#finally lovers
Text
Long Time Coming I Chapter Nine I Electric Love
Summary: Being hired as the first female assistant coach in the league was a challenge of it itself. Being a football protigy and University Football Legend was easy enough. Coaching Jamie Tartt was a challenge all on its own.
Word Count: 2.9k
Warning: Some angst
A/N: Enjoy
Prologue One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight
Jamie gave me some space, for which I was grateful. We had our final match coming up and our dreams of promotion were just in sight. I wanted to be able to focus on what that, the match, which was the most important thing I’d be a part of. But of course, there was only one thing on my mind, and it was Jamie. Without having Jamie around to talk to, I found myself missing him more and more.
I moped my way through the day. Coming to work, going to my desk, going to the pitch, eating a plain salad, and going home. I didn’t want to let it affect my work so when I was on the pitch I tried to stay as unbiased as possible. But honestly, I felt more inadequate than ever. It didn’t help that the media seemed to be shining a light on every mistake you’d ever made in the league.
“Look, all I’m saying is that she’s too much of an amateur to be on the team,” George Cartrick stated firmly on the Soccer Saturday show. “A woman cannot teach a man.”
“Now, George!” Jeff Stelling defended. “(Y/N) (L/N) has performed admirably under Lasso’s leadership.”
“She’s barely out the womb! What makes her think she’s qualified to be in the Premiere League?” George shot back. “She needs to pack her bags and get out of Richmond before she loses them a chance at promotion.”
I turned my phone off, running a hand through my hair in frustration. Maybe he was right. Maybe I wasn’t ready for this job.
“George Cartrick is a twat with shriveled balls.” Roy’s voice entered from his side room. “And I should know, he constantly wears pants that show them off.”
I glanced up at him, stuffing my phone in my pocket. “Yeah, thanks, Roy.”
“Hey, Roy’s right,” Ted agreed. “With the sentiment, I’ve never seen George’s testicles myself.”
I rolled my eyes and rested my head on the desk. I appreciated their sentiment I really did but I was just so BLAH at the moment that nothing they seemed to say or do really help. I was in a funk. A funk I had put myself into. Ted, Roy and Beard exchanged glances with each other.
“You know, (Y/N),” Ted said, turning to face you. “You can talk to us about anything. Honorary Diamond Dog meeting.”
I peeked out of my arms to look around the room. Nate wasn’t in the room, so I didn’t have to worry about his sorry ass judging my for my pitiful nature. I lifted my head and took a deep inhale.
“I’m putting space between me and someone I really care about, and I thought it would make me feel better but instead its hurting me more than anything has ever hurt me before.” It all came out in a fast stream of consciousness, not breathing until I got the statement out.
“Wait, if this is someone you cared about, why are you putting space between you and them.” Beard questioned, finally joining the conversation. You pursed your lips, trying to figure out how to tread this line. There was no way in hell you were telling this group of people about Jamie.
“Well, um, I was afraid my feelings were getting in the way… and he didn’t care about me the same way I cared about him.” I decided to say. “I thought that I needed to give myself time to get over him.” Beard opened his mouth to say something, but I didn’t let him say anything. “But instead of getting over him, it’s making me want him even more. And I’m trying to focus on the game but everyone and their mom is expecting me to fail! And all I want is to talk to this person because I know they would support me but now I’m afraid to even talk to him!”
Ted raised his eyebrows and let out an impressed whistle. “You got all that cooped up in that head of yours?” I nodded. “Well, no reason you’re in a funk. Look, (Y/N), I think you need to take a note out of a certain snow queen’s book and ‘Let It Go’.”
“Frozen, classic,” Roy approved, nodding his head.
“Wait, wait, wait. Let what go?” I asked, furrowing my eyebrows.
“Well, it seems to me that you are holding on to every feeling, thought, and possibility,” Ted elaborated. “You hold onto all of that you’re gonna pop!”
You frowned at him. “Weren’t you the one who said that sometimes we should keep things inside?”
“That was before I met the feeling of letting it go! It really works.”
“It’s true, letting go is great, that’s how I do it,” Roy agreed.
“Roy! You’re one of the most private people I know!”
