tone sharper this time. “You’ve been jumpy all day.”

You stiffened, the cigarette burning low between your fingers. “What makes you think that?”

“You twitched every time the generator kicked on. Thought you were about to bolt when Jesse slammed that door.” Her voice was cold, almost clinical, but you caught the undercurrent of concern buried in it. “What’s going on?”

You hesitated, staring down at the glowing tip of your cigarette. The memories clawed at the edges of your mind, threatening to drag you under. Your dad’s yelling, your mom’s pleading, the sharp crack of his fist against the wall—or worse, against her. It was all there, always there, no matter how far you ran or how many years passed.

Ellie didn’t press, but she didn’t look away, either. She had that kind of presence, the kind that made you feel seen even when you didn’t want to be.

“My dad,” you finally said, your voice quieter than you’d intended. “He was… violent. Toward my mom. Toward me, sometimes. I don’t know. Days like this, it just… sneaks up on me.”

Ellie’s jaw tightened, her eyes flicking toward the skyline. “Yeah. I get that.”

You glanced at her, surprised. She didn’t elaborate, but you could see it in the way her shoulders tensed, the way her lips pressed into a thin line. Whatever ghosts haunted her, they were just as heavy as yours. Maybe heavier.

She took a long drag of her cigarette, then said, “You ever wonder if this shit just… sticks to us? Like no matter how far we go, it’s always gonna be there. Screwing with us.”

You huffed a humorless laugh. “Every goddamn day.”

Ellie turned her head to look at you then, her green eyes catching the faint light of the moon. “You’re handling it better than most,” she said, her tone serious, almost begrudgingly respectful. “Better than me.”

You smirked, leaning back on your hands. “What can I say? My PTSD made me hotter.”

Ellie froze for a second, then snorted—actually snorted—before catching herself. She shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips despite her best efforts to suppress it. “You’re such a dumbass.”

“Maybe,” you said, shrugging. “But I made you laugh.”

“That wasn’t a laugh.” She exhaled sharply, flicking the ash off her cigarette. “It was a pity chuckle.”

“Sure,” you teased, grinning. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Ellie rolled her eyes, but the smile lingered, softening her edges just enough to make you feel like you’d won something. The two of you fell back into silence, the kind that felt warm despite the cool night air.

Maybe the scars would never go away. Maybe the memories would always be there, clawing at the edges of your mind. But sitting here, with Ellie by your side, the weight felt a little lighter. For now, that was enough.

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zepskies · 8 months ago

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The Honorable Choice - Part 3

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC

Summary: June 1872. Captain Dean Winchester of the U.S. Cavalry is tasked with one job: break a wild mustang. He just didn’t expect the woman who infiltrates his camp, intent on freeing her tribe’s horse.

AN: The last chapter! Hold on, it's about to get bumpy...

Disclaimer: I got inspired after a recent rewatch of Spirit: The Stallion of the Cimarron (literally a perfect movie), as well as having Yellowstone in the back of my brain. I’ve done extensive research for this one, both on the American Indian Lakota tribe, and on American history during this time in the late 1800s (AKA: the Old West, during the American Indian Wars and the Sioux Wars). Of course, one of my main goals is to avoid inaccuracies, both historical and cultural.

**Pronunciation guide at the end!

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: @jacklesversebingo Western AU

Song Inspo: The Spirit Soundtrack

Word Count: 5.7K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Protective Dean, survival situations, smut (mutual masturbation, fingering, and more), angst, and fluff.

🐎 Series Masterlist || Bingo Masterlist

🎙️ Listen to the podfic version here!

Part 3: Worthy

They travel together for two more days. Dean isn’t really a talkative man, but inevitably, he finds himself speaking to fill the comfortable stretches of quiet plodding across the grasslands.

He tells her about growing up on his family’s farm, where his father was firm but fair, and a larger-than-life presence when Sam and Dean were kids. His mother though, she was the only one who could ever go toe to toe with John Winchester and win.

“She tamed him,” Mila remarks with a smile. Dean’s lips quirk in response.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he chuckles, “but he knew he couldn’t pull a whole lot of shit with Mom. She’s a real pistol when she’s gotta be.”

Talking about them makes his heart heavy and sobers his mood, so he deflects with other stories, other chapters of his life.

He talks about going through basic training alongside Benny Lafitte. As privates, Dean pranked his friend by filling his lumpy old pillow with raw eggs and chicken feathers. In retaliation, Benny swapped Dean’s morning coffee with actual dirt and hot water. Their boyish games escalated until they were nearly kicked out of the military.

Dean managed to smooth things over though. He’s always had a way of charming people, even the gruff Sergeant Major, Bobby Singer.

Mila admits that she and her cousin Šóta used to sneak out of the village when they were younger. He taught her how to climb trees, how to fight and protect herself, and how to ride a horse astride, like a man. He was the only one who ever encouraged her to have the “free mind” her mother dreamed about.

The more she confides in him, her eyes sparking with life and her hands gesticulating along with her words, the more Dean listens.

On the third day, it’s nearing mid-afternoon when Dean slows Baby to a stop. After miles and miles of forest and grassland covered, they’ve finally approached a large, wide river. Mila stops beside him.

“My tribe lives beyond the river,” she says, “but the current is strong now.”

Dean looks over at her. A question he hasn’t wanted to ask crops back up. He feels that now is the time to voice it.

“Yeah, about that…I’m thinking your tribe doesn’t take very well to outsiders,” he says. “White men in particular.”

Mila presses her lips together. He can tell she’s been thinking the same thing, but she turns to him with a determined set to her features.

“I will protect you,” she says.

Dean frowns. He doesn’t like the sound of that. On one hand, it warms him that she seems to really mean it. On the other hand, he doesn’t want to know what it’ll take for her to protect him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks.

She turns her face away and doesn’t seem to want to answer at first.

“Mila…”

“The Chief is my uncle,” she says at last. “He will listen to me.”

Dean blinks. Well, that changes things…maybe.

He’s still not convinced, but at this point, he really doesn’t have many options. It’s either take his chances with her tribe, or become a vagabond. He’s not sure how long he could survive in the wilds of the West alone, especially while trying to dodge military patrols.

In the past three days, it’s taken Dean all that time to come to terms with a simple fact. He’ll likely never see his brother again, or his mother. It’s a pain that cuts into him deeply, down to his bones. It stings behind his eyes.

But if he only has two choices, then he at least wants to make sure Mila gets home safely…even if that means he won’t be.

He’s come this far. If his career is worth the price of what he feels is right, then his life is worth it too.

With that decision made, Dean expels a long, somewhat faltering breath. He locks away the rest of his uncertainty, his apprehension, and even his grief. He hides it deep inside, where she won’t see it.

“All right, the current doesn’t look too bad over here,” he says, pointing to farther north along the river. “The horses can make it.”

Mila nods in agreement. She still looks uneasy, though she tries to hide it too. She ventures ahead into the river. Dean follows close behind.

The water is shallow at first, but it all too quickly gets deeper. The horses plod over the river stones and vegetation under the surface, and the humans are led deeper, until they’re submerged into the water up to their waists.

It’s good that Mila rides that giant mustang; if she were on a mare, like Dean, she’d already be sunk up to her shoulders. Baby’s a big girl, to be sure, but Mila is nearly a foot shorter than him, with a smaller frame. He watches her carefully as she makes her way ahead of him.

That’s why he’s able to act fast when Mato slips, dunking Mila under the water. She gasps and tries to cling onto him, but the current is fierce. It pushes Mato down the river no matter how much he scrambles and kicks at the water, braying wildly in distress.

Shit! Dean tugs sharply at Baby’s reigns and strives to catch up to them. He grabs Mato’s reigns and pulls and pulls, until he and Baby are able to drag him to the other side of the river where he can get a foothold with his hooves.

Mila is starting to fall off his back. She struggles to cling on while the river pushes at her, with her wet hair falling in her eyes. Dean leans back as far as he can to try and pull her up.

“It’s okay, I’ve gotcha,” he calls out, even though his heart hammers with alarm.

She reaches out for his hand in turn. Just as his fingers begin to close over hers, a wave from the current crashes into her. A short scream tears from her throat after she loses her grip on Mato’s neck. Without her weight, he’s able to pull himself back up onto the bank along with Baby.

Damn it! Gut-wrenching alarm spears Dean into action. He leaps down from Baby and removes his gloves, his hat, and his uniform jacket, so he can dive into the water. Thank God he’s a strong swimmer.

Mila seems to be too. She carves through the water against the current the best she can and tries to keep her head above the waves, but Dean can see it’s a losing battle. He manages to grab hold of her arm, and then wraps an arm around her waist to keep her close. Both of them work together to try and cling to any passing rock or low-hanging vine as the current sweeps them out toward an ultimate end.

A waterfall.

Of course. Goddamn it. Dean doesn’t know how steep it is on the other side, and he doesn’t want to know. All he’s trying to do is keep himself and Mila above the water.

She hooks her hand around a sharp rock. It bites into her hand, making her cry out, but she clings to it for all she’s worth. She holds onto Dean just as tightly, even though the current wants to take him. She tries to pull him closer, close enough for him to get a hold on the rock as well.

This time, it’s Dean who loses his footing. The rocks slip beneath the soles of his feet when he attempts to gain some leverage.

A shout of surprise escapes from him when he fails, and it gets swallowed up by water rushing down his throat.

“Dean!” Mila yells, for the first time using his name. The last thing he registers is the fear in her eyes—afraid for him.

The river takes him over the edge of the abyss, and he falls.

He never expected that he would get to open his eyes again, let alone to the sight that greets him. Mila’s familiar face, framed by the dark, drying waves of her hair, is bright with firelight. It dances in orange-gold across her features. Her eyes are warm like rich molasses when she looks down and finds him awake.

She smiles in relief.

