#hiatus!jared

[sam-winchester-admiration-league]

Walker Hiatus Holdover Week- Free Day

I love the loyalty Cordell inspires in his new partners while still having fun teasing him, like Micki discovering Cordell’s high school pictures in a trophy case.

I love Sam's new, I mean, Cordell's look, especially the tailored shirts.

And the occasional bloodied look

[laf-outloud]

The writers are already back. The cast is coming back. Interviewers scheduling stories. We've been fed so well for so long and now an even bigger feast is coming. Sorry to the haters, but I'm going to relish it (JP might go full producer and I support whatever he wants, but I do love seeing his face all over the web right now.) No one's distracting me from our guy.

It's amazing how much content can still be generated and shared during a hiatus, writer's strike and actor's strike! I won't say it's just as fulfilling, but it certainly eases the Walker-free months!

And I'm with you... whatever Jared wants to do that makes him happy, I'm on board! He deserves it!

[sleepknoot]

Also I miss playing VTM so much.

[rhosgobelbun]

Maybe the prequel will bomb so hard Jensen will be forced into bringing jared back into it idk wishful thinking

[devilmademewriteit]

If You Lie Down With Me

pairing: (pre-ellie) dbf!joel miller x fem!afab!reader

summary: there’s only one guy in all of boston that can get you a morning after pill. unfortunately, on top of being a huge asshole, Joel Miller also happens to be your dad’s closest peer.

warnings: rough sex / smut (masturbation, fem penetration, oral [m receiving]) so 18+ only content; unprotected sex; light choking & restraint; light dom/sub dynamic; fem afab reader; reader has long-ish hair (that gets touched); plot-typical violence (guns, death); plot deviations (no Tess); medication ingestion; pet names (baby, sweetheart, angel); dubcon (slight intoxication, power imbalance, no explicit consent).

word count: 6.5k+

no use of y/n in this fic

alright y’all I’m baaaaAAAaack! so this is basically the other version of Dark But Just a Game that I started back when I was writing it & figured I’d finish it to get out of my hiatus. like any devilmademewriteit fic, it’s dark and nasty and deprived like meeeeeee <3 hope u enjoy !

don’t forget to reblog, check out my masterlist, sign up for the taglist, & leave any comments / feedback / & suggestions!

(ps: new part of Salvatore up next !)

—

“three times the guy I ever thought I would meet, so don't say you're over me when we both know that you lie”

— lana del rey, ‘If You Lie Down With Me’

—

Fuck.

Waking up to a racing heart, a pounding head, and a stomach swimming with nausea was never ideal, although it was always a better experience alone — when you could squint and hiss at the light slicing through the weaknesses in the drapes without hearing your groans echoed by a lower, louder, and annoyingly more pitiful voice.

Right. What was his name?

Jared? Jordan? Jermaine?

Ah, who cares.

If he’d wanted a safe place to nurse his hangover, he shouldn’t have fallen asleep in your bed. Sure, the odds of dad being conscious at this hour (especially the odds after a party like last night’s) were Kate Moss — no, Rolling Stones — slim, but the man would get up at some point, meaning that this poor J-whatever was likely sleeping through his only window of escape from certain homicide.

You whisper. You shake him gently. You gingerly tap the roundness of his bicep.

Huh — Not bad.

You congratulate last-night-you for reeling in this morning’s good-looking catch.

Still… nothing. Not a twitch. Nary a croaked ‘lemmesleep’ graces your ears.

After loosing an exasperated sigh and running through your options, you decide to take the most effective (and least girl-next-door) route. The corner of your elbow collides with his ribs, and the boy jumps up, his loose, blonde curls as wild as his eyes, searching the room for his attacker.

You want to smile at the scene, but the motion hurts your head.

“Y’gotta go,” you croak out, thumbs rubbing circles against your aching temples.

He collapses onto his back, copying your movement with his own fingers to his brow. “God. I feel like shit.”

Despite muttering your agreement, you let your eyelashes flutter closed and your weight turn you away from last night’s paramour: no use figuring out who he is after the (f)act — that just makes it personal.

After a few breaths, the boy moves back up to a shakey sitting position.

Probably sourcing for his clothes.

He reeks of booze and sex — but then again, so do you. His roughened, unfamiliar tenor climbs to barely above a whisper, “Z’something stuck on my leg… blood, or something…”

His interrupting your suffering comes as a deeply unwelcome annoyance, so you try to sort him out to clear him out: “Prolly just the condom,” you mumble, rolling back onto your shoulders, reluctantly supervising his movements.

He lifts up fully, sitting criss-cross and pulling his calf towards him.

“No,” he tries to laugh but succumbs to the nausea, settling for a low breath instead, “S’blood, dude, from beer darts — and I didn’t use a condom.”

Your eyes immediately dart over, settling on his naked, wretched, shivering form. He notices your ire and the hitching of your throat, immediately defensive.

“I asked if you wanted to.”

Unfortunately, he had. The memories of your drunken entanglement start to resurface inside your mind. “It just feels better without one.” This time, you curse last-night-you for being such a careless, inconsiderate, horny bastard.

You’re making problems for me, girl.

“J’s get out.”

J-whatever spares no time complying, collecting his few strewn belongings and staggering out the front door. Once it slides shut, so too do your poor, weary eyes.

Shit.

There goes the afternoon.

Getting your hands on condoms in the QZ was at least fifteen times easier than snatching a morning after pill. Those were a hot commodity, especially among the younger, less responsible crowds.

Luckily for you, as a member of aforementioned younger, less responsible crowds, you knew where your best chances lay in finding whatever it was you needed (if what you needed was deeply immoral or wholly illegal). Unluckily for you, that ‘best chance’ happened to be your dad’s closest and longest-running business partner: temperamental, judgemental, frustratingly competent, Joel ‘Local Asshole’ Miller.

But that could all be dealt with after another eight hours of sleep.

—

Opportunity strikes sooner than expected.

Miller’s in your living room by the time you wake up, the low rumble of his southern baritone recognizable even through the closed door. After scrambling to throw on some clothes, you press an ear to the chipping paint, hoping to determine the number of bodies gathered in your home.

Not many. Just Miller (and the old man, of course).

The latter’s presence bodes ill for you. This would all have to be done in secret, which was not an uncommon strategy where ever the former was involved. No one dealt with Joel Miller to conduct clean-cut, wholesome activities. No one was calling him up for a spare copy of the holy book.

No, getting him alone was essential.

A drink slams down on the counter. After a good, patient ten minutes, you hear your father (‘s rather crude way of) excusing himself to the washroom and heavy-set footsteps decrescendoing down the hall.

This is it.

You slip through the door.

At first, your company takes no notice of you, his eyes still glued to the maps and papers littering the counter before him.

Then, a low grumble: “fun night?”

His voice makes you weak in the knees — an involuntary, near ritual-like response you’d noticed around your mid teens and hadn’t managed to kick yet.

You swallow before responding. “Yes.”

It’s all you manage to muster. Miller finally looks up, wincing slightly as his back straightens. He looks tired, at least more than usual, with his wild, grey-streaked hair tousled and the lines by his mouth cutting deep into his skin.

You’re sure you don’t look much better, a suspicion proven by the man’s slowly spreading, barely-noticeable smirk. That gaze makes you self conscious, mute; your right hand snakes up, absent-mindedly dragging a fallen bra strap back to its proper position.

“So, what was his name?”

He’s teasing, sure, but Miller was there last night. He’d always had sharper perceptions than your father did, especially — and ironically — when it came to you. That skill tended to squander your confidence as the daughter of a modern-day mafia-boss and the owner of a hard, violent heart.

Rushed by the sound of your father’s footsteps, you default to honesty.

“I don’t remember.”

“Try.”

“Josh.”

Amusement flits across his stern expression. “Again.”

“Jamie.”

“Warmer.”

“J-J-something—”

“Gettin’ colder, sweetheart—”

“I need the pill.”

It just tumbles out, an exasperated, desperate plea. Miller, a bit taken aback by your candor, drains of his previous playfulness. You almost notice the split second those dark eyes glaze over. For a second, you’re almost convinced he’s distracted by his imagination’s recreations of the act that had you making such a request.

You almost notice the tingling between your thighs.

He stares. You stare back.

Fuck.

It was moments like this that made you wish Tess was still around. Oh, she wouldn’t be any kinder — no, not at all — but she’d certainly be more professional. Tess was all work, no play. Joel was…

You’re enjoying this, you bastard. You’re enjoying that I’m cornered like this, aren’t you?

The bathroom handle clicks when it turns, and your heart drops into your toes.