“I’m private, but I also have a very healthy relationship with my emotions and know who and when to trust people with my sharing,” he pointed out, shrugging.
Dammit I hated when he was right. I blew a raspberry and face planted on the table. I wanted to listen to them, and just let things go, but tomorrow was the big day. Maybe it was something I’d worry about later. For now, I’d just focus on the game.
That was my plan at least. But as I was leaving that night, someone pulled me into the boot room. I whipped around to see Jamie looking at me.
“Jamie what-“
“Hush, now, last time you got to talk and I didn’t so now you’re gonna listen to me.” He spoke so quickly that you could barely process exactly what he was saying to you.
“Jamie I-“
“Hush!”
“But I-“
“Just listen!” He grabbed me, holding a hand over my mouth. I frown at him but stayed quiet. “I just want to tell you that I was wrong, yeah? I was wrong about everything. I don’t love Keely. I love you.”
My eyes became saucers as I realized what was happening. I knocked his hand away from me, suddenly feeling hurt. He was lying to me. He was giving me his pity. Well, I didn’t want it.
“Jamie, please stop.” I felt my lip begin to tremble. “You’re being mean.”
“No, no, no! I mean it!” He insisted, taking me by my shoulders and forcing me to sit down on the bench. He started picking at his fingers as he paced back and forth. “I really do, I was just- I was confused. I had this feeling, like… fluttery stuff in my stomach. And the last time I had that feeling you hated me, and I was with Keely. So… I guess I thought that I was getting that feeling again because of her. But when I told her it didn’t feel right. Then you told me how you felt, and I was so confused.” He finally paused and looked at me. “I know I’m slow, (Y/N), but I get there eventually.”
I opened my mouth to say something, anything, but I really couldn’t think of anything to say. I was still scared that this was all a joke. That somehow, he didn’t actually love you and he was just trying to get you back in his life no matter what. He held up a hand to silence you.
“You don’t need to say anything, I know you probably don’t believe me, but I mean it.” Gave me a sideways smile, a hint of his normal cocky self coming out. He stalked forward and bent down, so he was eye-level with me, his face just inches away from mine. “And when we win tomorrow and get promoted, I’ll be doin’ it for you, love.”
The pet name fell so easily off his tongue and I felt my cheeks start to heat up under his gaze. His smirk grew as he saw the blush on my cheeks, any semblance of the anxious boy from before was gone. He gave me one last nod, a wink following it before he turned and left. I was left sitting dumbfounded in the boot room.
“What… the… fuck?” I finally spouted, bringing my hands up to my cheeks.
“That was something!” Fucking Will. I turned and looked at him, watching curiously as he shined some shoes. “The two of you are cute!”
I stared at him, still reeling from the interaction. At least there was someone else to there to prove that the interaction actually happened. I didn’t know how to feel. Part of me still believed that Jamie was lying as a way to get me to act normal again, and I honestly wouldn’t blame him. But the other part of me felt like I was soaring. Jamie liked me? No, LOVED me! Could this really be happening?
From then on it felt like I was on auto pilot. Leaving the club, getting home, doing my nighttime yoga. It was all like machinery as I figured out exactly how I should feel about everything. Tomorrow, everything would be different. Whether or not we’d be promoted was one thing but what happened with Jamie and me was entirely different.
It seemed like the whole world was on edge the day of the game. Ted was dealing with his personal life being on display, Roy was having the pain of having his feelings hurt, Beard was on the rocks of Jane (again, and Nate was… well he was acting weirder than normal. All we needed to get promoted was a tie, at the least, but Brentford was a formidable challenger.
I stood in the locker room, drawing up the formation on the board. We were running Nate’s new false nine strategy. It was certainly a choice to try a new tactic so late in the season, especially with promotion on the line but the tactic was good. Colin stood with me, chatting with me about his night and the parking ticket he’d gotten for parking half on the curb outside his house.
“I swear I didn’t even feel the curb when I parked!” He whined, stretching his arms.
“Colin, you’re a professional footballer,” I pointed out. “Just pay the ticket. And please, for the love of God, if you feel a bump, stop driving forward.”