He realizes that he’s lying on soft grass with his head pillowed in her lap. She’s taken off his boots and half of his white undershirt; she tore one of his sleeves to wrap around a mercifully shallow gash in his shoulder.

The horses are drinking from the river nearby, with a pile of apples split between them. There’s a fish roasted over the fire, but all Dean cares about is the way her fingers are running through his hair. She sings a soft song under her breath while she passes her other hand over his injured arm without touching it.

He doesn’t understand the words, but he thinks she might be trying to heal him. He’s heard plenty of stories about the Sioux people, most he’s taken with a grain of salt. He does remember Cas saying that their healers are different from doctors.

Dean’s never given their hoodoo much thought, but right about now, he hopes it works.

“Mornin’,” he croaks.

Mila’s relieved face becomes touched with amusement.

“It’s night,” she says. “You slept for a long time.”

Dean wants to sit up and take an inventory of his injuries, but he can’t make his body move just yet. He’s too tired and bruised. He also likes being in her arms. He likes her fingers in his hair, now moving to his cheek. He sighs through his nose in contentment as her thumb drifts over his overgrown stubble.

“Thank you,” she says. Emotion is thick in her voice.

Dean meets her eyes again, and he smiles. He raises the back of his hand to touch her smooth cheek, gently. He lets his fingers glide across her tan skin, down the column of her neck. Her breath hitches.

She takes his calloused hand in her slender one. Her long hair falls like a curtain over her shoulder, almost like it’s shielding them from whatever is left to come for them beyond the forest. Dean wraps an ebony strand around his finger, just to feel it fall loosely again.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” he says.

Mila graces him with another smile from her lips. He wants to know what they taste like.

“I guess you are pretty, for a White Man,” she says teasingly.

Her fingers trace his brow, his jawline, even the tip of his chin. She seems to be avoiding his plush mouth, even though her gaze keeps dropping there. Dean pretends to frown.

“Sweetheart, that’s not the way you talk about a man,” he says.

Her brows raise. “No?”

“Handsome. Strong. Toothsome, if you will,” he says, enjoying the way she begins to blush. “That’s what you wanna call a man.”

“Toothsome. I don’t know this word,” she admits. “Am I supposed to eat you?”

Dean resists the urge to say the first incorrigible thing that pops into his head. Instead, his body shakes with laughter.

It’s difficult at first, all his muscles pulling at him in protest, but he raises himself into a sitting position. He cups Mila’s cheek, dragging his thumb across her lower lip. Her lashes are dark and long. They move when she looks up at him. He knows the look in her eyes, wanting, desiring, but also unsure of what she should allow him.

Dean leans in slowly, giving her time to decide.

She tilts her face up to his. He noses at her cheek, his eyes falling closed along with hers.

He finds her lips with his own on instinct and feeling alone. Soft and tender movements, testing, asking.

She answers him. Her fingers tangle in the front of his tattered shirt as her lips begin to move against his. Dean wraps an arm around her waist and gathers her against his chest. His other hand glides down her arm, down her side and along every soft curve. Her clothes are still damp, and so are his.

“It’ll be faster to dry our clothes if we’re not wearing ‘em,” Dean rumbles. His voice is deep with desire. He presses kisses along the side of her jaw, behind her ear, down her neck and shoulder. He earns her pleased hum, her heavier breaths, and her fingers once again in his hair.

“I can’t,” she gasps. She says something in her native tongue, too fast for Dean to even register. He slows down so he can meet her eyes.

“What was that?” he asks. Her face falls, and she starts to trip over her words.

“I am not…how you say, married. I have to be…”

Dean smiles ruefully, sliding a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Chaste?” he offers. She nods, her brows furrowed. Her grip on his shirt tightens.

“Yes,” she says. “In the eyes of my people, it is…”

“I get it,” Dean says. When she still seems conflicted, he presses a kiss to her forehead.

“Really, I understand,” he says.

His problem is that he stares into her eyes too long, and at her kiss-swollen lips. He dives back in for another taste.

This time, he’s a little less gentlemanly than he promised. His tongue sweeps along her lower lip, begging entrance. She makes a sound of surprise, but she opens up to him. Her gentle hands slide up his chest to hold his face, and her thumbs stroke his cheeks. He holds one of her wrists to keep her there as his tongue dances with hers. She tastes like the river, and like salty tears.

Had she cried for him? How long did she sit with his body, waiting to see if he would wake up?

Despite those worrying thoughts, Dean knows this feels right. More right than he’s ever felt.

It’s harder than he might’ve imagined, but he still pulls away, before he won’t be able to stop himself. Mila pants for breath. She seems to feel she should let him go, but also doesn’t show any sign of wanting to. Smiling, Dean caresses her cheek one more time before he turns to the fish she roasted.

“This looks good,” he says, clearing his throat. “What kinda fish is this?”

With a sigh, she attempts to steady herself and moves to join him by the fire.

That night, Mila dreams.

She dreams of wings, white and beautiful. She hears the cry of an eagle before she sees his great wingspan take off in flight. He soon finds his mate, and they dance together in the sky.

When she wakes, the fire has gone out and it’s still dark in the night. It takes her a moment to realize that she’s safe. Finally safe.

And she’s lying securely in Dean’s arms.

She’s no longer conflicted when she stares up at his face.

She will bring him home to her tribe, and she will explain. If they still don’t welcome him, then she prays for the strength to keep to her honor. Because now, she begins to realize…

Her heart has already chosen.

“Kimmímila, what have you done?” her uncle asks in the language of their people.

He is Tahatan, Chief of their tribe.

Mila’s father, Chatan, and her cousin Šóta have tied Dean Winchester to a post in the center of the Chief’s large tipi. Dean kneels with his head bowed in respect, even though he keeps sneaking looks at Mila to try and gauge what’s happening. He doesn’t understand a word of any of it.

“You’ve brought this outsider into our village, this White Man!” Tahatan shouts, his voice deep and resounding.

Mila steps forward, despite her mother’s embarrassment and her father trying to grab her shoulder. For the second time in her life, she defies her father for what she believes is right. The first was to rescue a member of their tribe—because even a horse’s spirit should not be broken by greed.

“Uncle, I’ve told you the story, though you don’t want to believe it,” she says. “Dean Winchester saved me when he could have killed me, or worse. He defied his own people. He is dead to his own people, for me, and because of me. You may think they lack all honor, but this man is different.”

She looks over at Dean, and he meets her gaze. He wears an anxious frown as he looks between her and the chief, but she has a feeling that his fear is for her, not for himself.

She kneels beside him, then looks up at her uncle with all the stubbornness she’s ever possessed in her life. She feels it’s led her to exactly this moment.

“And we are one,” she says. Nerves trill up her spine as she says it. She predicts the way shock falls over the room. The way her father curses out loud, angry. The way her mother covers her mouth in dismay. The way the Chief takes a step back, tilting his head at his niece.

“You would take it that far?” he asks.

Her face doesn’t change. “It’s already done.”

Tahatan is beside himself, both angry and perplexed. He goes back to his chair of wicker and wood that lies centered in the room. He drops heavily into it. After a long while, in which he thinks in silence…he releases a heavy sigh. He gestures for his brother and his son to untie Dean. The men do so, but they don’t let him go free. They force him to stand and bring him forward to kneel again before the Chief.

“Dean Winchester,” Tahatan says.

“Yes, sir,” Dean replies.

“You prove yourself to be a man with honor,” he says in English. “Kimmímila has chosen you. She claims you have chosen her in return. Do you deny this?”

Dean glances over at her. She bites the inside of her lip, a bit worried about how he’ll react. She’s not sure he completely understands what Tahatan is telling him, but he nods, regardless.

“No, sir. I don’t deny it,” Dean says.

“Then, you will be allowed to stay, and live among us,” Tahatan declares. "We will see for ourselves what you are. We will see if you are worthy."

Dean gives a nod, crossed with a bow of some kind. He obviously isn’t sure of what he’s supposed to do, but he does say thank you. Mila wraps her hands around his uninjured arm and helps him to his feet. She smiles at him to let him know that the worst is over. He blows out a breath in relief.

“Is that it?” he whispers. He expected more of a thrashing, if he’s honest.

“Almost,” she replies. The two of them stop short before her father, Chatan.

Dean straightens up and holds out his hand. “Sir.”

Chatan glances down at the white hand extended toward him. His gaze raises back up to Dean.

He grunts in acknowledgement, but he turns on his heels and storms out of the tipi. Her mother comes forward next. She examines Dean from all angles. She takes his face in her hand, somewhat squishing his cheeks, so she can look deeply into his startled eyes.

She seems satisfied by what she finds, and she lets him go. Afterward, she takes Mila’s hand and heaves a deep sigh.

She kisses her daughter’s hand and says nothing else, leaving them to find her husband and calm him down.

Dean turns to Mila with a look that says, please tell me that’s it.

She smiles more genuinely.

“Come,” she says.

She leads him by the hand out of the Chief’s tipi and through the village. Dean takes in the rows of other tall, cone-like structures covered in buffalo skin, as well as all the faces that turn to stare at him in a mix of curiosity, wariness, and even fear. Some of them whisper to each other, taking their children by the hand and keeping them close.

Dean’s still on guard himself, even when Mila takes him to a smaller tipi. It’s been closed up for a while now, by the look of it. Weeds have grown right outside the entrance.

“This one’s yours?” Dean asks.

She pauses, giving him another small smile. “Ours.”

Dean raises a brow. Ours. Really?

She opens the flap in the front and beckons him inside. There’s still enough daylight to shine through the outer lining. Inside, his gaze flits over the old pile of stones in the center for heating, clothes folded in the corner, some cooking pots and utensils, paintings on wood and clay, and a couple of beaded decorations. Buffalo skin bedding is laid out on the other side with a couple of soft looking furs.

Son of a gun. Dean doesn’t even blink as he processes it all. He’s in a damn tipi. This is really about to become his life.