Maybe Miller really wasn’t going to help you. Maybe he didn’t have the pill and you’d just embarrassed yourself for nothing. Or, maybe he did, but preferred outing you to your dad at the very first opportunity — letting him deal with you the only way he knew how.

Your fears seem confirmed: his eyes leave the grace of your own, trailing back to his big, splayed hands on the countertop. Unwelcome tears burn the corners of your eyes as the panic begins to set in, as footsteps begin to fall…

“Mine. Tonight.”

It’s low and rushed, but it’s clear, cutting off to the sound of your father lumbering in. A man who saw, thought, and lived through transactions, he’s (thankfully) blissfully ignorant of the tension collapsing around him.

“Morning,” he throws your way.

A taunt, of course — it was well past noon.

You nod in acknowledgement, slowly backing into the doorway of your sacred, beckoning room. They resume their conversation from before, letting you sink into irrelevance.

Before shutting yourself in, you catch a few of Miller’s hushed words. They’re spoken casually to your father but, you later decide, surely meant for you:

“Not that one kid — Jeremy — don’t trust him.”

The door seals (well, not seals… it creaks on its rusty hinges and squeezes into its shrinking frame), and relief courses through you, reaching the very tips of your fingers.

That only lasts a minute.

Soon, you’re negotiating with the rising anxiety of being at Miller’s place alone, asking for his help with a problem that could’ve been avoided if you’d only kept your legs shut.

Alone with Miller, the both of you knowing that you hadn’t.

Crawling back under your covers, you begrudgingly make a vow of celibacy. If this was the cost of attention and a (potential) mid-range orgasm, you were about to become very frugal.

Dreams come easy, but they don’t come sweet.

Flashes of last night’s sins overlay Joel Miller’s unintelligible speech, his voice from the next room over lulling you into a rather confusing, disturbed sleep.

—

At nighttime, it’s a short walk to his building.

Down this alley, past this street, up this back stairwell. Part of being in with Boston’s seedy underbelly gained you access to the best and most up-to-date intel; by the age of twelve, you could run the safest — well, least policed — post-curfew routes from memory.

(Which had come in handy in situations a lot more dire than this.)

Sneaking in was easy, although you cursed him for being so preoccupied during the day. Coming in at this hour required some delicate maneuvers through a half-shattered window, and a less-than-graceful leap down left you with a nick on your cheekbone and a shallow cut along the side of your hand.

Thankfully, the blood mostly dries on your walk up the six or eight or ten flights of stairs. You don’t resent the exercise; it feels good to move, putting the jitters building in every still moment in abeyance.

Still moments like the kind that passes after a barely-audible, coded knock delivered by a girl sucking on the side of her hand, almost wishing for the door not to open.

It does.

He’s in jeans — dirty jeans, dusty — and a simple flannel. It’s Miller — it’s Miller at his most Joel-Miller-like-ness.

So why am I so fucking nervous?

He holds the door open, brows knitting at the sight of your hand in your mouth.

“Window,” You offer.

He mouthes a silent ‘ah,’ before leaning forward to duck his head out the door and, in the process, somewhat sandwiching you against his chest.

Maybe it’s because he smells like forest-fires, but your skin burns red-hot.

Miller looks both ways, checking the status of the hall (empty), then nudges you into the dim light of his place with the weight of his hand against your lower back.

The door shuts behind you.

You’d been here at least a million times before, but the thoughts rising now feel so… new. The jacket strewn on the side of the sagging sofa is his — Joel Miller has sat at this table and showered, slept, fucked inside these walls.

Cut it out. It’s just ‘cause you’re alone. And older.

But what about it, now that you were alone and older?

Old enough to know what goes on between a man and a woman and a little bit of desperation at just the right amounts… and there sure was a lot of him, and some desperation, too…

“Nervous?”

Your feet hit the floor, all thoughts evaporating at the sound of his word. Blushing, you try to de-code his taunt, spoken with playfulness and too much condescension.

“Wh — what’d you — nervous for what? No.”

He’s already across the room, sifting through a box of miscellaneous items. A yellowed lamp shade catches his side-profile, illuminates the smirk spreading across his face. Then, a low command:

“Relax,” and your spine settles, acceding to his wish. “Some girls get nervous, y’know, takin’ it the first time.”

Oh.

You clear your throat, daring to take a step into his place, incensed enough to trace the indents and stab-marks decorating his kitchen table.

“No.”

You’re taken aback by the accuracy and the strength underpinning your answer. It’s true, you aren’t afraid, and hadn’t been afraid of much in a very long while.

What’s a Joel Miller to your best friend’s public hanging? What’s he to a dozen rows of semi automatics raining down on your zigzagging toes? What’s he to a period cramp?

Like a bolt of lightning hitting you in the chest, that cocky, gauche and indelicate rebel you’d grown into reappears.

“I’ve been told I take things pretty well my first time.” The tension rises — this time, at your command — just as Joel does, carrying a leather pouch in his right hand. “And it’s not, anyways,” you add for good measure.

The leather drops onto the marked-up table. Joel crosses his arms.

“Not sellin’ me on givin’ you one of these, sweetheart.”

He gestures to the bag.

A mock-frown as you draw closer to him. His eyes, although severe, reflect the playfulness dancing in your own.

“Why not?” You ask, voice dripping with false innocence.

Joel’s gaze doesn’t stray as it hardens, focused on your own. “They’re for accidents, mistakes, attacks,” he explains, deep and dangerous, “Not girls who can’t keep their pretty lil’ legs together.”

Oof.

On one hand, it sounds like he’s genuinely chastising you for your careless behaviour. But, on the other, he sounds jealous, taunting, hungry.

I’ll play that hand.

Sleeping all day had left you wide awake, and that long-time, school-girl crush on the man before you was dying for content to fantasize about. Even if he pushed you off, you’d get to feel the weight of his hands on your body, right?

So, you return with a taunt of your own: “You think my legs are pretty?”

He shakes his head, his signature scowl spreading as he mostly ignores you. “I think you should at least use condoms,” a breath, “N’ know their first names.”

Ouch.

“I usually do.” you murmur, “and it broke last night.”

“Bullshit.”

“What do you mean, bullshit?”

Joel sighs and lowers himself into one of the four old, rickety chairs lining the table. His hand comes up to his temples and you notice how his legs, exhausted, part.

The man doesn’t deign to respond.

Irritation begins to well in your core, sneaking through your arms and up into your throat. The muscle in your jaw must be twitching like crazy.

How does he know? How the fuck does he always know?

Across the QZ, as a skilled liar and born and bred bandit, people tended to hold whatever image of you that you’d crafted for them.

Not Joel. Never Joel.

He saw through you in a way that had always felt… intimate. It was one of the reasons, you guessed, he didn’t dare spend too much time alone with you and why you’d always been curious about him (as a man, of course). Now, there was no avoiding your obvious vulnerability from either of you — you were stripped bare, your dressings in his hand.

It makes you want to flee as much as it makes you want to leap into his arms.

You snatch up the pouch, opening it up to find a mass of differently coloured and shaped pills. Rifling through, you ignore Joel’s stare boring into your hands’ erratic search.

“Yellow ones,” he says.

“I know what they look like,” you retort.

“‘Course you do.”

He moves faster than he should be able to.

One moment, your palm is slicing through the air, headed straight for the highest point of his cheek. The next, you’re facedown on the table. Your attacking hand is caged in by a much larger, much stronger one, pinned to the decaying wood; the other, he pins behind your back. Pills litter the floor — Joel’s boot crunches into a wayward one as he adjusts himself behind you, leaning over your struggling, smaller frame, immobilizing you with his weight.

“Let go of me—” you hiss, words smothered by the wooden surface pressed to your profile.

“—Shut up ‘n listen,” he commands, leaning over to tower over his trapped victim. “Try that again n’I’ll do worse’n kill you. Understand?”

Despite the authenticity of his threat, a strangled laugh wracks your lungs.

“Gonna turn me in for contraband, Miller? Watch them gun me down in the square?”

You smile through your heavy breaths. There, behind your hips, is a growing movement indicative of some other kind of punishment he’s got in mind.

“Or,” you continue on coyly, “Give me another reason to need that pill?”

Joel pauses, untangling your meaning.

Then, an exasperated scoff. His hold tightens on your wrist and you wince. “You always thinkin’ of the fastest way to get a man to fuck you?”

“Only when his cock’s pressed against my ass.”

He goes quiet — only for a moment. Somewhere outside, rounds echo through the night.

“Z’that what you want?” His voice is deep and threatening, promising of the kind of hard, mind-numbing fuck you’d been craving for weeks.