He rolled his eyes at me glancing over to say hello to Sam as he walked into the room. Even Sam was had something going on. Edwin Akufo was on his ass about making a decision regarding joining his super team or whatever. I gave him a heartfelt smile which he returned. We all had chips on our shoulders, and this game would prove exactly what we could do with them.
The game did not start well. Brentford scored just twenty minutes into the game. Then again taking us into the half 2-nil. There had to be a solution to this. These guys could play this tactic easily but there was something disconnecting them from the execution of it. Going into the locker room, I could feel the anxiety and disappointment seeping from the lads.
“I’ma shoot y’all straight. This is bleak, yeah?” Ted started the conversation. “I mean, look at it out there. Looks like a Renaissance painting portraying masculine melancholy.” We looked out into the locker room. It was true, they looked almost angelic in their portrayal of their grief. “Okay, so now what? What are we gonna do?”
“We should abandon the false nine,” Nate suggested, shaking his head. “It’d work if we had players who knew what the fuck they were doing.”
“That’s not true, Nate,” I snapped, standing from my seat. Nate glared at me, but I pressed on. “They are perfectly capable of preforming a false nine, they just…” I closed my eyes picture the pitch. “They need to change their perspective.”
“I agree with (Y/N),” Ted chimed in. “You know, they just had 45 minutes to figure out what not to do. What do you think, Roy?”
“You should ask them,” Roy offered. “They’re the ones out there actually doing this shit.”
Ted glanced at me then Beard. It was a good idea.
“Yeah, all right.” We made our way out into the room, gaining the attention of the boys. “All right, fellas. Coaches and I are are having a little debate and wanna get ya’ll’s take on it. Should we stick with the false nine or switch it up?”
The room was silent as the team thought it over, glancing around das they waited for someone else to speak. It was Jan Maas who stepped up first.
“The tactic is sound,” he said. “and we’re all perfectly capable of executing it.”
“Yes, you are,” I encouraged. “The false nine is about deception, playing offense through the guise of defense.” I walked over to the white board where I had drawn up the tactic before the game. “You’re playing too forward, and Brentford sees the moves you make before you make them.” I pointed to the different players. “Fall back, make them come to you, look for the gaps. That’s how you score.”
I turned back around and saw all the eyes on me. I felt a rush of gratitude going through me as I appreciated their sincerity. I deserved to be here, and they knew it. Then my eyes fell on Jamie, who was listening with a soft smile on his face. I felt myself start to smile too.
“It will work,” Jan Maas agreed.
“Hey!” Ted interjected. “If Jan Maas says it, you know it’s the truth, right?”
Jamie nodded. But he wasn’t nodding about Jan Maas. He was nodding about the way you had explained the technique to them. As if you were on the field with them, knowing what was going through their minds as they played.
We ended our team meeting with the whole team laying hands on our believe sign. This was it. The moment the team became a family. Going out into the second half, it was like an entirely different team. Before we knew it Sam had scored a miraculous goal and all we needed was one more.
I found myself holding my breath as Jan Maas sent a pass to Jamie. I held my breath as he took control of the ball and started towards the goal. Then a Brentford play was sliding into Jamie’s legs sending him stumbling to the ground. I let out a shout of distain as the crowd cried to the referee. Then we got it! The referee called a penalty. Jamie hopped up and took the ball.
I knew he could make this goal easily; He hadn’t missed a penalty all season. He turned for a moment to look over at us on the sideline, and his eyes met mine. I could tell he was considering something and was looking at me for something, reassurance? Whatever he was thinking, I knew he needed to follow his gut, so I gave him a nod. He nodded back to me. Then he did something unexpected. He gave the ball to Dani.
Jamie gave up his chance to be called the savior of Richmond. Because that’s not what he needed to do. In this moment, he needed to get Dani his confidence back. Gone were the days that Jamie was afraid that Dani would replace him. Instead, he was working with him to allow the team to shine.
In that moment, I decided I didn’t care if the whole world stopped, all I wanted was to be with Jamie.
Which was good because it felt like the whole world did stop as Dani prepared to score. Time stood still as he ran towards the ball, and with one fell swoop Dani scored, tying the game. The stadium erupted into cheers and excitement. We did it, we really did it.