Shaking his head a little, he forces himself to focus on Mila. She’s his anchor, and she seems to sense that he’s reeling. She guides him to sit beside her on the bedding, holding his hands in hers. After a moment, he reaches up to tuck a curling strand of hair behind her ear.

“You didn’t get in too much trouble because of me, did you?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “No. My father and uncle are very similar. Strong to anger, but it is quick to run out. At least with me.”

Dean thinks he understands. Short fuse, quick fizzle.

“There is just…one thing,” Mila says. Her eyes fall away from his, like she’s embarrassed. He squeezes her hands.

“What?” he asks, his brows furrowing. It gets her to look at him again, but she seems worried to tell him.

“To convince my uncle to let you stay, I told them that we…” she trails, trying to find the right words in English. “That we are married.”

Dean’s brows raise high. His heart trips up faster. Okay, “ours” makes a lot more sense now.

“I am sorry,” she says quietly. “I didn’t want you hurt—”

“Sweetheart,” Dean says, cupping her cheek. Even with the hammering of his heart, he grins. “I’m pretty sure that’s where this was going anyway.”

In fact, this is a best-case scenario, as far as he’s concerned. He leans in to kiss her, and it doesn’t take long at all for her to sigh in relief, melting against him.

“We’re married, huh?” he asks. “No ceremony? No white dress?”

“We are bonded,” she replies, nodding as she meets every one of his kisses. “Or, we will be.”

She tugs him closer and revels in the feeling of his hands beginning to roam her body, sliding down her waist, her hips and thighs.

“Guess that means we have to seal the deal,” he grins. His lips drift away from hers to burn a familiar path across her cheek. He takes to nibbling her ear, making her flinch and laugh as it tickles.

“Seal-the-deal. What does that mean?” she asks.

Dean chuckles lowly in her ear. “Oh, I think you know.”

He guides her onto her back, over the comfortable mess of furs. He wants to take his time exploring every inch of soft, tan skin, but he first sweeps her hair away from her eyes, the back of his hand brushing against her cheek. She smiles up at him softly.

“Do you regret?” she whispers, reaching up to touch his chin with two slender fingers. “Do you regret helping me?”

Dean considers her question. He knows he’ll carry his family in his heart until the day he dies. His brother, his mother, the memory of his father. Benny and Cas, even Jack, and so many others.

It’s already a heavy burden, but he had always been prepared to lose his life on the battlefield, in service of his country. At least this way, he gains a new life.

“No. Never did,” Dean replies. “Not even once.”

He bows his head toward hers, and he proves it to her. His lips capture hers, fueled by passion and wanting. Mila’s hands slide over his shoulders and down his back. Maybe without her realizing it, she implores him to let go of the weight heaped on his shoulders.

When he begins to bunch up the hem of her dress, she sits up to help guide his hands. Her quickening breaths mesh with his as the first layer of clothing drops beside the bedding. His tattered shirt joins her dress, along with pants and shoes and boots, until all that’s left is skin against warm, bare skin. He lays on his side right beside her and explores wherever she lets him begin.

“Beautiful,” Dean murmurs, as his lips follow the column of her neck, down between her breasts. Her breaths rise to meet him, especially when he begins to toy with a dark, pebbled nipple. Her fingers slip through his hair, and his name falls from her lips. He palms one breast while kissing and gently teasing the other, exploring sensitive flesh and grazing her sensitive fleshwith his teeth.

“No man’s ever touched you?” he asks, despite knowing the answer.

She shakes her head, her fingers gripping his hair tighter as his lips and tongue move against her skin.

“No,” Mila gasps a reply. Her hand slides down the back of his neck, and the more he teases her, her nails soon create faint red lines down his back, her thighs squeezing together. She feels a throbbing ache at the very center of her. Despite her inexperience with men, she knows what it means, and she knows what she wants.

Dean’s mouth drags away from her breast. He pulls back so he can meet her eyes. A smile curves his lips, and he takes one of her hands from his shoulders.

“Have you ever touched yourself?” he asks. He guides her hand down her body, brushing over a wet, sensitive nipple, down her stomach, and between her legs. This time, Mila nods in answer. She stares up at Dean with eyes like molten honey. He leans in to kiss her neck.

“Show me,” he says.

She shudders at the depths in his voice. It increases the flood of wetness she already feels, even before she slips two fingers between the folds of her sex. She gathers some of that slick and circles it over the source of her pleasure, the small nub above her entrance.

Dean takes his hardened length in his hand. While she writhes by her own hand, he drinks her in with his eyes. A soft groan falls from his lips as he pumps himself a few times, sliding a thumb across the weeping head of his cock.

He can’t be a spectator for long though. He nips tantalizingly at her neck, creating a zing of added sensation across her skin. She whimpers, though she tries to stifle it, her knee bending further.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Dean says. “Let me hear you.”

He releases himself and replaces her hand with his own. He slips two long fingers inside her drenched entrance, earning a gasping moan from her. She latches onto his shoulders and buries her face into his neck. She whispers fervent things he doesn’t understand, but it only spurs him on.

His thumb circles insistently over her clit as his fingers pulse inside her. Her hips buck a needy rhythm against his hand, until her thighs begin to shake, and her inner walls squeeze even tighter around his fingers.

“Shit, that’s it, baby,” he pants gruffly against her cheek. “Let go for me.”

Warmth snaps and floods from her throbbing core, and she cries out near his ear, her nails biting into his skin. Her release coats his fingers.

Mila drops her head back against the furs underneath her. Her chest rises and falls quickly while she tries to catch her breath, her eyes tightly shut. Dean surprises her with a soft kiss.

“Mila,” he prods. He wants to see her eyes again, so pretty and wanton when she comes. He veers away from her lips to kiss her cheek, and then the other side of her neck. “Let me see you, sweetheart.”

She huffs a small laugh. Opening her eyes, she gestures to her bare body. “This is not enough?”

Dean’s lips tug at a smile. He shakes his head. “As a matter of fact, no.”

He shifts over her, finding his place between the cradle of her thighs. His elbows come to rest on either side of her head. She feels trapped by his body, even as she welcomes his weight and the feeling of his arousal, long and heavy and hard, trapped between their bodies. This man fills every corner of her world in this moment.

“If I’m your husband now, that means I get all of you,” he says with a grin. She gazes up at him, both in blushing amusement and affection.

“All of me,” Mila repeats. She takes his face in her hands and brings him closer, until her lips are a whisper from his. “Then I want all of you.”

Dean chuckles. “You sure about that?”

She smiles in satisfaction, and her lips claim him this time. One kiss turns into many, each one mounting in passion and desire. Dean groans into her when she begins to touch him. Her hands are soft, but direct in their seeking; they caress his shoulders, run down his chest and stomach, and then, more tentatively explore the now painfully hard length of him pressing against her.

He makes a grateful sound of pleasure when her hand wraps around his cock, squeezing gently. His fingers bury themselves in her hair.

“I want all of you,” she says, this time a plea and a demand all at once as she strokes him.

Dean nods in agreement. He’s come this far. He can do that for her too.

He spreads her thighs a bit wider and encourages her to adjust the angle of her hips for him. His hand glides down her plush thigh and gets a healthy grip. Then he slides his hand under hers and guides his cock through her folds, first just holding himself at her warm, wet entrance.

He manages to wait for a second, in order to meet her gaze. She’s already holding onto his arms tightly, like he’s become her anchor. Her thighs wrap around his hips and beckon him closer.

Slowly, he pushes inside. He takes care in how he works her open. She winces at the sting of his girth stretching her, but his fingers once again massage her clit, stroking her arousal back into a keening flame. He swallows her gasps and moans as he bottoms out inside her, fully sheathed. Tears prick at her eyes, but not from pain.

Mila’s dream flashes like a waking vision behind her eyes. Wings take flight, along with the gleam of a golden beak and a sharp eye.

She blinks, and the image disappears. She’s left with the man who has become hers, making love to her with every stroke of him deep inside her. She presses grateful kisses across his neck and shoulder, wherever she can reach while she clings to his strong arms.

The thick head of him brushes a sensitive place over and over, one that tightens the coil in her lower belly and makes her core tremble again with warmth, until her body convulses against him, pulsing in pleasure, gripping him tight from the inside. Mila’s fingers clench in his hair just as tightly as her release hits her in a powerful wave; even her voice becomes lost to it.

Gritting his teeth, Dean grips the soft flesh of her hip and chases his own end. The way her inner walls choke his cock, he has no choice but to come hot inside her, his spend mixing with her own release. A strangled shout tears from his throat.

He has to brace himself before he crushes her. With his forearms resting on either side of her head, he lowers his forehead against hers. Her legs slip from where they’ve been tightly molded to his hips, her feet meeting the floor. Eventually he slips out of her. He watches his seed drip out and create a mess on the dark furs. The sight of it satisfies something primal deep inside him.

Later he’ll ask her about washing up (and about supper), but for now, he just turns onto his back beside her. She inches toward him, and he raises an arm so she can splay out against his side. They both lay there for a moment in the quiet, just catching their breath together. It marks the end of a long journey, and yet, the start of one too.

Mila turns to raise onto her elbow. She reaches over to wipe the sweat from his brow in a tender touch. Dean smiles up at her. He takes her hand and presses a kiss into her palm.

“I could get used to this,” he says.

Her eyes widen in surprise, but then she laughs softly. “Yes.”

Her hand moves down to his chest, over his heart. She sobers as she considers her people, and how much trust has yet to be bridged—not only her own father and uncle, but the entire tribe. When she led him through the village, they called him wašíču.

Fat-taker. Greedy White. Not one of us.

“It will be hard for you here,” Mila says. She worries it will be too hard for Dean.

He just squeezes her hand, earning her attention through tumultuous thoughts.

“I’m not afraid of a little hard work,” Dean replies. His usual confident charm is infused in his smile, but she has a feeling he’s just trying to reassure her.

Sensing she’s not convinced, Dean reaches up to hold her cheek, guiding her to look at him and not the floor.