After a hard swallow, you nod, catching the raise of his eyebrows in your periphery.

A moment passes as he mulls over your answer. Only your shallow, anticipatory breaths populate the quiet space.

“Alright.”

And he lets go.

Heart racing, wrists aching, you flip around to his neutral, impenetrable expression.

“Get down on your knees.”

Without taking a moment to decide whether you’re living anything more than just a really fucked up dream, you sink to your knees, folding your hands in your lap (to stop them from shaking). Before you, Joel’s bulge twitches while he watches you yielding to submission, and you try to ignore the excitement building between your own two legs.

His eyes burn into yours: black, starved, weighty. He tells you to shut your own and you do, unable to resist the tone of his command. Within the self-imposed darkness, Joel’s following order — ‘open your mouth,’ — parts your lips as if they were under his spell. You wonder what you must look like to him, needy and ready to receive whatever you’re given.

He speaks again.

“Show me your tongue, angel.”

The gruffness punctuating his arousal doesn’t let you stand a chance. You let your mouth fall open wider.

Next, there’s rustling. You try to remember whether or not he’d had on a belt, listening and failing to hear the soft clinks of a buckle coming undone.

Too soon, something wraps around your chin — thick, calloused fingers — and the pressure of a thumb running down the middle of your tongue sends a rush of electricity down every stacked vertebrae. It’s slow, tantalizingly slow, as if the man were trying to memorize the feel of every groove, ridge, and bud on his leisurely way out.

When Joel drops his hand, a small weight remains at the back of your throat.

“Close.”

You do, opening your eyes to meet his own: severe and wanting — or wanting for severity?

It’s a pill. That much is obvious once the taste begins to spread, bitter and chemical and totally gag-worthy. He follows up with ‘swallow’ for his own sick enjoyment; by the time he says it, it’s clear that you already have.

What kind of game is this, Miller?

Your cheeks burn when your company kneels down. He places his big, broad hand partly on your neck, partly to the side of your jaw, and you’re still too taken aback to tear it off. The feel of his rough palm against your racing pulse silences every urge to enact revenge. Words don’t come — too quickly forgotten on one’s knees.

“You’re way too easy for your own good, sweetheart,” he near-whispers, shooting to kill in a blow packed tight with condescension. “Don’t let me see you here again.”

And that’s it: your cue to get lost.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Miller pulls away from your reddening skin, straightening to stand. You follow suit soon after, heart pumping lead, tongue bruised by the memory of his touch (more overwhelming than the metallic residue dripping down your throat).

He turns, running a few fingers through his hair. It’s the last look you get before resigning yourself to the journey back home.

Still, before turning the rusted handle, in a brief moment of respite, of clarity, you seize the final word:

“I’m only ‘easy’ when I’m drunk. Or interested.”

Silence courses through the room as Joel registers the meaning behind your confession.

“Goodnight, Miller.”

With that, you see yourself into the hallway, checking its status before tearing into the stairwell.

You barely breathe.

He wanted me — he had to have wanted me.

Miller was a pragmatic player; surely, he’d only bother to play with toys he liked like that… right?

Right?

Unable to clear your head or cool the heat radiating through your core, you take the long way home, the distant sounds of a war between rivals soothing the cacophony of noise swimming between your ears.

—

For the next two weeks, all you’re able to think about is him.

You think about him when he’s gone and when he’s in the room, grumbling in hushed tones to your father. You think about him when you’re unable to fall asleep, letting your hands slip beneath the waistband of your shorts, imagining your own fingers as thick, tan ones running through the warmth between your legs.

He takes no notice of you — a fact you deeply resent. Even in your skimpiest clothing, he’s like a damn horse with blinders on. You decide, in the past weeks, he’d either acquired the patience of Job or purged every sinful craving from his system when he’d stuck his fingers down your throat.

Naturally, you’re more than happy when, at breakfast (two in the afternoon), your father gives you the heads up about tonight’s gathering at the Bar (which was really just an asbestos-ridden basement equipped with enough prohibition-style gadgets and architecture to host a good ‘strategic meeting’ every other month).

“Everyone’s gonna be there,” he mumbles. “Need you to keep your ears open. Had to take a couple rats out last week…”

Everyone’s gonna be there.

Smiling to yourself, your thoughts start to spin out. Business, distractions, booze. Tonight would host a million opportunities for you to get him alone.

Hope blooms through your chest.

Do your worst, Miller.

—

“Man, I wish we could’ve experienced cocktails. Straight hooch is ass.”

A peer named Mel, just a year older than yourself, cringes as she sips on whatever murky liquor’s found its way into her cup.

You don’t mind the taste so much, having grown mostly immune to its taste and burn. In fact, you’d come to welcome the subsequent lapse in breath and judgement.

There was little else in this world that made you feel alive.

“Mhm,” you respond absent-mindedly, looking for a familiar scowl among the mass of scowls peppering the crowd.

A sigh to your right. “Always awesome, having your attention.”

The criticism snaps you back into your body. You smile sheepishly at your friend, apologizing through a wince.

She shrugs, her raggedy, pin-decorated jacket jingling with the movement. “S’okay. Known you long enough to know that look.”

For that, she receives a quizzical glance.

Mel comes back with a scoff. “No victims tonight?”

“Oh god,” you shoot her a look of disgust. “Do you mind not using such weird vocabulary? Make me sound like a predator.”

As the words tumble out, you zero in on the object of your search. There he is: eyebrows knit together in concentration, drink in hand, unsurprisingly (and annoyingly) in conversation with your father. A few other stragglers are in the mix, too, but they’re easily overlooked. Time slows to a full stop in his wake —only for the briefest of seconds —

“Well since the last guy actually wound up dead a week later, I think it’s fitting.”

Once again, Mel’s managed to wrangle your interest.

You stare blankly into her onyx eyes, ringlets falling through molasses around her face. “Jeremy?”

And she’s bewildered. “You didn’t hear?”

This time, both of your heads turn in the same direction.

“Ratted to FEDRA about the storehouse off tenth,” she explains, gesturing towards Miller and your father with a tilt of her head. Famous for her bravery, she stoops into your shoulder, averting his gaze and speaking under her breath, “Judging by the way they found him, my guess is it was mostly Miller’s stuff.”

It’s as if she’d screamed it.

The subject of your conversation turns to face you right as your company’s words drift off. Despite the level of noise, the amount of people, and the cloudiness of the air, you’re trapped in the corridor of your mutual stare, cornered.

The challenge, the knowing marking his expression.

“I need some air.”

You twist into the body standing behind you, shoving row after row of criminal scum out of the way. Mel doesn’t follow — she’d never hung around to comfort you, only to inform you. A mutual, typical relationship for the age, and just how things worked in the QZ.

You slam into the door, stomping into a deserted, silent alley, empty save for a few drunk strays. Your lips begin to tingle and a scream builds inside your lungs. Stalking blindly into the night, unsure of your direction, alone in half a top and a plain, ass-length skirt, shivering despite the warmth of the air…

You’re practically begging for trouble.

Just as your eyes catch the numbers on the old, rusted street sign above, just as you realize you’re on a monitored street tonight, only safe after curfew every other Monday and Wednesday, you’re grabbed by the waist, pulled into the space between two buildings, and shoved into a sheltered nook.

A dim, yellow light clicks on automatically. There’s a door (chained closed) leading into the building to your left and darkness to your right.

And there’s Joel Miller above you, his expression indeterminable.

“You asshole,” you barely hear yourself breathe over the sound of the blood rushing in your ears before lunging forward in a useless attempt to, once again, strike his profile.

He catches your wrist, no doubt having anticipated the attack. It’s written on your face, in your eyes, in your shallow, uneven inhalations. He takes your other hand before you’ve even thought to use it, lifting it above your head and slamming it against the old stucco behind you.

“You’re violent,” he says flatly.

He tightens his hold when you struggle against it. “Proud of yourself, yeah? You’re a killer.”

That inspires a slight smirk. You half expect him to return with an ‘as if you didn’t already know that.’

Instead, he says, “Sweetheart, you didn’t even know his name.”

“You should’ve told me.”

And that’s the real source of this anger: it’s rage at being the last to know.

And for what? To protect your feelings? Since when had anyone in your life bothered to do that?

“And don’t call me ‘sweetheart’,” you add for good measure.

You’d wanted him to touch you so badly for weeks now, but here, scorned at being left in the dark and confused at the death of a paramour, you only want to get free.

“And what’d he call you?” He spits, leaning down and in, inadvertently pressing his thigh between your legs — when his breath grazes the skin of your ear, it causes them to part (against your better judgement). “Got lots of names, right?” He continues to tease, “Heard your boyfriend’s pretty one for you before I shut him up — ‘that fuckin’ slut,’ f’I’m rememberin’ right.”