…
The excitement and celebrations of promotion lasted at least an hour as we paraded around the club. The boys found a bar to go to nearby to celebrate the win together. But I had unfinished business here, and I hoped Jamie would find me.
I stood on our pitch, hands in my pockets as I planned out what I was going to say. I was going to tell him that I loved him, too. That I wanted to be with him. That nothing else mattered. But then I saw him, big smile on his face, as he walked towards me in his red vest and ICON hat and everything, everything I planned left my head.
“Well, what did I say?” He bragged as he walked towards me. “Promoted, eh? How’s it feel to be in the presence of greatness?” I stared at him as he came to stand in front of me. On our pitch. The same pitch I’d chewed him out on just a year ago. He cocked his head at me, raising his eyebrows. “What is it? Why you lookin’ at me like that?”
I grabbed him by his vest and pulled him down to kiss me. He recovered from his surprise in time to grab me by my waist and tugged me closer to him. Electricity shot through me as his lips fit mine just right. How was I supposed to kiss anyone else now that I knew what kissing Jamie was like? It was heated, it was sweet, it was passionate.
It was like fucking lightening.
A/N: To be continued...
Tag List:
@heletsmelovehim @higherthanheroes @ajax-petropolus-wife @oxxolovemelikeyoudooxxo @optimisticsandwichgladiator @kno-way-home @sleepy-time @wigglegiggle @skewedcherries @respondingtoshowerthoughts-blog @snubug @rana030
#jamie tartt#ted lasso#jamie tartt imagine#jamie tartt x reader#jamie tartt x y/n#ted lasso show#jamie tartt fanfiction#enemies to lovers#finally lovers
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#i think i'm so funny#good omens#good omens s2#good omens 2#good omens memes#good omens shitpost#good omemes#incorrect good omens quotes#good omens incorrect quotes#aziraphale#crowley#aziracrow#ineffable husbands#ineffable idiots#ineffable partners#ineffable lovers#ineffable divorce#air conditioning#ineffable fandom#aziraphale x crowley#crowley x aziraphale#final fifteen#david tennant#michael sheen#xanshitposts
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Waking up with Jason's arms wrapped around you, feeling him breathe into your hair, letting out the occasional snore. His hand is under you, pressed into your side, and you feel him squeeze the flesh of your waist to make sure you're still there, a habit he developed when things started getting serious, constantly searching for you, even in his sleep. He squeezes a little tighter, his breath suddenly quickening at an alarming rate. You try to turn to face him, fear settling in your stomach, wondering if something was plaguing him in his dreams again.
When you shift ever so slightly, you feel the other arm lying over you tighten, pulling you flush against his body. A chill runs down your spine as you feel him exhale a particularly strangled breath, and you force yourself out of his grip, sitting up to get a better look at the man next to you. His eyebrows furrowed, hair flat on one side of his head from laying in one position the entire night. One of his hands reaches out to your pillow, searching for you in your sudden absence, and when it's met with nothing, Jason jolts upright. He turns his head frantically, blurred vision searching for something, for someone, for you.
His shoulders drop in relief when he finally stops long enough to notice you barely a foot away from him. You watch his chest rise and fall as he tries to calm his breathing, and you're not sure which thing caused it, the nightmare or the fear that you had left him. "What are you doing up?" he asks, voice laced with sleep. "You were having a nightmare," you say quietly, sliding a little closer to him and settling back into your spot on the bed. "I was just trying to make sure you were okay." confusion is etched across his face like the concept of him having a nightmare was foreign, and you develop an equally confused expression upon seeing his own. His face drops suddenly, and he clears his throat, "Right, a nightmare." he shifts beneath the covers, seemingly uncomfortable. "I'm all good. Just go back to sleep, okay?" he sends a reassuring smile your way, his attempt at trying to make you forget this whole debacle and coax you back to sleep, but it was too late; you were already wide awake.
"Was it him again?" your hand finds the scarred expanse of his back, lightly grazing your fingers against old wounds and trying to ease his angst; his body tenses at your touch, and a groan leaves his lips. "it wasn't-" he pauses, running his hands through his hair and sighing. "it wasn't him again. It wasn't even..." he trails off, turning away from you and sliding off the bed. "wasn't even what?" You ask, more confused than ever, watching as he lifts his arms above his head, back muscles flexing while he stretches before crossing his arms. He just stands there, back towards you, and all you can do is sit in silence while he seemingly contemplates something. "It wasn't what, Jason?" you ask one more time. He turns his head slightly to look at you only for a second and lowers his eyes when he sees you in the same spot you've been this whole time. "It wasn't a nightmare," he says, turning around to face you, this time allowing you to see his whole body.