“Listen. I made my choice, and I’m sticking it out, come hell or high water,” he says.

Mila’s brows knit together. “Hell-or-high… What does that mean?”

Dean sits up on his elbow along with her. He takes her chin between his fingers and meets her gaze.

“It means if you want me, you’ve got me. The rest, we’ll figure out as we go along,” he says.

A smile slowly lightens Mila’s face. She tilts her chin up to meet him with a kiss.

“I will be with you,” she says. It’s a promise.

Dean smiles back.

“Good,” he says. “Because that’s just about all I need.”

AN: There we have it, friends. 💜 I really, truly hope you enjoyed this mini series! To be honest, I have more ideas for this little world (like how Dean might try to assimilate into this culture), but I'll leave it to you guys to let me know if that's something you'd be interested in reading.

Until then, I would love to know what you thought of this chapter!

Pronunciation Guide:

Šóta ("sho-tah") Chatan ("chat-tan") Tahatan ("ta-hat-tann") Wašíču ("wash-ee-jew")

Read the Sequel:

Dive into more Cowboy Dean with the sequel of this story, Outlander:

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?

▶️ Keep Reading: OUTLANDER (PART 1)

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inmyheaddd · 11 months ago

Text

golden - jameson hawthorne’s birthday

a/n: two posts in one day because it’s our husbands bday!!! lots of averyjameson just for u liv 🙈 wc: 1.3k taglist: @heartwithsimplenotes @thecircularlibrary @x-liv25-jamieswife @whatsamongus

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this year was jameson’s golden birthday, turning 22 years old on the 22nd of august.

avery wasn’t even sure if he even knew what a golden birthday was, but she decorated accordingly to it nonetheless.

for him, another birthday was a subtle reminder that nothing was permanent, and everything changes, no matter how much you don’t want it to.

knowing this, his only plan for the next day as he went to sleep was to spend as much time with the people he truly loved. not some big event with hundreds of people coming, mostly just because of the hawthorne last name attached, like he had done years before.

“jameson, wake up.” avery smiled as she nudged his shoulder, sitting on the edge of the bed. she had been up for 3 hours now, preparing everything.

he didn’t wake up, so she resulted to peppering kisses on his face.

as his eyelids fluttered open, avery pulled back and her smile grew.

jameson’s brows furrowed momentarily as he sat up, leaning against the headboard and stretching.

he looked around the room, seeing golden glitter roses, balloons, and other decorations all around the room. his eyes found their way back to avery, who had a gentle smile on her face.

“good morning, birthday boy.” avery whispered, and jameson leaned in to kiss her.

as he pulled back, he couldn’t help but be mesmerized by the way their room looked.“heiress, how— why did you do all this?”

she let out a small chuckle, “why wouldn’t i?”

jameson had a million thoughts swarming though his head, half of them on how much he loved avery, the other half on how much he didn’t deserve her.

he deflected his inner thoughts by leaning in so that his lips barely grazed avery’s, “well, do i get a birthday present?”

“oh, you have no idea,” there was a hint of playfulness in her voice, she lingered for a moment, but then she pulled back, standing up and holding her hand out for jameson.

“what? let’s go.” she said in a fake cheery voice, trying to not laugh at the way jameson’s jaw was slack.

his lips turned up in amusement, before taking ahold of her hand with a sigh and letting her lead the way.

his eyes were wide as he took in the whole place. she decorated the whole house, flower trails, food, she had even made a riddle game for him to solve.

he quite literally stopped in his tracks, “heiress.”

her head turned, “yeah?”

he took a step forward, “do you know how inlove with you i am?”

avery smiled, her head slightly tilting to the side as she hummed for a second, “hm, i have a pretty good idea.”

they spent hours together, but it felt like mere minutes.

jameson was now on top of avery, pressing lights kisses to her neck that left her laughing and squirming underneath him. her phone went off, again, and again, until it finally registered in her mind.

“oh shit, it’s 4:30. we have to go!” she got up from the couch, then started scrambling for something in the drawers.

jameson got up behind her quickly, “what’s going on?” he asked curiously, slightly breathless.

after repeated mumbles of “where is it” and other swears, avery pulled a blindfold out. “here, wear this.”

jameson grinned at her and chuckled, “isn’t this bedroom use only?”

avery rolled her eyes jokingly, before reaching up to tie it on him herself.

“bossy, i like it.” he muttered, and when avery hit his shoulder in response, his grin only widened.

“and here i thought getting older meant becoming more mature.” she murmured, slightly thankful jameson couldn’t see the flush on her face.

somehow, he seemed to know anyway based on the way his tongue poked the inside of his cheek.

“come on, let’s go.” avery dragged him outside to the car.

5 minutes into the drive, jameson recognized the routes they were taking.

“we’re going to the House.” he didn’t phrase it as a question.

“yes, we are.” avery hadn’t expected otherwise, “just wait and see. patience is a virtue, jameson.” she remarked sarcastically.

“well, the thing is, avery. i can’t wait and see, can i? because my vision is currently obstructed by—“

“ugh, you’re impossible,” avery groaned, as she hit his shoulder once again. his nerves lit on fire as he felt her hand settle on his leg, a smile finding his face.

there were lights all around the exterior of the hawthorne house, some rainbow, some white, some golden, and balloons everywhere. there was even a car out front with a large bow on it.

the second avery and jameson came through the door, there was a chorus of “happy birthday!”s.

jameson laughed out loud as he took off his blindfold.

nash was holding his twins, cheering, and xander popped a party popper. max was there too, and she blew one of the party whistles with libby. avery moved to stand with them, clapping and cheering along with everyone with a smile never leaving her face.

grayson walked up to him, placing a hand on his shoulder, “happy birthday jameson.” there was a faint echo of the little kids they once were; grayson solemnly congratulating jameson, silently wishing him good luck before he met with their grandfather for his next project, and knowing he was next.

jameson pulled him into a side hug, patting his back hard twice, “thankyou, gray.” they would never be those kids again, and jameson wasn’t sure too if he was happy or sad about that.

3 hours later, too many drinks to count, and one very interesting group karaoke of taylor swifts “22” later, everyone had decided it was time to cut the cake.

“you see, we’re the same age now, so i don’t have to listen to you anymore.” jameson yelled atop the music that was still blasting,

“jameson, i’m still older than you.” grayson’s voice was more leveled.

“you’re 22, i’m 22. we’re equals, gray.”

“i turn 23 in 4 hours.” he deadpanned.

“are you 23 though?” jameson questioned as he poked at his shoulder.

xander was watching the interaction between them, surprisingly, silently, placing another snack in his mouth.

“jameson. i’m telling you again, go and cut your birthday cake, and put the glass down. people are waiting.” grayson took a step away from jameson’s

he couldn’t help but mess with his older brother longer. he wouldn’t take this singular day where they were the same age for granted, he never did.

hes done this every single year, ever since he could remember.

“everyone’s having fun!. i know you’re dying for the cake, but be patient, grayson, you’ll get your owncake soon enough. don’t worry!” grayson rose an eyebrow, and jameson continued.

“i respect my elders, but you, my dear brother,” he pointed at grayson, “are not my elder. besides, you haven’t said please yet.” he said as took another sip of his champagne.

grayson took a deep inhale, pinching his nose bridge.

before he had the chance to speak again, avery approached and jameson’s attention clearly diverted as she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“the twins want to try the cake, and nash just found the camera we were looking for! let’s go and cut it now, yeah?”

“oh, of course, heiress. let’s go.” he smiled down at her and took her hand.

grayson stood there silently, almost in disbelief, and xander snorted.

avery’s brows furrowed as she looked between the three of them, jameson simply shrugged. “i don’t know what their problem is.”

as they walked off, jameson turned around briefly to shoot grayson a grin.

by the end of the night, they’d taken around 70 polaroids, used 4 different digital cameras, and xander tried (and failed) to use grayson’s camera.

jameson and avery were back home, curled up in bed. he kissed her forehead softly as she snuggled closer. “thankyou you for today,” he whispered.

“you don’t have to thank me.”

“i do, though. i think…” he trailed off, trying to find the right words “maybe without realizing, all the birthday wishes i had made before were all about you.” he paused, “they all led me to you.”

avery lifted her head to meet his eyes with a light laugh, “i never took you as the sappy type, but i kind of like it on you.”

jameson chuckled and turned his head to the side before turning back to her, “it’s a special occasion, don’t get used to it.”

she let out a giggle before pressing a kiss to his lips, “happy birthday, jameson.”

jameson smiled, his arm wrapped around avery’s waist as he pulled her closer. “with you here, it truly is,” he murmured.

#jameson hawthorne #averyjameson #the inheritance games #the grandest game #grayson hawthorne #xander hawthorne #nash hawthorne #tig #tgg #avery kylie grambs #avery x jameson #tig headcanons #hawthorne brothers #❦ jude writes

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watermelonlicker · 2 months ago

Note

I fear I can’t save us from whatever performance art piece we’re currently living through, but I can offer my thoughts, mostly so I don’t ascend into space

To be honest, I don’t think there’s one clean-cut reason behind this mess. It’s giving “chaotic neutral PR maneuver with bonus existential dread.” That said, before anything. I do think Harry being everywhere all the time like Where’s Waldo is not a coincidence. It’s intentional. It’s noise. It’s distraction. It’s the age-old “if you flood the feed, they won’t ask questions” tactic. Counterintuitive? Yes. Effective? Unfortunately, also yes.

I think this might be about controlling the narrative—or what’s left of it after the industry dragged it through a hedge backwards—but the real motivation feels like privacy. Not promotion. Especially not for Louis. Mcdumbbitchlinson doesn’t boost him—it buries him. Again. And still, I believe he’s protecting himself and Harry. This isn’t either of their faults. They are still just trying to survive this horrible shit they’ve been put through.