Despite your rage-shakes, you’re warming at the core, Joel’s pressure against it dizzying your already-addled head. It confuses you, makes the scorn easier to access.

“How did I come up, Miller?” You exhale, jutting your chin towards him. “Couldn’t help asking for all the dirty little details, could you?”

He smiles, and the act lacks any sort of kindness. “‘Lot easier gettin’ him alone once he thought he was meetin’ you.” Joel slams your wrist harder into the wall when you try to wriggle away. “Not sure you wanna keep making that kind of impression, angel.”

It’s hard to rationalize with him so close, as his pet-names echoe inside your head. He’d used your name to enact gang-law violence on a boy who’d been inside you, and yet, all you can think, all you can hear, is the way ‘sweetheart’ sounds tumbling off his lips.

“Fucking let me go, Miller,” you manage to exasperate, resenting the begging edge to every word. “I don’t need another abstinence lecture from you.”

Kicking one ankle off balance, Joel turns you around, pressing your stomach to the wall, your back into his chest. Ignoring your whines and pitiful struggle, he wraps a free hand around your neck, pushing your head against his collarbone. Your stomach erupts with butterflies as the rough pad of his thumb traces the front of your throat.

Yes — no — yes, he wants me — no, no, this is wrong, this is so wrong —

“‘Be wasted on you, anyways,” he says, rough and earnest, like his hand sliding down your chest, your breasts, your stomach, “Startin’ to realize if I can’t fix your dad’s mistakes…” and he’s finding the hem of your skirt and yanking it up, bunching the fabric around your hips —

“Might as well take advantage of them.”

He moves hungrily. He’s everywhere, sliding into your underwear and across your breasts, his big arms and suffocating biceps enveloping your entire frame.

“Joel—”

But he claps a hand over your mouth, silencing any hope of your pleas being effective.

“Think I haven’t seen you? Your lil’ looks…” a low laugh, “n’ those fuckin’ clothes?” God, the rumble, the sheer want in his voice hammers at your initial resistance, and you feel yourself welcoming the feel of his thick, long fingers, sliding between your wet folds. You’re clay, melting against the curved, firm wall of his chest.

You mewl pathetically into his palm.

Another low laugh wracks his lungs, dances at the top of your ear.

“Knew you’d be this wet for me.”

“Knew since you got down on your knees,” Joel continues, uncovering your mouth only to ease a few fingers between your lips — lips that part as though commanded, and a mouth that welcomes and caresses whatever it receives, “‘N opened this pretty lil’ mouth for me to fuck it. Can’t close my eyes without seein’ you like that — so fuckin’ needy.” He exhales from between his teeth, signalling his approval while you suck him down to the knuckles.

His fingers tease your clit and you give him your thanks by pleasuring those of his other hand.

When his hands move, it’s to hold you steady and balanced as he drags your underwear down your legs. That thick, heavy cloud of arousal hides any and all rational thoughts from view.

And he knows. He knows you’re past the point of no return, restraining you only out of his desire to rather than out of a real need to. He knows from the whine you breathe at the loss of his hand against your clit, moving to work at his belt buckle instead.

“Gonna use a condom?” You breathe, emboldened by your clearing senses at the temporary lack of stimulation.

At first, you think he’s missed your taunt.

He backs up, pulling your hips along with him until the tips of your fingers are no longer touching the decaying wall before you. Joel pulls you upright and against him with an arm around your waist and a hand around your throat, turning your head and tilting it back to meet your eyes.

You grasp onto his forearms, failing to stand, unable to breathe. His hardness digs into your back, and his cruel eyes show you just how much pleasure he takes in your struggle.

“Don’t like to waste ‘em,” he finally answers, rocking his cock against your spine, “But I will if you beg. You gonna beg?”

He manipulates your answer, fingers moving to your red-hot core — he barely grazes the nerves, only dancing over the needy flesh. You can’t tear your eyes from him either, tethered to your body through his gaze.

Joel Miller was a frustrating lover.

“N-no,” is your answer, slightly strangled and softly stuttered.

He smiles. “S’what I thought.” Then, “Show me what you can do, angel,” he coos, lips just inches away from yours, his hold on your body relaxing —

“Use your pretty lil’ hands n’ put my cock where you want it most.”

And you both know exactly where that is.

After a nod, Joel allows you to bend forward slowly — it’s like moving through honey. Your legs burn with effort as you reach between your legs to wrap a hand around his thick, hard length.

Christ, he’s huge.

He groans when you touch him and uses his own hand to help guide his tip between your folds. One hand holds your waist, fingers extended under your ribs to support your weight in a skilled show of experience.

With his tip at your aching entrance, you try to lean back, to slide yourself slowly down his many inches.

But Joel doesn’t allow it.

He pushes into you in one go, clicking his tongue at your strangled gasp —

The man hadn’t even bothered to open you up with his fingers.

“Ah, c’mon,” he condescends, “You can take it.”

Then he’s setting a hard pace, hands moving from your hips to your ribs to your biceps to your hair to your neck — anywhere he wanted to go, he went. One eventually comes to the front of your throat, tilting your eyes back and up towards the ceiling. Every one of his thrusts arches your back further until you’re contorting into a half-moon shape, standing only by the grace of his support.

And it feels so good. Joel fills you up to the brim, takes you to heaven and floods your ears with hymns, punishes you in the kind of way you’d only experienced in dreams.

Words tumble out, but they’re filled with nothingness. “Joel,” “fuck,” and “yesohgodyes,” quickly become staples of your vocabulary.

He laughs whenever you sob, grows harder every time you moan, restrains you when you try to run away.

The hand around your throat tightens, digging unforgivably into the flesh as you start to let go, as your walls begin to clench and flutter appreciatively around his cock.

“M’I making you happy, sweetheart? My cock making you smile?” He asks gruffly, pulling you back into his chest. Joel readjusts you into whatever shape you need to be in at the new angle, hips still slamming into your ass. Struggling to stand on your tiptoes, he steadies you with his arms and his hand on your jaw, forcing you to look up into his rugged face.

“Mmhm,” is all you can offer him, the pitch jumping up halfway through when the head of his cock grazes that perfect spot inside your cunt.

He doesn’t let up.

“Show me, baby—” he commands, out of breath, too, but not nearly as tortured as you, “—Show me your smile.”

You do your best, smiling up at him, degrading yourself even more at the hands of Joel-fucking-Miller. And he eats it up, loves the way your grin turns into a bitten lip and knit eyebrows over closed eyes, slowing his thrusts to rock even deeper inside you.

You moan something unintelligible, and a laugh rustles through your tangled hair.

“Am I makin’ you come?”

You nod, feeling that familiar rush of pressure blooming somewhere within that throbbing bundle of nerves under his spell.

He smirks in pride and victory, the last look you get before your head falls against his shoulder, your muscles going lax as the peak builds, as your half-sobs grow louder.

“S’it, baby, tell ‘em,” he coos, nipping and sucking the skin on the side of your throat. “Gonna tell the whole street how you take it like a good lil’ slut.”

His fingers fall to your clit, enticing you right over the edge. You vision blurs and your legs shake, but Joel talks you through your orgasm, sweet nothings starting with, “S’right — show me — yes, fuck — good girl…”

And then —

He stops.

You whine, stars dancing before your eyes as the mean, mean man inside you refuses to fuck you through your climax.

“Joel,” you plead, grinding back against him in a pathetic show of need, “Come with me.”

He does the opposite, sliding himself out of your sore opening. You turn to face him, restoring your balance with hands against his chest, gazing up at him in desire-stricken reproach.

“Use your mouth,” he says, voice gruff at your ruined sight and from his own hand on his cock, keeping his arousal level, “Not gettin’ any more help from me.”

It’s unclear whether ‘help’ means pills or his cock, but you assume both to be safe.

You try to argue (having spent the last few weeks dreaming of Joel dripping down your legs) but he just won’t budge.

Then, his voice softens.

“You know your dad’d kill me, angel.”

And it’s really the sweetness of his tone that does it.

Sinking to your knees, it’s déjà vu when you open wide for him, steadying your shaking knees with both hands on his half clothed, half naked hips. Gravel and debris dig painfully into your bare knees, but you ignore the sting, smiling instead at the taste of yourself on Joel’s cock, lips sliding adoringly down the thick length of it.

He groans his approval, tangling his fingers in your hair to help guide your movements.

As you take him in again and again and again, pleasing every inch of him, he chokes out a laugh.