His face is flushed a bit out of embarrassment, and your confusion starts to reach its peak. That is until you do a once-over of him and notice the patch of dark gray on his otherwise light sweatpants. Your mouth gapes a bit, and all you can manage is a quiet "Oh." his eyes find the same spot on his pants, a tent growing beneath the soft cotton. "Yeah. Oh."
#wet dream jason is finally here#editing this was way harder than it should've been#anyway hope u fiends enjoy this thing#that barely even qualifies as suggestive#jason todd#jason todd x reader#jason todd x you#jason todd smut#red hood#red hood x reader#red hood x you#red hood smut#jason todd lover
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TOMORROW!!!!!!!!!!
#*carly catalogs#bridgerton#bridgerton s3#colin bridgerton#penelope featherington#polin#otp: you are special to me#IT'S OFFICIALL ONLY 24 HOURS UNTIL MY FAITH IN LOVE AND ROMANCE IS RESTORED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#OMGOMGOMGOMGOMG I'M SOOOOOOO GIDDY!!!!!!! LIKE SO SO SOOOOO GIDDY THIS IS ALL I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR!!!!!!!!!!!#MY FAVORITE OF THE BRIDGERTON BOOKS IS FINALLY COMING TO LIFE ON SCREEN#AND IT REALLY LOOKS LIKE IT'S GONNA BE THE BEST SEASON OF THE SHOW BY FAR#i'm sorry no offense but.... kathony who?????#i'm totally jk btw i do love them but no offense still it's not their season anymore sooo.... move outta the way lol#i've also just always more preferred friends to lovers over enemies to lovers thanks to 13 going on 30 but hey that's just me!
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°~ A MAGE IN THE JUNGLE ~°
Includes: Use of she/her, Slimy naga dick, Size difference, strangers to...fucking? Idk.
In which: Our Mage searches the jungle for a rare species to add to her "research".
She curses as her boot clad feet catch on another root, almost sending her tumbling into the dewy jungle ground. Deciding to stop for a short break, she swats at the buzzing mosquitoes, taking her hat off to fan herself futilely while eyeing the map she bought.
The vender who sold it to her was an eccentric type, which is always a good sign in her eyes. If you're going to scam people at least commit to the whole "mysterious merchant" bit. The old hag managed to make her cough up 7 copper coin for this "traveler's essential".
Her goodwill has not been paid back as apparently the map was more unreliable than she expected. The mage curses herself as she glowers at the useless map, trying to decipher where the hell she is.
After a few more minutes of squinting and pointing to random places on the map, she just scrunches the flimsy paper in her hands and sets it on fire, burning it up before the embers could even reach the floor. She wasn't looking for anything any cheap map could show her anyway.
She came here to follow an urban legend about a deadly beast that stalks the jungle. The creature has many different variations depending on who's telling the story but what is consistent is the shining gold scales adorning the creature. Stories vary widely from village to village, some say it's an old wrathful god sent down to punish those greedy enough to seek it out and some say it's a beautiful maiden with a golden tail here to bring good fortune to those deserving of it.
Which ever story is the truth, she just couldn't hold back her fanaticism. A strange creature that apparently nobody has seen before but for some reason is being spotted closer to nearby villages more and more? That is absolutely right up her alley.
Now if she could only find the damn thing. The villagers seemed almost relieved that someone else was going to try and find this thing, so getting information was quite easy. While the area has been narrowed down, it's still a huge chunk of jungle. At this point it would be easier if the monster just came out and tried to eat her already.
The mage percs up when they hear water flowing and walks in that direction until she stumbles on a river. She kneels down by the waters edge, it looks pretty deep or maybe the water is just too murky to see the bottom. She hums and pulls out the flask she enchanted, fills it with water and waits for the magic to properly dispose of the dirt particles and bacteria before taking a long gulp.