We don’t know the full story behind the curtain, and I won’t pretend to—but when something looks this confusing, it usually means it wasn’t made for clarity. It was made for cover. For safety. That said, this could be the end of bbg. It could even be a step toward coming out. But if it is? It won’t be clean. There will be no neat rainbow-washed Netflix doc. No glossy statement with a pastel background. It’ll be raw. It’ll be complicated. And that’s devastating—because Louis being open? That would be so beautiful. Reclaiming who he is, in his own words, in his own time? He deserves that and more.

But explaining 14+ years of deflection, forced denial, and weaponized silence to an audience full of people who think they own you? That’s no small task. And sadly, some people will react like he’s the one who lied to them—when in reality, he’s just been surviving a rigged game.

Closeting doesn’t always end in empowerment. Sometimes it just…ends. It’s unethical. It’s exhausting. And honestly? I think the closet has done more damage to his career than being openly queer ever would—especially with a fanbase that’s so deeply queer themselves. But that’s the catch, right? I think they know that. And I think they dangle it over him like a threat. “Come out, and we ruin you. Stay closeted, and we’ll ruin you anyway.”

I don’t think this is mutually beneficial—not publicly, anyway. Maybe it serves a purpose privately, maybe it’s a chess move we don’t understand yet. But to us? It’s just another ugly, unnecessary spectacle. Another stunt where Louis is the one taking the hit. Again.

All I can do is hope he keeps fighting. Keeps loving. Keeps sharing pieces of himself in the ways he chooses. He deserves everything good. Every ounce of peace and joy and safety. He deserves a world that doesn’t twist him into knots just to market someone else.

Because no matter how hard they try to rewrite the narrative—Louis Tomlinson is the headline.

Faith in the future. Always.

thank you long form anon i needed this.

#mail #this shit is so depressing #closeting

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maxdibert · 8 months ago

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That essay reads like an AI which never read the books wrote it.

Going off on fans of the marauders, whilst only mentioning two of them, is poor effort. Don't forget Remus' lack of intervention (I guess we can't talk about Peter since he joined your favourite boy's racism corps).

So if I accept the marauders are flawed (they are: James was a bullying c-nt, Remus was a coward, Sirius was an elitist bully and Peter was also spineless) do I have your permission to say that Snape was canonically a child abuser, a racist and a bully?

Look, no one is saying Snape was a saint. But this isn’t about justifying his adult behavior—it’s about the way the Marauders treated him at school. Using Snape’s actions as an adult to excuse the bullying he endured as a kid is a pretty shaky argument, and it misses the point entirely. It’s a cheap deflection to go “yeah, but look how he turned out!” when we’re talking about the abuse he faced when he was still forming his identity. It’s no wonder he grew up with serious trust issues and resentment when his adolescence was marked by constant humiliation from a group of rich, popular kids.

And if we really want to get into how these characters ended up as adults, let’s not pretend the Marauders were beacons of maturity. Sirius never outgrew his bully persona; he tormented Snape as a teenager and continued to view him with the same venom well into adulthood, even trying to goad Harry into hating him. James, the “golden boy,” told Lily he’d “grown out of” hexing people, but we never saw any real growth before he died because even his friends said years later that he still did the same shit but not telling Lily. And let’s not forget Remus—who turned out to be a coward, running away from Tonks and the child he didn’t want to deal with, despite being nearly forty and supposedly wiser and needing a 17 years old to lecture him about his shitty behavour.

If anything, the Marauders’ adult lives underscore how little they reflected on the damage they did to others. They’re not held accountable for their cruelty, and their adult failures show they never fully owned up to their flaws. Saying Snape’s actions as an adult somehow justify his treatment in school is just a way to sidestep the real discussion: the unchecked bullying and class dynamics that shaped who he became.

And here’s the thing: just because someone later becomes a perpetrator doesn’t erase the fact that they were once a victim. Snape may have grown into someone deeply flawed—even abusive—but that doesn’t cancel out the abuse he suffered at Hogwarts. His bullies were still, undeniably, a bunch of privileged jerks who used their status to make his life hell. Trying to sweep that under the rug by pointing at who he became later is just lazy logic.

So go ahead, keep looking for weak excuses and baseless justifications if it helps you cling to your fanatical love for a group of spoiled bullies who never owned up to the harm they caused. But at the end of the day, it doesn’t change the fact that Snape was a victim of their abuse, and they were still bullies.

#i think marauders’ concept just attract moroons #marauders fans being annoying since literally 2008 #severus snape #pro severus snape #pro snape #james potter #sirius black #marauders #remus lupin #severus snape fandom #harry potter #harry potter meta #hp meta #severus snape defense

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chaifootsteps · 3 months ago

Note

Even the 4 year old comments of the Stolas call video you liked mention how Stolas was watching and knew Blitzo was in danger. One even brings up the possibility of Stolas altering a bullet's trajectory to save Blitzo.

yo. anyone notice Stolas' hand glows red right at the end before he says "enticing" and there's red around that bullet hole in the tree? My dude just saved Blitz so he didn't shave his nuts for nothing. [@ username of someone who said it was just the lighting] yea but remember stolas can see blitzo through his bubbles so he could also be seeing where shes shooting and helping to deflect the bullets!😊

To which many agreed, even up to a year ago! It has over 600 likes and 1 only sceptic reply.

Woah that's a very good observation right there you could go further , by extension (no pun intended), that all the shots fired were deflected or centered towards blitzo to put him in a situation where, when Stalos was asking him for his "favor", Blitzo eventually decided to say "fuck it, I'll do it" realize that, if Stolas does have the ability to protect him in any way (as it is assumed) , he could have deflected all the shots that were fired... Holy shit!

The fact that this is even a possibility — especially since that hand glow was never given an in-universe reason — is insane since it's the very same scene people so vehemently claim is 100% consensual for all parties.

And then there are other comments that feel like relics of a saner time. Besides the ones that say Pinkham fits Stolas better because he makes him sound gayer and "cute uwu" which is... A take with no off implications whatsoever and should not have been the foreshadowing it is. But at least people can tell Stolas is sketchy! I'm assuming these were written pre-LooLoo Land but if it wasn't I am so proud of these people for not forgetting his horrid behaviour just because 'sad dad moment'.

Is this why Blitzø installed a silent alarm made for Stolas? The minute I heard Blitzo say "Stolas!" I was like "Uh oh XD" Everyone in this show swears as casually as drawing breath so what in the world does Stolas say that it needs to be bleeped? 0:18 That wasn’t just a poorly timed call... Stolas was Scrying on Blitzo to offer that deal when he wasn’t in a position to talk back. 0:48 The ONLY reason the arraignment can be called “favors for favors” is simply because of how massively it works to both parties advantage. -Stolas, prince of hell, king of manipulation XD Blitz agreed to that arrangement Why is no one talking about this? -Sounds less like an enthusiastic "Yes" and more like "sure, fine, whatever, just shut up and let me be" -[@ above reply] Okay fair I'm just wondering if that's going to hit him later and then he's gonna freak out -[@ above reply] oh definitely I feel bad for Blitzo and Stella, he just wants to keep the book and his company's going, I understand that what hes doing with Stolas is Just "business", but stolas is just too pushy. Plus if hes going to cheat on his wife he can at least get a divorce. Honestly I think stella should hire blitzo to kill her husband, that way the both of them dont have to deal with him, plus blitzo can just keep the book without having to satify Stoles perverted bird needs, and stella can just find a better husband.

I like to think Stolas actually has all the spells in the grimoire memorized and is just using the situation to get dates with Blitzo - If Stolas doesn’t need the book then it would explain why he isn’t so worried about it - That would explain a plot hole Stoles is stil doing his Job and not post posing it to one night a month wich is even shorter than that if Blizo keep his end of the bargen even for a demon that must be impossible. - That is more or less the reason for Stolas. He just wants Blitzo to give him that "Passionate Fornication" at least once a month. - From what we've in the season two opening, that's extremely possible. It shows how much he loves books, so he probably does know all the spells - Or that was some kind of punishment for stealing 😂😂😂

Even as soon as a year ago people were giving Stolas more consistency than the show. Why wouldn't a book-loving nerd memorise his spells? Why would Stolas only ask for sex with someone he supposedly cares about beyond sex? Why was Blitzo's stealing completely ignored narratively except for one snippy line that it is completely possible to read as unrelated to that moment? That comment chain especially reeks of people desperate for a well told show that makes sense, that has consistency.

It's always a double-edged swords going through comments from saner times like these. On one hand, you come away with proof that things really were saner back then and it's not just a case of everything looking better in the rear view mirror...on the other, it's proof of how far things have declined. Mention that Blitz's consent was obviously coerced nowadays and they'll call you homophobic.

#Anonymous #stolitz critical #stolas critical #viv stuff #actual blog post

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marigold-hills · 28 days ago

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Hi Marigold, 😁, I know atm you are busy with other projects, so I am not expecting this any time soon. When you get a moment, I would love you to consider the following prompts for Wolfstar: 3, 14, 25, 27 from the prompt list. So much angst in those lines 🫢👀

hey! I’m sorry this took so long! Hope it was worth the wait.

3, 14, 25, 27

“I know it hurts.”

“I made a mistake.”

“I’m scared.”

“Please stay with me.”

🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟

Remus is alone in the Shack. He sits on the small, ruined bed and looks at the scratches of claws gauged into the wood.

He made them - the wolf made them - the last time he transformed alone.

It’s been so many months since then. So many moon rises and moon sets with company that he’s forgotten what this was like. The waiting.

The Shack’s windows are bordered up. He can’t see the sky and can’t tell the time. Can’t tell how long is left except for the steady breaking of marrow deep inside his bones (the wolf getting ready, laying in wait, always close, always separated by nothing but the barrier of Remus’ own flesh).

He doesn’t have his wand. He never brings it. Moony could break it, he said when asked. It belongs to me, not to it, he didn’t add. I want nothing of mine contaminated by it.