“Never seen you so quiet,” he muses (mostly to himself), caressing your cheekbone with his free hand —

“Gagged by an old man’s cock.”

You pull off, pumping him with both hands, asking breathlessly, “Are you all so big?”

He smiles, eyes darkening at the dirty compliment. “Give you a few numbers n’ you can tell me.”

God, he’s beautiful from down here.

You hold his attention and lick a slow stripe down the underside of his cock, half-grinning up at his lust-filled expression.

“I only want yours, Joel Miller.”

An uneasy inhale as you take him back in, his brows furrowing and his cock growing impossibly harder. Your words please him, he returns by groaning orders and praises like: “S’all yours, baby — take it all — take aaall that dick — good fuckin’ girl.”

He’s so close and you know it, moaning in submission at his hand’s pressure against the back of your head. With your nose crunched into his abdomen, you hold your throat open for him to use it however he pleases — reduced to nothing more than the man’s plaything.

There’s a low “ah, fuck,” from above, and then you finally know what Joel Miller tastes like.

It’s better than the Plan B.

You hear nothing beyond his recovering breaths, feel nothing past pride, lust, and exhaustion.

Eventually, he loosens his grip. You pull off of him delicately, drawing a groan from between his gritted teeth when you make sure to suck every last drop of his seed into your mouth.

Sitting back on your ankles, you roll your head up to face him.

He swipes a thumb under your lips, clearing the saliva connecting you to his softening cock.

“Still mad at me?” He asks.

You’d be crazy to say yes.

“Only for pulling out.”

You note the twitch at the corner of his mustache.

Joel helps you back on your feet, using one hand to pull you up by your arm and another to arrange himself back to decency.

You adjust your shirt; Joel fixes your skirt. It’s a strange kind of silence settling inside this pocket at the side of a random, ruined building.

Then, your company clears his throat, that mask of seriousness falling over his expression once again.

“You gonna be smart?”

What ever could he mean?

Stay away from him? Stay away from men? Practice abstinence? Use protection?

Either way, you’re not one to make promises you know you can’t keep.

You cross your arms.

“No.”

He sighs.

Well, looks like things are already back to normal.

His face softens and he shakes his head, already regretting his next words. “Just — just come find me, then. I won’t do… this again, but — but I’ll help.”

You frown.

“What do you mean, ‘this’?”

He stares down into your accusatory eyes with a look you’d received many times from him, one screaming, “get real.”

“Fine,” you mutter, breaking eye-contact, “Thank you.”

With a stoic nod, he walks around you, heading back into the night. You try, in vain, to watch him go in silence — god knows you had some thinking to get to — and find that, instead of getting it out of your system, the entanglement had only left you wanting for more.

And more and more.

“Is this what you meant?” and you hear his footsteps halt, “When you told me you’d do worse than kill me? When I tried to hit you?”

It comes out before you can help it, and you twist around to face his still, broad shoulders.

You can hear the smile teasing his lips as he utters the words.

“Why are you askin’ me that?”

Still facing his back, you break into a smile of your own. “So I’ll know what I have to do to get you to do it again.”

You watch him shake his head, grey-streaked ripples in the low light.

“Try your best not to find out, angel.”

With that, he disappears into the darkness, leaving you in the flickering doorway. Thighs aching, heart racing, you take a deep breath, trying to memorize the feeling of what it felt to have them taken from you by Joel Miller.

A feeling you’d chase.

—

Put your red boots on

Baby, giddy up

Baby wants a dance

Baby gets her way

Dreamy nights

Talk to me with that whiskey breath

Twirl me twice

I'll treat you like a holiday

And don't say you're over me

When we both know that you ain't

Don't say you're over me

Baby, it's already too late

Just do what you do best with me

Dance me all around the room

Spin me like a ballerina, super high

Dance me all around the moon

Light me up like the 4th of July

Once, twice, three times

The guy I ever thought I would meet, so

Don't say you're over me

When we both know that you lie

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

When you lie down right next to me

Get your jacket on

Be a gentleman

Get into your truck

And pick me up at eight

'Cause we were built for

The long haul freight train

Burnt by fire

Without trial like a stowaway

And don't say you're over me

When they all know that you ain't

If you lay down right next to me

Dance me all around the room

Spin me like ballerina super high

Dance me all around the moon

Like six times 'til I'm sick and I cry

Once, twice, three times

The guy I ever thought I would meet, so

Don't say you're over me

When they all know that you're lying

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

Lie, you lie

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

Lie, you lie

When you lie down right next to me

—

TAGLIST (cont’d in reblogs): @millllenniawrites @inkedells @stardust-chords-enthusiast @mattmurdocksgirlfriend @liviloo12346 @anyas-stuff @readingsunshine97 @maudlinflowers @sullysflm @sexygaypalpatine @livyjh @s-unflowxr @lostsoldieronahill @chapterhappygirl @silkiers @jupitersmoon-cal @supernaturaldean67 @peqchsoup @corrodedcherries @hawsx3 @monboudoir @theonewithacrush @pono-pura-vida @fruitcupsworld @mads-grace4 @killerrxger @niallsbunny @snowyarcher @grnherbs @mswarriorbabe80 @tercabed @sweettea-and-honeybutter @bbyanarchist @thisgirl-knm @pedrit0-pascalit0 @redhotkitchen @isitselfishifwetalkaboutmeagain @pseudonymist @goldengrapejuice @soullumii @kamcrazy123 @wclverine

[lol-jackles]

https://deadline.com/2024/06/jared-padalecki-says-yes-to-the-boys-eric-kripke-1235980239/

Thoughts?

Link. Announced 36 hours after Walker penultimate episode no less.

I've said a month ago here that Jared can't say "no" for the sake of maintaining good relations. There's a saying in the industry that you always pick up the phone. Even if Walker wasn’t cancelled, Jared would still be under pressure to at least make a cameo during the hiatus. Plus Kripke has a habit of running his mouth and open his twitter hole (x) (x).

What Jared has going for him is he has some leverage since it's Kripke that wants him and made public promposals about it. A joke came across my TL that Kripke is acquiring SPN top tier actors by ascending popularity: Jensen, then Jeffry Dean Morgan, and finally Jared the biggest prize to complete the J3 trifecta.

With that said, Kripke's main goal is his last-ditch effort to make The Boys have cultural relevancy and he's been hoping that SPN fans will do that. Supernatural's real time viewership was the fraction of The Boy’s real time viewership, but SPN’s fans gave the show relevancy early on and TB has yet to see for themselves.  It’s why Kripke goes very hard on topical references in his interviews because he's under pressure from Amazon studios to create a tv show that is a culture zeitgeist. Except nobody reference or quotes lines from The Boys just like nobody quote lines from Avatar even though it made a billion dollars.  Meet a SPN viewer in the wild and they’ll immediately have a Dean quote for you.  The last SPN fan I met in the wild said, “I’ll guard the flashlight”, referencing when Dean had ghost fever.

The Boys doesn't even have a strong presence in Tumblr because it’s not the kind of show that makes you grow to love the characters. Instead you either pity the characters or you despise them, that doesn’t tend to foster creativity in fanarts and fanfictions that flourish on this hell site.  

Also, take a look at Kripke's quote from Screenrant:

Now this is Jared's quote from Deadline:

They're reading from the same script.

[venussaidso]

• 𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐈 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 — 𝐍𝐚𝐤𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐚 𝐎𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟓

Came back online despite being very dramatic about going on a hiatus just to say!!! that these are all Ashwini Moons and no one can convince me otherwise. I DO NOT CARE.

Also one is a confirmed Ashwini Moon, guess which one.

(yes jared leto who was tom hiddleston's look alike for some years. yes his birthtime accuracy is rated excellent. look at the shape of his eyes, and tom's, and alexis bledel's. they have the same eye shape. even as cilian's. the eyes are childlike and expressive. these are sidereal aries moons. ashwini faces.)

And just watched Oppenheimer and Cilian Murphy is playing Ashwini Sun J Robert Oppenheimer.

The shape of the eyebrows, despite one being thicker than the other, are literally the same. And the eyes! Ashwini!!!

Oppenheimer's wife in the film is played by Shatabhisha Sun Emily Blunt and the two go on horse ridings which is also an interesting detail as Ashwini & Shatabhisha are horse yonis (which also means they're extremely compatible). Cilian Murphy's eyes look Ashwini as well as J Robert Oppenheimer's, they're big and sensitive, sometimes they're scary and sometimes they look childlike. And yes Tom Hiddleston to me is an Ashwini Moon, his birth time is unconfirmed and in the date he was born he's either Revati or Ashwini Moon. I don't know why the other possibility isn't challenged. He was in a historical piece alongside Ashwini Moon Benedict Cumberbatch called WAR HORSE.