This river is wide and the water flows slowly but surely past her. She places her hand in the water, curious to see if she can see the bottom or perhaps any fish to eat.
She softly chants an incantation, forcing the dirt particles away from her hand. This proves harder than she thought as she's never had to cleanse flowing water before.
She leans in closer to concentrate her energy and eventually the water becomes clearer and she can see something glistening at her from the water. Is that really treasure at the bottom of the river? Could she be that lucky?
She squints and leans closer to get a better look, the golden specs glinting in the murky water blink at her through the surface.
She freezes and the blood in her veins turns colder than the depths of the river.
Before she can even move a huge clawed hand shoots up from the surface and clings onto her arm, tearing through her cloak, undershirt and skin. There's no time for a painted scream as she's pulled into the water with great force. She can feel the waters resistance against her body as it's dragged into the murky depths.
Before this beast actually drowns her she manages to force her other hand against the current to grip onto the beasts scaly wrist. She casts the first spell she can think of, Combustion.
Suddenly the surface of the water explodes outwards, splashing water high into the air. She propels herself upwards and breaks the surface to hover above the water. She curses and looks around frantically, she can't lose the monster now. Panicking, she summons her hat and starts chanting, willing the plentiful vines of the jungle trees to plunge into the river and search for the beast.
When she feels a tug she wills the vines to pull the heavy struggling mass to the surface. The huge mass writhes and thrashes in its confines as it rises from the water.
She can finally see just how massive this thing is as it fights and snarls at her. It's much bigger than any Naga she's seen before, the human half is near orc sized! The bottom half being even bigger with the long thick tail thrashing in the water below. She reinforces the vines to bind the rest of the ridiculously large tail and sets the beast down on the ground next to the river.
When her feet meet the ground, she sighs and wills the water out of her soaked clothes. She checks her bleeding arm and sucks in a breath at how deep the gashes are.
"Now look what you did. Fucking hell, thats deep. How long are your claws?!"
Of course she can heal it but it's such a pain. The monster on the ground hisses and spits in response.
She takes a better look at it, or him, she discovers. His scales really do shimmer like gold with black scales painting a pattern all the way down his back and tail. His white underbelly fades into something resembling human skin as her eyes move up his rapidly moving chest. The gold scales fade into a darker black down his shoulders to the tips of his clawed fingers. Her eyes flicker to his intense stare, pure gold flickers in his irises. His drenched black hair gets in the way of his glare.
"Wow."
She can't help but verbalise her awe. She carefully moves around him to look at him in a different angle.
"I knew you were a naga. I knew it."
She summons a book into her hand, not her spellbook but one for these special cases. She flips to a new page and licks the tip of her pencil. She crouches down to look at him expectantly,
"Do you happen to know how much you weigh? What do you eat? Most nagas are some sort of omnivorous but I'm assuming you eat mostly fish. How many fish do you have to eat to stay this size?"
She gestures incredulously to all of his giantness.
He just growls some more, quiter this time as his confusion overtakes his anger somewhat.
"Come now, I know you can understand me and I know you can speak."
He stops growling to stare at her incredulously. How could she possibly know that? The giant snake man tries to readjust but hisses again, this time in pain. She jolts up and immediately goes to assess the wound on his wrist, which is tied tightly to his back. She cringes at the red, fleshy wound she created on his body. So much for first impressions. Without much warning she immediately starts with the healing spell. This creates great discomfort for him, as his cells rebuild themselves but she knows this is better than dragging it out for longer.
"I know, I know. I'm sorry."
She coos at the massive man almost like he's a child or a small animal. This woman evades him. Once she's done and his wrist is good as new she springs up and clears her throat, looking somewhat embarrassed.
"Sorry about that but...you did try to eat me so..."
He looks like he wants to say something but doesn't know how exactly. By the scowl on his face it doesn't look like it would be anything good. She crouches down again, peering down at him.
"Do you still want to eat me?"
He growls, nothing but hatred in his beautiful eyes as he hoaursly spits out,
"I want nothing more in the world."
"..."
The mage tries and fails to hide a girlish giggle behind her hand as she rocks back and forth on her feet. She reacts as if he'd just complemented her outfit. The Naga man pulls his mouth into a snarl and huffs in irritation, hating how this woman continues to confuse him.