He doesn’t bring his nice sweaters or his nice shoes. He wears an old beaten up shirt and jeans torn at the knees he’a long grown too tall for.

Today, he wears a shirt he stole from

the bed of someone who should be here. It’s black and has the face of Jim Morrison printed on the front. The person who should be here slept in it the previous night. It smells like him, still.

Remus is too tired to pretend that isn’t why he took it.

He’s not angry. Not anymore, and maybe he wasn’t in the first place. It’s not the person’s fault that someone could be dumb enough to go where he knows a werewolf would be.

But he knows the wolf near lost its mind at the smell. He’s too worried to let anyone close again.

The person is a contrarian. Remus knows this. Should have known.

The footsteps on the rickety stairs try to be soft.

“You’re wearing my shirt,” Sirius says before he says anything else.

“It’s soft,” Remus doesn’t lie but doesn’t tell the truth.

“You don’t even like The Doors.” Sirius stands in the sliver of light forcing itself through the cracks in the boards. He’s solid, real.

“I like some of their songs just fine.”

“You like been down so long because it resonates with your self-deprecation, not because you enjoy it.”

Remus doesn’t have an answer to that. He lets himself fall backwards on the bed.

“What are you doing here?” He asks. “I told you not to come.”

“And I told you I would anyway.” Sirius sits on the bed, next to the bend of Remus’ knees. “You might have convinced James with your talk of boundaries or whatever, but we both know that’s bullshit.”

Sirius, Remus knows, only swears if it’s about his mother or to make a point. To make it stick.

“I made a mistake,” Sirius adds, “a really fucking big one.”

“It’s not about that.”

“No?” He doesn’t look convinced. “Last month I sent someone to the Shack and this month we’re not allowed to spend the moon with you. I’m not stupid, Remus.”

A hand placed on Remus’ knee. Sturdy. Solid. Real.

“I know you’re not angry with me. I know you’re not angry with James. Peter, bless him, had nothing to do with it.”

“Peter turns into a rat. Moony would have him for a snack,” Remus scoffs.

“There it is.” The hand squeezes, like a victory, fingers strong on the achy tendons. “You’re scared.”

Remus is too tired. He turns on his side, away from the voice that sounds too self-satisfied and the hand that feels too soothing.

The dichotomy of Sirius - comfort wrapped in barbed wire.

“You think Moony has gone onto some kind of blood lust.”

“You don't know shit,” Remus lies. Remus is so tired of lying.

“You think that he smelled that dumb wanker, and now he’ll turn on us.” Sirius doesn’t let him deflect. A hand on Remus’ elbow, pulling him back. “You think Moony will turn on his own pack.”

They’re eye to eye now, Sirius above him.

“Prongs had to…”

“I know what James did. You had that hoof-shaped bruise on your arse for weeks.”

Remus tries to turn away. A hand on his neck. Solid, sturdy, real. Not pushing. Holding.

“Prongs has had to get rough with you plenty of times before. Do you know what Moony does? Mewls like a cat. Apologises. Licks his face.”

A hand in his hair. Holding.

“He’s just like you, when you let yourself be real. He’s you, Moony. Would you ever hurt me?”

Eyes, solid, silver, stern.

“Never.”

Sirius releases the grip but doesn’t move away.

The moon pulls at Remus’ navel. At the place where his brain connects to the stem of his spine.

“I’m scared,” Remus says. Thinks of the waiting. “Please stay with me.”

“You just have to ask,” Sirius says, leans forward, breath against Remus’ brow. They’ve never been this close before. “Anything you ask.”

Remus’ mind dissolves into pieces of itself and pieces of the other. He hears shouting or maybe howling or maybe he hears nothing at all. Only a whisper, I know it hurts, I’ve got you, I have you. I’m right here.

#wolfstar #remus lupin #sirius black #marauders #remus x sirius #dead gay wizards #fanfic #marauders era #marigold micros

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corazondebeskar-reads · 2 years ago

Text

you know you never stood a chance - chapter one

you know you never stood a chance series

one: you know you never stood a chance

series masterlist | next chapter

qz!Joel Miller x f!reader

Word Count: 2k

Summary: When QZ!Joel finds out you're planning to take up prostitution to earn enough rations for your sick sister, he makes sure he's the first one to pay you a visit.

Warnings: Prostitution, dub-con due to power imbalance, Joel Miller is bad at feelings, kind of mean!Joel, p in v sex, unprotected sex, oral sex (f receiving), inexperienced reader, mention of cordyceps, brothel

Originally written for Kinktober 2023 - Day 9: Cumshot/Prostitution from this list by @absurdthirst

also on aO3

“Come in,” you called through the door, trying for your best laid-back, confident voice.

It wasn’t very successful. Joel rolled his eyes and opened the door. You were knelt on the bed, looking soft and demure—except for the way you were wringing your hands.

And the way the sweet look fell off your face when you saw him.

“What are you doing here?” You snatched up a pillow, hugging it over your torso like he hadn’t already got a good look at you through the sheer fabric.

“Gardening. What do you think I’m doin’ here?”

“This isn’t funny, Miller. Get out.” You grabbed another pillow and threw it at him.

He deflected it away from his face. “Jesus, woman.”

“You’ve had your laugh; you can go now.” You stared at the dingy Berber carpet of the shitty old motel room. It had probably been shitty before the whole world fell to pieces. The peeling wallpaper had sickly yellow stains to match the cigarette burns that pockmarked the single tufted armchair in the corner.

“Didn’t laugh,” Joel said gruffly, tossing something at you.

You had to drop the pillow to catch the bottle of water, nearly fumbling it, and looked up at him. “What’s this for?” you asked warily.

“It’s for drinkin’.”

“Ha ha. Look, can you not—don’t fuck with me right now. Why’re you here?”

It’s then, as you took a careful sip from the bottle, that Joel got a good look at your outfit.

Periwinkle tulle had been sewn roughly into an approximation of a dress, like something out of a Victoria’s Secret magazine had been poorly described to a seamstress who had never heard of lingerie. Actually, now that he thought about it, there was a good chance that was exactly what happened.

It had crooked, lacey ruffles on the top and bottom and did not suit you in the slightest. “What the hell are you wearin’? You raid a JoAnn’s?”

“Hey, I tried my best,” you said, bottom lip quivering.

“Ah shit, sweetheart, I didn’t—”

But you smirked. “Wow, you were really about to apologize, weren’t you? I shouldn’t have cut you off; go on, I want to hear Joel Miller say ‘sorry.’”

“Wasn’t gonna,” he scowled.

“Right, sure. Anyway, nah, they got a box of this shit in the office. I don’t know who makes it, but they want us to look extra dolled up or something.”

“Take that shit off. I can’t do this with you lookin’ like that.”

The smirk slid off your face. “Can’t do what?”

“Can’t fuck you, sweetheart. Isn’t that why you’re here? I paid for ya’, after all.”

Your stomach churned like the angry sea you had only read about in Moby Dick. You felt about as well as a sailor might have, too. It’s not like you had any misunderstandings about what would happen if you worked a shift at a whorehouse. But with your sister sick and unable to work, you’d been out of food for two days. So.

He looked at you with something too close to pity, so you pulled the dress over your head and threw it on the floor, staring right at him and daring him to say anything. And he did, but it wasn’t what you were expecting.

“You got pretty tits, sweetheart.”

“Thank you… ?”

“What was your plan here? What if it wasn’t me? You just going to let some old creep come in here and do whatever he wanted to ya?”

“And you’re not an old creep?”

He rolled his eyes and sat down on the chair, tugging at his boots. “This ain’t your first time, right?”

“Obviously not,” you snapped. It wasn’t. But he didn’t need to know there had only been the one time. You hadn’t found the experience worth repeating, but the guy seemed pretty happy so you figured you could just lie there and let them do whatever.

“You know how to suck cock?”

You flushed and shook your head. He rested his elbows on his knees and put his head in his hands, rubbing at his forehead for a few seconds.

“Okay, alright. ‘Nother time, then.”

You were too nervous to clock what he said. He rose and walked over to the bed. You looked up at him with wide eyes, and he knew he had to wreck you. He couldn’t walk out of this room without ruining you for every other person who dared to lay hands on you.

He set his hands on your hips, and you flinched, so he rubbed soothing circles with his thumbs until you relaxed a little. When you had adjusted to the weight of his heavy palms, he slid them and cupped a breast in each.

“Damn, sweetheart. These are real nice.” He fondled them like that for a minute, enjoying the heft in his palms, before rubbing his thumbs over your nipples. He was rewarded for his efforts when a small moan slipped out of you.

He tore his eyes away from your chest to check your expression. Though your lips were parted and eyes glazed, you still looked afraid. “S’all right, honey, I’ll go slow.”

He leaned down and took one nipple into his mouth while he rolled the other between his fingers. You moaned again, louder this time, and he took that as permission to give the other breast the same treatment. When you finally started to ease up, to lean into his touch, and he felt more assured that you weren’t about to cry, he stepped back.

“Turn around, hands and knees.”

The apprehension filled the lines of your face quickly, but you turned around, relieved he wouldn’t make you look at him.

He ran a hand across your bare back, pushing your shoulder blades down with one hand and your knees apart with the other until you were arranged how he liked. You tensed, holding your breath and waiting for him to push in.

Instead, you felt a gentle hand on your mound. He cupped it before parting your lips, sliding his fingers through. You were damp, but nowhere near wet enough to take him. Not without a whole lot of pain, at least.

“Got a real pretty pussy, too. You’ve been holdin' out on me.” He circled your clit with the pad of his middle finger for a few seconds, watching you squirm, before he pulled his hand away.

“Anyone ever tasted you? You ever taste yourself?”

You shook your head.

“Shame.” It was a puff of hot breath over your cunt, followed closely by the warm, firm pressure of his tongue.

You wailed. You might have been embarrassed if it hadn’t been the best thing you’d ever felt, beating the record he had set seconds ago with his finger.