Film summary: "Albert and his horse Joey are inseparable. However, when Joey is sold off to the British cavalry, Albert follows him in the hope of reuniting with his best friend."

Tom Hiddleston played Captain Nicholls as seen above.

The horse is not just the yoni of Ashwini, it is the symbol of this nakshatra, it is how the DEITIES of this nakshatra look like. (Ashwini Moon Tom Shelby (a character who's actively involved in a gambling ring that involves horse racing bets) on his black horse which he named Grace's Secret).

So horse symbolism runs more deep in this nakshatra. So that's an important detail.

The very war themes of the film and the two getting through that to reunite in the end is very Martian. Mars represents war, Aries descendant is Libra/7H which is friendships. Which interesting enough, the film was directed by Libra Moon Steven Spielberg.

Albert in the film is played by Ashwini Moon Jeremy Irvine.

As you can see, he has the Ashwini eyes. Compare his eye shape to the first four Ashwini Moons I started mentioning. And it's the same shape. It seems that Ashwinis have either round/round-ish almond eyes or just simple almond eyes. His eyes appear very sensitive, present and childlike even. And he has a youthful appearance. Which is typical Ashwini.

These are Ashwini Moon faces idc idc idc!!!

(ashwini is so underrepresented i feel like a lot of them are lumped in with revatis and that kinda irritates me ngl)

Also, Christopher Nolan really likes his Ashwini Moons. Fun fact; Ashwini Moon native Cilian Murphy lost his role of Batman to another Ashwini Moon native Christian Bale. But continued to work with Christopher Nolan. Funny cause I see that Ardras really love Ashwinis. Nolan is an Ardra Moon. Him and Cilian have done three projects together now. Him and Christian Bale have done Batman films and also The Prestige (so 4).

I have no idea what Ardras have to do with Ashwinis but they're simps for them frfr.

[adoringjaredpadalecki]

2024 Liverpool Comic Con

Long time no see guys!!! With the upcoming appearance of Jared on 'Fire Country' the site has been taken off hiatus & updates are resuming. Today the first of two updates is of Jared at the 2024 Liverpool Comic Con from back in May. The site has been updated with video & photos from Jared's Q&A/Panel with Mark Sheppard on the 5th May. Enjoy!! Love & Light - Saṃsāra xoxo

Link: 2024 Liverpool Comic Con

[samsluckycharms]

Just coming back from hiatus to say Happy birthday Jared.

[cleighwrites]

Late Night Call

SPN Fanfic

Characters - Jared x Jensen

Summary - Jared and Jensen are on hiatus from filming, and Jared's missing Jensen something terrible. He calls him and things escalate quickly.

Word Count - 1,938

A/N - Aaaaand I'm BACK!! It's been almost a year since I've written fanfic, and I just couldn't help but write something for the @spnkinkevents D/s weekend! Be gentle with me!! lol

Prompted and beta'd by @jld71 with some assistance from @buffywoo

Warnings - D/s relationship, Dom!Jared, sub!Jensen, phone sex, come play

Read here on Ao3

One week into their hiatus and Jared was missing Jensen something terrible. More than just the feel of him, or the sound of his voice, but just his solid presence and sense of security. He grounded Jared in a way that few others could. 

Jared waited until he knew Jensen would be alone in his room and called him. 

“Hey,” Jensen answered, his whiskey-smooth voice coming through the tiny phone speaker and calming Jared’s soul.

“Hey,” Jared said smiling. “How was your day?”

“Good; went to the lake and went out on the jet skis. Mack flipped twice.” Jared could hear the smile in his voice. 

“That sounds like a great day.”

“What did you do?” he asked. 

“Nothing much, just swam in the pool some, read a book.” 

“You read an entire book today?” Jensen sounded shocked. 

“Yeah…”

“I forget how fast you read…” 

Jared laughed. They sat in silence for a little while, Jared imagined Jensen lying leisurely in his bed. 

“You in bed?” he asked, unable to control the yearning in his voice.

Jared could hear him shuffle. “Yeah…” he answered, voice drawing out the word, like he knew where Jared was steering the conversation. “You?”

“Yup,” Jared answered. “Is everyone else asleep?”

“Most likely.”

“Good,” Jared said. “Wanna play?”

Jensen didn’t hesitate to answer, “Yes.”

Jared took in a deep breath. He loved playing with Jensen. He was so responsive and obeyed so well. Of course, it was better in person, but just because they were a few counties away from each other, didn’t mean he couldn’t still get that feeling of control. 

“Yes, what?” 

“Yes, Sir,” Jensen corrected himself. 

“Good boy. Have you been a good boy since we last spoke?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Jared’s dick swelled. “You haven’t touched yourself at all?” 

“No, Sir. Only to pee.”

Just as Jared had instructed him. “What are you wearing right now?”

“Just my boxer briefs.”

“Mmm,” Jared hummed, pleased, picturing Jensen’s thighs hugged by the tight, black material. “Are you hard?”

“Getting there, Sir.”

“I am, just picturing you lying in bed, waiting for me to call you, not touching yourself. Being so good for me.”

Jensen moaned. Jared could feel his growing desperation through the phone. 

“I want you to run your fingers down your neck. Start behind your ear, and keep your touches light.” 

“Yes, Sir.” 

Jared could hear Jensen’s breaths pick up as he followed directions. He could see him in his mind’s eye, eyes squeezed shut, phone in one hand as his other traced a delicate line down his throat. 

“Keep them going, down past your collarbone, down over your peck, around your sensitive nipple. You like me touching you like this?”

“Yes, Sir,” Jensen breathed into the phone. 

“You’ve been a good boy, you deserve to be touched. Pinch your nipple for me, make it hurt.” 

Jensen hummed and it turned into a pain-filled growl. 

“Good boy, now do the other one.”

“Yes, Sir.” 

Jared could hear the shift in Jensen’s voice. He sounded more like he was speaking on autopilot than he had been before. Jared loved that he could lead Jensen to that special place where only his voice and his pleasure existed. 

When he heard Jensen moan again, he reached into his boxers and grabbed hold of his aching cock, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Good boy,” Jared groaned into his phone. 

“Thank you, Sir. Where do you want to touch next?” he asked, breathy and clearly turned on. 

“Are you hard now?” Jared asked.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Mmm,” Jared hummed again, slowly stroking himself. “I want you to trail your fingers down to your hips. Stay over the top of your boxer briefs. And don’t touch your cock. You can touch anywhere you want to on your torso.” 

“Yes, Sir.”

“Tell me what you’re doing.”

“I’m running my fingers down my stomach. My muscles are so tight I can feel the bumps of my abs. Oh!” Jensen stopped for a moment, breathing heavily into the phone. “I hit that spot just beside my belly button that makes my dick jerk.” 

Jared knew that spot well, he liked to suck on it and make Jensen squirm and moan beneath him. “Do it again, rub circles around it,” Jared commanded. 

“Ung,” Jensen made a strangled noise, “Y- yes, Sir.”

“You’re being so good for me,” Jared praised. Being on the phone meant that he had to be more vocal for Jensen to know how much his obedience was appreciated. 

Jensen moaned, his voice cutting off partway through.

“Does it feel good?” Jared asked, picking up the pace of his strokes.

“Feels so good, Sir. Thank you.”

Jared smiled, so pleased with his good boy. “You’re very welcome. Ready to move on, now?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Okay, put your phone on speaker and turn the volume down, then use both hands and I want you to run your fingers along your hips and go down to your thighs. Tease under the hem of your briefs; let yourself feel my fingers digging into your inner thighs. Tell me how it feels.”

“It tickles a little bit, but it feels so good,” Jensen whispered, the phone must have been on his chest because his voice was coming from further away. Jared could still hear his breathing, though, and the sound was equally comforting and stimulating. 

“If I was there, I’d nibble on your inner thighs. Pinch them for me, big pinches, make ‘em hurt.”

Jensen moaned, almost too loud for his current situation, but the sound was enough to draw out some precum from Jared’s dick. Jared spread it around his head with his thumb and kept stroking, imagining that he was there with Jensen and eating him alive. 

“Please,” Jensen begged. 

“Please, what, sweet boy?” Jared purred.

“Please, can I touch myself?”

Jared chuckled. “You are touching yourself.” 

“Please, Sir. Can I touch my dick?” Jensen begged. 

Jared could hear the desperation in his voice and it made his cock throb. This strong, confident man was asking for permission from Jared to touch his own cock. The power flowed through his body and made him quiver with it.

Still, he couldn’t let certain things slide. “I don’t know, can you?”