After composing herself she summons her little reaserch book again, holding it against her crouched thighs to write.
"Have you actually ever eaten a human before? Be honest."
The Naga writhes in his bonds to eventually turn away from her so atleast he doesn't have to face his captor. He lies there for awhile just squirming every so often, he's already tried to cut the vines with his claws but she must have done some kind of reinforcement magic when she healed him. Damn witch.
While he devises an escape plan, he can hear scratching on paper from behind him. The mage seems to be writing quite a lot in her book. When the Naga looks back at her he catches her gaze staring intently at the intricate patterns on his back, the way the scant black scales blend with the bright gold makes for a very unique pattern.
"How much will you sell it for"
She stops sketching and looks back up at his eyes. She lets out a confused "hmm?"
This only makes him angrier.
"My hide! It must be worth a fortune! That's why you're here!"
Her gaze softens a bit, kicking herself mentally for being so unthinking towards the man. He might be big and intimidating but that doesn't mean he can't be scared for his life.
"Look, I don't want your hide. It would be much easier to just fake one anyway since nodoby knows what you actually look like. I just want to ask you a few questions and then let you get back on with your day. I'll even cook you a meal as a thank you."
The snake man is obviously skeptical, all he does is stare back at her with those gorgeous eyes.
She sighs and opens her book back up, flipping over to a particular page.
"Researching rare and perculiar creatures is a hobby of mine."
She rolls down onto her stomach and shuffles closer to the massive Naga. She leans on her elbows to show him the open page as if they were best friends at a slumber party and she's showing him her dairy.
"You're not even the rarest or most sought after Naga species I've met."
She points to a drawing she sketched of a male Naga, this one with the torso and arms of a human but the tail and head of a snake. There's a bunch of scribbles and descriptions around the drawing in a language he can't read.
"Where he's from people worship him like a god. He's a very rare species that can hypnotise someone just by looking into their eyes."
She chooses to leave out the part where she willingly let the Naga hypnotise her and use her as he pleased for weeks.
He doesn't have a response to give the mage, staring blankly at the pages as she rattles on about other species she has in her book. His skepticism somewhat dampened by these sketches of Naga just like him but with characteristics he's never seen before.
The mage notices how dark the sky has gotten, catching a few stars glinting overhead. She gets up and starts assembling the tent she brought. Pulling thick fabric out of her infinitaly deep satchel.
The Naga man just lies there watching, wondering if it would be so bad to comply with this mage. They don't seem dangerous or malicious at all but the magic they wield is still a concern. She talks to him as she works on building her temporary abode.
"Y'know, the village folk are quite nice. If you want I could talk to them, I'm sure they would rather cohabitate than live in fear of a man-eating monster in the jungle. Since you're definitely a rare species this part of the jungle could even be named as a conservation zone."
She keeps yapping stuff the Naga man doesn't care to listen to. The mage erects her shoddy little tent, does some sort of chant and then hurriedly crouches inside the small space.
She stays inside there for a while to the point where the Naga man thinks she might not return for the night. He smells something absolutely devine and realises it's cooked beef coming from inside the tent.
The damn mage walks outside with a steaming bowl of that devine smelling concoction. She stabs a piece of meat with a fork and offers it to him after blowing on it a little. She doesn't really give him time to react before poking the fork into his mouth. His taste buds are lighting up and he almost moans at the taste.
The mage grins at how he accepted her offer and stands back up.
"I just want to ask you a few questions. I'm sorry for causing you trouble but I didn't come all this way for nothing. I'm more than happy to repay you for your troubles if you just come inside."
After that she turns and walks back into the tent. As she walks away the vines binding his body loosen until they fall from his body entirely.
He's free. She's giving him an out. He could just leave.... But he can still taste the meat on his tongue. Nothing has happened to him yet so atleast he knows it's not poisoned or spiked. He turns to where the dark water of the river calls to him and turns back to the fire light coming from inside the mages tent. He sighs and hangs his head. As if the jungle itself is trying to urge him, a cool breeze blows past that seems to urge him closer to the tent.