He didn’t ease you into this. It took no time at all for his skilled tongue and thick fingers to pry an orgasm out of you. He had worked one finger in you by the time you fell apart, but it wasn’t going to be enough.

You wriggled when he didn’t let up, trying to lurch away, but he pulled you back with a hand on your hip. “Hang on, let me open you up good.”

It was intense, and you were loud, swearing up a storm. When he eased another finger inside, you pushed back against his hand, grinding your hips. He sucked on your clit, flicking it with his tongue, until you came again, this time with a low groan pulled from deep in your chest, sinking back onto his fingers. He slid another one in, pumping furiously until the second orgasm turned into a third, and you were shaking apart.

“That’s a good girl,” he murmured, stroking soothingly along your spine and drawing his fingers from you. He wanted to push them between your lips, to watch your eyes go wide as you sucked your juices from him, but decided he better not push you too far. Not today, at least.

“You ready for me?” he asked, unzipping his jeans and letting them fall around his ankles.

“Please, Joel.”

And goddamn, if that wasn’t the sweetest sound. “Yeah? You want my cock now?”

“Please, please fuck me, Joel.” You were pushing back against him, grinding your ass against his erection.

“Alright, sweetheart, I’ll take care of ya.” He held you in place with one hand and notched the fat head of his cock at your entrance.

You cried out as he pushed in slowly. “Oh my god. What the fuck. Why are you so fucking big?” You didn’t even mean to be complimenting him. The one dick you had before had certainly not felt like this, like you were being pried apart.

“You gotta relax, sweetheart, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

“That’s easy for you to say; you’re not being — oh fuck,” you broke off as he pushed in further.

“Not being what, honey? I didn’t hear ya.”

“Not being fucking split in two by some fuckin—”

He knocked whatever insult you were gearing up for out of you in a strangled breath as his hands gripped tight to your hips and pulled you back on his cock.

“Almost there, don’t worry. I gotcha,” he murmured, reaching around to rub at your clit. It didn’t take much to get you off again, and when your body shook and convulsed, he slid his cock in all the way.

He had planned on giving you a moment to adjust, but you started gently rocking yourself back and forth on it like a fuckin’ handwritten invitation. He began pulling almost all the way out before slowly sinking in, letting you part around him. His groan had you arching your back.

You thought he’d fuck rough. It might have been easier if he had. When you realized he was serious about it, that he had paid real fucking ration cards for access to your body, you figured he’d use you, cum, and leave.

Instead, he took you apart with precision. You wondered if he was a musician before, the way his fingers seemed to know right where to go, just how to thrum your body to draw out sounds you didn’t even know were inside you.

The rhythm he set was fluid and deep. You felt like you might explode, each stroke leaving you with fewer coherent thoughts. He hefted you against his chest, thrusting up into you and reaching around to your breasts.

It was a little overwhelming. Your whole body electrified, just the brush of his arm against yours sent waves of too much too much coursing through. All the while, his hips rolled into you, and yours mindlessly sought him back.

He was getting close, his thrusts a little sloppy. He held you to him with one hand cupping a breast and slid the other down to press against your clit. “Cum on my cock,” he growled in your ear.

It didn’t take long with the steady pressure and the way his cock nudged something inside you that made you twitch with every thrust. When you came, he shoved you down into the mattress, pulling out to cum over your ass.

You must have dozed off for a minute, because the wet washcloth landing on your back brought you abruptly into the world.

“Clean up, drink that, and get outta here.”

You glowered at him, head spinning from the sudden shift. He made you off-kilter and vulnerable, which was not an option, so you snarled back, “What, you think you’re my only client? I’ve got other men to fuck today, Joel.”

He finished tying his boots and stalked over to you, bending down to get in your face. “No, you don’t. You’re gonna go home like a good girl. And next time, you come straight to me. Understood?”

“What?”

“You still cockdumb? Poor thing.”

“Fuck off, Joel.”

He pressed the water bottle into your hands. “Next time you need cards this bad, you don’t come here. You come to me.”

“I’m not taking your handouts, Miller.”

“I’m not offerin’em. But you keep comin’ here, doin’ this? You’re gonna catch something worse than fuckin’ cordyceps. Or get yourself knocked up. We can make this same little arrangement if you need to.” He tilted your head up to face him. “Understood?”

“Fine,” you spat.

He stood up. For a moment, you thought he might say something else, but he just shook his head and left.

next chapter

*title from "Stood a Chance" by Taking Back Sunday

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel miller fic #the last of us #tlou fic #qz!joel #pre-tlou #kinktober 2023 #you know you never stood a chance series

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letsdosciencetoit · 2 months ago

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Snippet from the Untitled Buck/Tommy S1 Canon Divergence

Been seeing a lot of "Buck Transfers to the 122 with Deluca" fics, which are bringing me life. This is my little passion project - BuckTommy AU where Tommy didn't leave the 118 in 2017 so Buck was assigned to the 122 instead.

Here's a snippet of some Tommy & Sal friendship.

Tommy gets off shift and begs off going out for drinks with Hen and Howie. It’s been a regular occurrence, the three of them grabbing drinks. Captain Nash has joined them on occasion, but more often than not he recuses himself.

It’s getting more uncomfortable to go out with the team. Hen has Karen and Denny at home, and Howie has been dating Tatiana for nearly a year. He can’t say he loves who Howie is when he’s around Tatiana, but Howie seems happy, so he isn’t going to say anything.

The problem with happy people in love, however, is that they want everyone around them to find love, too. Howie has been pointing out any woman at the bar who gives Tommy a second glance. Tommy’s had years of experience deflecting, but there’s only so many ways he can decline an advance before people start asking questions.

Tommy’s been used to keeping his private life private, something easy to do under previous captains. Since Bobby took over and introduced family meal time the 118 is starting to feel like more of a family. And like annoying siblings, his colleagues are feeling more comfortable starting to pry into what he does on his off hours.

Only Sal had even known about Abby, so he couldn’t even use the excuse of their break up with the team. It’s easier to just avoid going out, but he’s not ready to go home to an empty house.

Its why he finds himself walking into another Badge and Ladder bar, closer to the 122. Sal and his team are off shift, taking up a booth near the bar, and there’s an empty seat next to Sal. Sal catches him coming in and flags him down. “Yo, Kinard! Over here!”

Tommy offers a shake of his head, fond and exasperated with Sal’s vociferous greeting. He jerks a thumb to the bar, and goes to order a pitcher of whatever the table is sharing and the house brand they keep on tap. He’s been to the bar enough to know it’s a decent microbrew. He comes to Sal’s table with the pitcher and his pint, and takes a seat next to Sal.

“Rough shift?” Sal asks. It’s not the first time Tommy’s come out with the 122, but it isn’t a common occurrence. They used to see each other more frequently, but since Sal left the 118 and Tommy’s ex was friends with Sal’s girlfriend it made the potential get togethers a little fraught. As far as Gina knows, he and Sal barely talk any more.

“No worse than usual,” Tommy replies with a shrug. “Just needed a break from the cozy family shit they’ve got going on.”

“Nash still doing the ‘Family Dinners?’” Sal asks derisively. Despite the good thing he has going for him as Lieutenant at the 122 he’s still bitter about being looked over for captain for the 118.

“We eat as a team, and I can’t say I mind it too much. Nash definitely has skill in the kitchen.” Tommy leans back and pats his waist. “My PT regime is thankful, too. We used to do a lot of take out, and my metabolism is not what is used to be.”

Sal raises a glass to cheers. “To getting older.”

Tommy clinks glasses with him. “What has you feeling like an old man? I’ve seen how flexible Gina is. I’d think that would help you feel pretty spry.”

Even as the words are coming out of his mouth, Tommy feels like an asshole. He’s been getting better at the 118 about reigning in the “Good old boy” persona, but something about being with Sal makes him fall back into old habits. He’s about to apologize, but Sal just chuckles.

“Fucking probie,” Sal groans. “He’s been hooking up with chicks at the station.”

Tommy nearly spits his beer. “What!”

“Yeah. Not sure how long or how often, but we came back from a call and he definitely had the air of a man well fucked.” Sal ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. “I’ve got no proof, but I know it.”

“Well shit,” Tommy drawled. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Fuck if I know. Not like I can ground him and leave him behind,” Sal says with a dry laugh. “It’s how we got ourselves into this mess.”

Tommy raised an eye brow. “You ever consider bringing him out on a call?”

#9-1-1 #bucktommy #9-1-1 fanfiction #evan buckley #tommy kinard #sal deluca #canon divergent au #9-1-1 season 1 #I'm Where The Spiders Go - 9-1-1 Fic

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merlucide · 7 months ago

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gonna have a convo with my dad tmr (rant about dad tingz)

I’m gonna do it 🗣️ and he’s gonna have to listen

I invited him to take me to lunch (LMAO)

I’m gonna tell him how I feel and hope for the best, he’s going to get defensive and deflect it but I’m ready fr 💪 He’s prob gonna gaslight a tad too lol

He’s not a bad dad, just not the best yk? He’s not mentally/physically abusive thank God but he’s like…. special.

He makes me so upset— I mean he’s really hurt me and there has been moments were he has physically hurt me. That was a while again but those were impactful moments for me, and bitch I don’t remember an apology?! then I get after bro for doing what he did to me to my sister and like I was angry crying and getting off at him bc you don’t fucking hurt people and not apologize?!? THATS NOT FUCKING DISCIPLINE?! ITS ABUSIVE. And bc you are so fucking prideful and don’t want to face the fact that you hurt me, you hurt her, you are going to deny and say ‘well that’s what happens in life’. Shes 7. SEVEN. Who is on the spectrum and has ADHD. She doesn’t fucking understand you asshole. NO SEVEN YEAR OLD IS GOING TO TAKE AWAY ‘I shouldn’t have done that’ WHEN YOU FUCKING DO THAT. She’s going to remember how YOU hurt her, and how YOU didn’t apologize, how YOUR wife held her and deescalated the situation. You cannot blame a child for acting like that, yeah she was acting absolutely insane and frustrating, but you as a fucking grown adult cannot hurt your child like that. AND THEN COMPARE YOU TO ME?!? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!?.