Jensen groaned, not in a sexy way. “May I touch my dick, Sir?” 

“Okay, I want you to run your fingers over your shaft, but keep the touches light and only use one hand. On the outside of your briefs,” Jared added as an afterthought. 

Jensen groaned in displeasure, but added, “Yes, Sir,” before Jared could reprimand him. 

“Tell me how good it feels,” Jared instructed. 

“Feels so good. I want more. Please, Sir.” Jensen’s voice was strained. 

“Not just yet. Run your finger over your head. Are you wet for me?”

“Nngh,” Jensen slurred. “Yes, Sir.”

“You’re such a good boy, nice and hard and wet for me.” Jared held the base of his cock to keep from shooting his load too soon with the thought of Jensen wrung out, and sticky with precum soaking his briefs all for him. 

“Yes, Sir.”

“Are you still rubbing your head? Getting all that cum stuck to your briefs, feeling how wet you are.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Mmm, I want you to bring your fingers to your mouth and clean them off for me. Let me know when you’ve finished.”

Jared listened as Jensen openly slurped on his fingers. He could almost see Jensen’s plush lips wrapping around his fingers and sucking his own cum off the tips. That lewd image had Jared almost coming in the tight fist of his hand all over again. 

“‘M finished, Sir.”

“And what do we say?”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Mmm. You’re very welcome. How do you taste?” Jared wished he was there to be able to answer the question for himself. He’d have had Jensen’s briefs wet with his spit by this point.

“Good, Sir.”

“I bet. Alright, I think you’ve earned your reward. I want you to leave your briefs on, but you can reach in and grab yourself. I want you to start slow. Long strokes, all the way up your cock.” 

Jensen moaned. 

“That’s it, let me hear how much you like it. Tell me how good it feels.”

“F- feels sooo good.” Jensen’s breaths were getting heavier and he could barely answer. 

“Run your thumb across your head. Smear all that precum around and get yourself nice and wet for me.”

Jensen made an unintelligible noise of pleasure. Jared’s balls were getting heavy and he could feel the knot in his stomach pulling tighter. He wasn’t going to last much longer, but he wanted to hold out for Jensen. He loved timing their orgasms to coincide. It didn’t always happen; most of the time he enjoyed wringing several orgasms out of Jensen before he would allow himself to come. But Jensen seemed to like knowing that he’d made Jared come, so he always wanted to give him that satisfaction. This was a give-and-take relationship, after all.

“Are you ready to come?” Jared asked. He sure as hell was.

“Yes,” Jensen breathed. “Please, may I come, Sir?”

“Yes, stroke yourself hard and fast, I want it to hurt, come whenever you're ready. I wanna hear it,” Jared answered. 

Jared could hear the slapping of skin over the line, mixed deliciously with Jensen’s whinny breaths heaving into the receiver. 

“Uh, ung, uh!!” Jensen grunted as he came.

Jared responded with grunts of his own, his release spilling out over his fingers onto his stomach and all the way up to his chest. His cock pulsed in his hand. 

“Wring yourself out for me, keep pumping that cock until every last drop comes out,” Jared commanded between breaths. 

“Ah! Yes, Sir,” Jensen gritted out, clearly uncomfortable, but still pleasuring himself. 

“Good boy,” Jared said, pulling his hand off his cock, watching as his cum stretched out between his fingers; wishing he had Jensen’s mouth to clean him up. 

“Ung. Thank you, Sir.”

“Are you finished?” Jared asked, genuinely curious if he was still coming. 

“Yes, now I am, Sir.” Jensen’s breaths were deep and even pants. 

“Good boy. Now, clean yourself up. Lick up every last drop.” 

In Jared’s mind, he watched as Jensen used his fingers to scoop up his creamy mess and brought it to his lips to lick them clean. He could hear the wet sucking of Jensen’s lips. He could feel the ghost of Jensen’s tongue swirling and cleaning each digit. 

“Such a good boy,” Jared purred into his phone. 

“Thank you, Sir,” Jensen slurred.

“How are you feeling?”

“Floaty; really, really good.”

“That’s good. You were so good for me.” 

Jensen mumbled something, but they weren’t full words. 

“Jensen,” Jared said softly.

“Mm?”

“Do you have some water?” Jared asked as he got up to clean himself up.

“Yessir,” he answered.

“I need you to drink some water for me. Then tuck yourself into bed and get some sleep.”

“Yessir,” Jensen said again, words all garbled together. 

Jared waited as he heard the cap of a bottle being opened. He wiped himself off, then got back into bed himself. “Don’t drink too much too fast,” he warned. 

“Yes, Sir,” Jensen said a little more clearly than before. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Jensen.” 

It was quiet for a little while, then Jared heard the rustling of blankets. “Jared?” Jensen asked.

“Yes?”

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow?”

“Of course, good night.”

“Night,” Jensen said, and then the line went dead. 

Jared lay awake for a little while longer, thinking of how much things had progressed between them, and making hopeful plans for their future. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thanks for reading!! Let me know what you thought of it!

[hunterscabin]

This Baby Will Have A Father Part I

Summary: Y/N is an actress on Supernatural. After becoming pregnant, her boyfriend leaves her, not wanting anything to do with the baby. Unsure of what the future holds, her male co-stars show her that she’s not alone. 

Pairings: Reader x SPN Cast

Warnings: Unplanned pregnancy, nervous reader, fluff

Word Count: 1.3k 

Author’s Note: I only have two parts of this story written, and unless it gets major traction, I’m not sure I’ll be writing more. I didn’t want to be a tease and leave y’all hanging, but those who’ve responded said they don’t care and would like to read anyway. Let me know if I should keep going! 

Filming had only resumed one week ago, and you were already having difficulty hiding your pregnancy. Hiatus had come at the perfect time, right when you were really starting to show, but now that you were in your fifth month, loose sweaters and baggy shirts were no longer able to conceal your constantly expanding stomach. You had told wardrobe and the show’s producers, but the life growing inside of you was still a secret to most of the cast and crew.

It had been a hectic day on set, and you were beyond grateful when Bob called for lunch. You saw some of the guys head into Jensen’s trailer and figured now was as good a time as any to tell them you were expecting. Before you could lose the gumption, you marched up to the door, pausing only briefly before knocking.

“Hey, Y/N/N!” Jensen smiled as he opened the door and stepped aside for you to come in. A loud roar of laughter filled the air.

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“Not at all!” Jensen picked up his plate and pulled out the chair he had been using. “Have a seat.”

Along with the featured cast, many guest actors were in town to shoot a special episode. Jared and Misha were sitting at the kitchenette table with Rob while Alex and Rich enjoyed their lunch on the sofa.   

“I think I’ll stand. Thanks, though, Jay.” The palpable apprehension coursing through you was in stark contrast to the lighthearted atmosphere in Jensen’s trailer, and your mood didn’t go unnoticed. 

“Everything okay, Y/N?” Misha asked. Before the break, most of the cast had noticed and even discussed your unusually reserved and distant nature. Misha wondered if your current trepidation had anything to do with your pre-hiatus behavior.

“Yes.” You answered with uncertainty.

You had shared your pregnancy with some of the women in the cast earlier that week, and while their support and advice had been immensely heartening, it was emotionally exhausting going over your story again and again. You thought it’d be easier telling all the guys at once. Now, as your eyes scanned the room, you grew increasingly anxious seeing everyone’s attention on you. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, after all.

“I have some news to share.” you said hesitantly.

“Good news, I hope?” Rob cautioned, his voice full of anticipation.

“Great news, actually.” You took a deep breath, uncrossed your arms, and opened your sweatshirt. “I’m pregnant.”

You smiled tentatively, not knowing how everyone would take the news. After what felt like ages, Alex stood to place a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“Congratulations, Y/N/N!” He beamed, kissing you on the cheek.

Rob and Rich were close behind, both of them pulling you into a warm hug.

“How far along are you?” Rob smiled as he leaned out of the embrace. He held you at arm’s length, taking in the sight of your bump.

“I’m just over five months along.”

“You look great!” Rich exclaimed.

“You really do.” Rob affirmed, giving your shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “I’m amazed you were able to hide this from us for so long. Now that I know, I can’t believe I didn’t see it before!”

“The ladies in wardrobe were very helpful.” You smiled coyly.

You were relieved that Rob, Rich, and Alex seemed genuinely happy, but you couldn’t shake the deafening silence radiating from the table behind you.   