And he doesn’t even care about her, it’s sad. I mean this whole situation is fucked up man, I get it. My siblings quite literally ruined my life tbh.

How do you think I felt when my dad stopped caring about me? Stopped playing with me— and started yelling. How do you think I felt when you turned grey and I was the only one helping momma with the kids. I was little too. I didn’t know it would get so crazy after we adopted them?! No one did?!? So stop blaming this shit in my mom you signed those fucking papers too. She’s still your daughter you asshole. Care about her too. You don’t get to make efforts with me once a month then discard her. AND fucking act like you don’t have a son anymore, just because he is out of the house doesn’t mean you have no connection to him. If he was a normal fucking kid he’d wonder why his dad is the only one that doesn’t call. But since he’s also fucked in the head he doesn’t, it’s better that way. I hate and love my siblings. Well, I love my sister, I’d kill for her. I love my brother too, but I hate him, yes it sounds ridiculous considering the overwhelming age difference between us but he hurt me significantly. I’m glad he’s gone, he’s doing better anyways. I wish things were different. I wish he could’ve been normal. Lmao I remember thinking ‘I just wish he was never born’ lol. It’s not his fault their parents sucked.

Anywho wow getting sidetracked here—

My dad is a crazy Winston Churchill ‘follower’ of you would. Constantly quoting him and wtv sooooo I have a couple quotes ready to fire at him when he gets defensive… heheh

I feel so prepared lmao

I’ve also talked about him so much with my mom so I’m like extra ready lol

I just need to get it out yk.

Also if anyone is reading this (which I doubt) my dad is NOT abusive or wtv— i am not in danger or wtv 😭🙏 im not in denial I’m quite aware of how my life looks so know it’s ok. And again, my dad isn’t a bad dad, there’s just a lot of pain in our relationship 🫠 He tries, just it’s never what I need yk. He loves me and our family, he just has issues of his own (Not excusing in the slightest- in fact I think it’s a shitty excuse but yk) I love my dad, he’s just rlly hurt me yk

#merlucide’s rambles :>#Emo hours #daddy issues #RAAAA #sob

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ellekhen · 1 month ago

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The Watcher's Gambit

Chapter 1 - The Opening

Summary:

When the Watcher — Qwyl — asks if there could ever be more between them, it breaks Edér's heart to let his best friend down.

...and yet, he can't stop thinking about this possibility he had never considered before.

---------

Pairing: Edér Teylecg x M!Watcher Rating: Mature (eventually Explicit) Length: 4.3K+ words; Chapters 1/4

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66022177/chapters/170120137

Excerpt below:

Edér takes the opportunity to light his pipe, leaning with a groan against the wall. Hel, his exhaustion is bone-deep. But that’s what happens when you’re fighting for your life in the ruins of the Old City, he supposes.

“What a week,” he mutters.

Qwyl hums in agreement.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

Edér blows out some smoke.

That’s better.

“I should be askin’ you that. You been awful quiet… for you,” he snorts. “More of this and you’ll turn into Aloth.”

“Give him some credit,” Qwyl reproves him. “I think I’m getting through to him.”

Edér grunts.

“You ‘got through to him’ five years ago. Now he’s all strung back up as high as that tree back home. And besides, you’d think after all we been through, a friend would open up a little. Hel, he’s been back with us for weeks!”

“He’s been through a lot,” Qwyl reminds him. “We all have.”

Edér puffs out more smoke.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “You got that right. Still, I miss the old Aloth.”

“So you’ve said.”

The wind whistles in their companionable silence, dulling the clamor of the city behind them. Edér turns around to lean back against the wall, blowing a ring of smoke up towards Arkemyr’s manor. It occurs to him that he’s actually looking forward to heading back out to sea. Maybe it’s not too late for a career as a sailor after all…

“Edér.”

“Hm?” he blinks over at Qwyl. “Yeah?”

Qwyl’s eyes remain fixed on the horizon. For a long moment, his mouth moves without sound.

“Have you ever thought about us?” he asks into the wind.

“And why we keep endin’ up in this shit?” Edér chuckles.

“Sure,” Qwyl fiddles his sword belt. It’s amusing, in a way; the Watcher is never one to get tongue-tied. “But I meant… After all these years, have you ever considered us becoming… more?”

“Than…?”

“…friends.”

“More… than friends,” Edér repeats slowly. “Oh, you mean… uh…”

He feels his heart sink; though not really out of his own displeasure. Like everything these days, it’s more complicated than that. He’s flattered at the notion, really, but he already regrets how awkward this otherwise pleasant moment is about to turn.

Does he have feelings for Qwyl?

Sure, he’s got a lot of feelings — respect, curiosity, and confusion among them… but not the ones Qwyl’s asking after.

Edér puffs out his cheeks in a ponderous breath. This isn’t anything like deflecting Xoti or Teheku’s flirtations. This is Qwyl, for gods’ sake.

“Well, I’m real fond of you, case that wasn’t clear,” he begins carefully. “But in terms of stronger feelings… I only ever really think about girls that way, is the biggest part of it. Since I was old enough to chase after ‘em.”

It’s the truth. Qwyl had to have figured that out by now during all their years together. They even ogled at some of the same women, from time to time.

Other than that, Edér can’t really place Qwyl’s tastes. The dwarf tends to flirt with every other kith regardless of gender — a habit picked up from his younger days as a merchant. For a while he seemed fairly taken with Aloth during their romp through the Dyrwood, but Edér still doesn’t know if that went anywhere. They both sure were quietly pleased to see each other at the dig site, at least.

More recently, Edér thought Qwyl seemed awfully keen on Maia. Despite appearances they had a lot in common with both hailing from Rauatai, though they would’ve made a funny looking couple given their dramatic height difference… and their difference in opinions when it came to what role the Royal Deadfire Company has to play in the archipelago’s power struggle.

Too bad they still haven’t gotten around to smooching it out. Their former companion — Maia’s brother, Kana — would’ve gotten a kick out of it if the two of them had. Maybe it would inspire even more poetry out of the big guy.

Now that would piss Maia off.

Anyway, if the Watcher is the type to cast such a wide net, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that Edér would end up in it eventually. He might’ve even taken offense if he didn’t catch Qwyl’s eye at least once.

Attraction is one thing. Flirting is another. But whatever the Watcher is tentatively alluding to now is a whole other beast; one Edér would rather not provoke.

“Then… there’s the fact that I’m still stuck on some things that happened a long time ago,” Edér continues sheepishly. “I wouldn’t be much good to you anyway.”

He doesn’t need to mention Elafa. The pain of her loss is still fresh on his mind, despite his old friend being long dead.

To his credit, Qwyl seems to take this all in stride. At least, that’s what Edér assumes. All this time, the Watcher has only looked up at him once.

“Don’t be silly. Whoever wins your heart would be the luckiest kith alive,” Qwyl smiles tightly.

Alive, Edér thinks wistfully. If only.

“Just…” Qwyl’s fingers drum upon the wall. “If anything changes…”

He trails off, his mustache twitching as if chewing back his words.

“You’d be the first to know. But… yeah…” Edér mumbles. “Maybe in another life.”

Honestly, whoever gets Qwyl’s affection and attention would be lucky too — girl, guy, or anyone in between. Hel, maybe they’d even be a furry little orlan. The Watcher seems fairly indiscriminate, unlike Edér.

“For what it’s worth, I’m awful flattered,” Edér tries to lighten the mood a little, but Qwyl’s smile doesn’t look right. Edér knows the real one — one that crinkles around his brown eyes and dimples his cheeks beneath his beard.

Edér groans to himself. He’s gotta fix this.

“Hope you don’t think less of me,” he mutters, raising his pipe back to his lips. “I like what we got going here. It’s closer than I’ve been to anyone in, I dunno, ages.”

He wishes he was any good with words. There is so much more he wants to say. Things like —

‘That moment I thought you died at Caed Nua was the worst of my life.’

Or more complicated things like —

‘I do dream about you, just not in that way.’

At the end of the day, as much as Edér loves Qwyl, he can’t give his friend what he desires or deserves. Edér knows himself, and he isn’t built that way. Sweet as Qwyl is, he isn’t built in the way Edér takes them, either.

Edér considers himself a pretty independent son of a bitch. Yet somehow, he can’t bear the thought of once again being away from Qwyl for years, let alone days, at a time. After holding vigil at a catatonic Qwyl’s side — talking to him, reading to him, and having one-sided conversations with an unimpressed Del — he knows only one thing for sure as time ticks inexorably on around them:

He needs the Watcher.

He needs Qwyl.

And maybe — just maybe — Qwyl needs him, too.

He at least needs Edér’s shield and sabre at his side as he takes his sweet time reloading his pistols or picking his ass up from the battlefield. For a dwarf, he sure falls hard despite being closer to the ground.

“I’ll tell you what, though,” Edér says in earnest. “I’m not one for big promises…”

He puts his hand on Qwyl’s shoulder, this time making sure to look his friend dead in those brown eyes. It vaguely occurs to him that the dwarf’s lashes are as long and dark as his stag’s.

“…but I’m gonna beat up as many people and monsters as it takes to get you your life back,” Edér concludes. “You got my word on that.”

He gives his friend’s shoulder a rough, affable pat. It earns him a real smile, though Edér notices how much wetter those brown eyes are at that moment.

#pillars of eternity #edér teylecg #edér teylecg x the watcher #pillars of eternity fanfiction #pillars of eternity fanfic #edér #poevowed #pillars of eternity deadfire #deadfire spoilers #poe deadfire #eder #edér teylecg x watcher

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