Jared, Jensen, and Misha still hadn’t said anything, so you turned to face them. When your eyes met theirs you could see their shock. They were the big brothers you never had, and you told each other everything. The most painful part of keeping your pregnancy a secret was lying to the three of them, but you had to process your own feelings before telling everyone else. You never imagined you’d find yourself alone and pregnant. In an instant, you went from being a responsible twenty-something who made all of the right decisions to a statistic mothers tell their daughters to scare them into abstinence. It had taken you months to come to terms with your new future. You had no idea how the boys would react.

“Do you know who the father is?” Jared questioned, breaking through the nervous silence.

“Jare.” Jensen chastised, reaching over and smacking Jared upside the head.

“It’s okay.” You flashed them both a soft smile, trying to ease some of the tension. You knew Jared didn’t mean any harm; it was a legitimate question that came from a place of sincere curiosity and not of judgment or ridicule. You hadn’t mentioned to them that you’d been seeing someone for a few months prior to getting pregnant. Your male cast mates tended to be a little too overprotective in the boyfriend department, so you didn’t usually go out of your way to share stories about your dating life.

“I do.” you confirmed. 

“Does he know?” Jared followed up.

“Now that deserves a hit.” you joked, raising your eyebrows and nodding your head toward Jared. As if rehearsed, Jensen brought his hand down across the back of Jared’s head, ruffling his hair in the process.

Everyone snickered, but their laughter quickly faded when they noticed your somber expression.

“He said he isn’t ready to be a father,” your hands instinctively moved to your stomach, “and he doesn’t want any part of this.”

“Y/N, I didn’t…”

“It’s okay, Jare.” you assured, cutting his apology short. Your heart fell at the sight of his sheepish face. The looks of pity you received when telling your story never got easier.

Jensen walked over and placed a hand on the small of your back. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your temple. “Are you okay?” he asked, unsure of what else to say.  

“I am.” Jensen looked at you suspiciously. “Really, I am.”

Your response was truthful. Life circumstances had taught to be strong and capable, and while you knew it would be the greatest challenge you ever faced, you felt prepared to handle life as a single mother. You were built for it.

After a moment of contemplation, you let out a deep sigh. “I just feel bad this little one won’t have a father.”

Your voice was almost a whisper, but everyone in the room heard your concern. A shadow of sadness cast over their faces, each of their hearts quietly breaking at the thought of you and your baby on your own.

“Y/N, you don’t have to do this alone.” Misha reached across the table and took your hand in his. “I will always be here for you.” His blue eyes were full of kindness. 

“We will always be here for you.” Jared emphasized, standing to pull you into a hug.

Their sentiments were beyond touching, but you knew the inordinate amount of work that went into raising a baby, and it was a responsibility you had come to accept alone. You were never one to burden others with your needs, and all of these men had their own families. The last thing you wanted was to interject into their already busy lives.

Not wanting to fight their well intentions, you simply said “Thank you,” and leaned further into Jared’s comforting embrace.

The second you closed the trailer door behind you, everyone let out an audible sigh.

“That explains a lot.” Alex said.

“I’m really worried about her.” Rob confessed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Me too,” Jensen agreed, “She has such a hard time asking for help, and she’s definitely going to need it.”  

“We have to show her we’re serious about being there for her and being a part of this baby’s life.” Misha asserted.

A broad smile spread across Rich’s face, and he stood up from the sofa.

“I think I have an idea.”

Part II

Masterlist

[bitchardhendricks]

After a long hiatus, I'm back swimming in SV waters. Time to finally publish the Tulsa fic on AO3. Chapter 1 is up now! ***

“I just need a fucking break. I need...I think I need to get out of California.” Richard pulls himself up into a sitting position, his knees tucked under his chin. He can hear his mother’s voice in his ear and his stomach flips. Resting his forehead on his knees, he heaves a deep sigh and says, “Will you book a couple of tickets to Tulsa for the weekend?”

“I’d...be happy to, Richard. And you,” Jared clears his throat, “you ah, want two tickets for...?”

Richard looks up, perplexed. “You and me. That’s, I mean, you’ll come with me, right?”

Jared blinks, and his eyes and his smile become watery, but he holds himself together remarkably well. “Of course, Richard.” 

[laf-outloud]

Maybe with a mid-season premier, Jared can take the time to FIX his ACL???

Iirc he kept putting it off bc of walker filming?

It depends on a lot of factors. First off, is if he even needs surgery, or if he's opted for targeted physical therapy.

The second, of course, is timing. They mentioned Walker returning mid-season. If it's January, they likely need to start filming in Sept./Oct. (if the strike(s) are over by then), which doesn't allow for the total 6 months recovery time (though as I understand it, 3-4 months is enough to be relatively mobile - barring complications). If mid-season means March, and he opts for surgery, then yes, it's certainly possible, though it would likely affect the convention schedule.

Like I said, a lot of factors, lol! But I trust that Jared and his doctor(s) know what's best for him.

[seldonhari]

getting ready for exams, missing jared harris hours, photoshop police got me again, happy pride month, still haven't sent any postcards, have been reading more, hiatus, don't look at my letterboxd, hello, hoping everyone's doing well, i like spanish grammar, can't wait to talk to moots, pls tell me what you're into these days, love you, boop

[your-coquette-queen]

GUYS IM BACK!

HEY EVERYONE!

I'm sorry for the two year hiatus, I went through a period where I struggled and I really just had to come out the other side finding who I am. However, I am now back and feel so much happier! In case come of you forgot, I'm Ava! I originally had this account and ended up talking mainly about rock bands (notably KISS), Stranger Things, and Star Wars!

However, over the past two years a lot has honestly changed. I still love music, mainly now pop and musical theatre however I do love rock and still love talking about it with people. I love Star Wars still however my main fandom is currently Supernatural. Hopefully I have some Supernatural enjoyers in my audience and we can connect.

I also love 2000's everything and Incorporate into a lot of my style , so just expect to likely to see lots of 2000's core on here

A little UPDATED bit about me:

IT WILL BE LONG JUST NOTE:

Expect lots of music on here! I think I will just have one blog and move throughout fandoms that I enjoy so expect a bit of everything!

I am Christian! Christianity has been a long journey for me but I am so thankful to be in a really positive place with my faith. I left this blog two years ago with a lot of struggles but have come back overcoming those problems! I likely will not post a lot about faith as that is not the main part of the account but it is a big part of my life and something I am proud of. If I have other Christians here, I am always open to talking!

I love makeup!

Favorite tv shows:

Supernatural

ER

Movies:

Ten Inch Hero

Wedding Crashers

Cinderella Story

Legally Blonde

Without a Paddle

Star Wars: Phantom Menace

Star Wars: A New Hope

Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith

Clueless

Hunger Games

Scooby Doo!

Batman: Dark Knight

Twilight

Princess Diaries

She's the Man

Singers/Bands:

Britney Spears

Christina Aguilera

Rihanna

Destiny's Child

Duran Duran

Katy Perry

Beyonce

NSYNC

Nelly Furtado

Timbaland

Frankie Valley and the Fourth Seasons

Simple Minds

Alice Cooper

KISS

Megadeth

Journey

Motley Crue

The Temptations

Dianna Ross

Michael Jackson

Ice Spice

Lay Bankz

Ayesha Erotica

Meghan Thee Stallion

Fergie

Madonna

Nikki Minaj

Jessie J

Marvin Gaye

1 Direction (when I was like 14 but idc their songs still cook😭😭)

Fav Musicals:

Cats

Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat

Starlight Express

Falsettos

25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee

Book of Mormon

& Juliet

Miss Saigon

Rocky Horror

Spamalot

Back to the Future

Guys and Dolls

Suisical

Pippin

Legally Blonde

Ain't Too Proud

Little Shop of Horrors

Guttenberg

Young Frankenstein

Little Women

Music Genres:

Rock(multiple genres within!)

Pop

80's/90's county

K-Pop

Musical Theatre

Opera/Classical

New Wave

Alternative

Actors/Celebrities I love:

Paris Hilton: SHE'S MY QUEEN/ ONE OF MY BIGGEST INSPIRATIONS

Jared Padalecki

Jensen Ackles

Matthew Lillard

Misha Collins

Christian Bale

Ryan Reynolds

Channing Tatum

Hayden Christensen

Ryan Gosling

Pamela Anderson

Heather Locklear

Chad Michael Murray

Mark Wahlberg

Reese Witherspoon

Josh Hutcherson

Elizabeth Taylor

Taylor Lautner

Tom Cruise

Tom Selleck

I will likely update this as I start interacting on here again but I am so happy to be back!

Excited to talk to some of you guys again🤍

[castielsupernatural]

i love you all very much and love being on here but i think im gonna take a lil hiatus this month, or at least semi hiatus. don’t let jared have a public twitter breakdown without me