The Naga sighs, stretches his sore limbs and slowly slithers towards the tent. He takes a deep breath before parting the fabric of the opening and crouching inside.
As he expected, the tent is much bigger than it appears on the outside. Bedding and pillows cover the floor and there is a fire with a pot over it in the middle.
The mage is humming to herself while pouring more steaming hot stew into two bowls. He sits across form her coiling his tail into a pile to sit on top of it.
She holds out a steaming bowl to him and waits patiently for him to take it. He hesitantly accepts the offer and, after watching her eat a fair portion of her own bowl, starts slurping up the meaty stew.
After the first and second serving the mage places her empty bowl aside and picks up her book. As the Naga pours himself a third helping she clears her throat, making him look up at her expectant gaze. He huffs but nods, lazing back against his tail to keep enjoying his meal. The mage gleams across from him.
"I don't know how much I weigh, I eat mostly fish and I've never eaten a human."
The mage scribbles all this down as he speaks, very pleased with his cooperation.
"How often do you shed?"
The Naga rests his arms on his tail like it's a comfy backrest. He takes a generous gulp of his stew before answering,
"...Once every season."
"So you grow moderately quick then? And you're still growing? Or do you think this is how big you'll get."
"I still shed, so I'm still growing."
The woman nods and jots that down.
"You're a constrictor type, right? No venom or hypnotising?"
He gives her a deadpan stare, as if to say "What do you think?". She gets the idea and confirms her own theory.
she chews her lip, deliberating something before she finally asks.
"Can I measure you?"
He gives her an irritated look before he slowly unwinds his tail from it's bunched up state, unfurling it out on the floor as he lies on his stomach.
The mage wastes no time springing up and pulling a rolled up tape measure out of her hat. She holds it out to him and says,
"Hold this at your head, please."
He boredly does as she asks and she carefully walks back the length of his body. He doesn't know why but he straightens his tail as much as possible while looking at her over his shoulder. When she gets to the tip of his thick tail she exclaims some numbers in a measurement he doesn't know but from the look on her face it's clearly impressive. She hurriedly scribbles that in her book.
The measuring roll disappears and the Naga goes back to his meal. He pours what's left in the bowl into his awaiting mouth before he feels a soft touch on his tail and freezes.
He slowly looks behind him at the culprit. He watches her with a predatory gaze as she hesitantly tests his patience. He watches her, as if daring her to go further and so obviously she does. She inches higher up his tail to where is gets much thicker, lightly tracing the patterns on his reptilian skin. She softly touches his golden scales as if they're fragile.
The mage gets more confident and crawls higher up his tail, getting more inquisitive and bold.
"Is the underside more sensitive?"
She asks, genuinely curious. He doesn't answer, just keeps staring at her with a look that says "Try it", so that's what she does. She looks into his eyes and slides her hand down the side of his tail towards the white underbelly.
He strikes before she can even blink. He has her on the floor coiled up in his tail as he entraps her whole body with his. She doesn't offer much of a fight besides some squirming but his tightening hold on her body forces her to still.
"Is this what you want mage?"
She says nothing, only looks up at him with those same curious eyes. He can feel her heart beat as he squeezes her rib cage, it beats steady and bold. She's not scared of him at all and that intrigues him more than he likes.
The Naga looms over her, he reaches out to grab her jaw tilting her head around to look over her face. He's tried to ignore it but he's also quite curious about her and her own species. He pinches his fingers slightly so that it makes her lips pout together before he reaches out with his other hand to take her pink tongue in between his thumb and pointerfinger. She just stares up at him, offering no resistance.
He strokes the small wet muscle with his thumb, rubbing over where it would split into two if she was a Naga like him. It's so small compared to his fingers and much warmer than he anticipated, probably due to the warm meal they just shared. He sticks his tongue out to lick the air and pauses when he smells something unfamiliar but unmistakable, coming from the Mages lower parts.
He's smelled it once before when he caught sight of a human woman bathing in the river, he couldn't help but linger in the brush and watch the human as she touched herself. He feels the same need now that he felt then, a curious burn in his stomach.
The mage struggles in his hold,
"I know you're curious too..."
She says up at him, almost hopefully. She slowly struggles her legs free to wrap them around his wide torso, squeezing him between her thighs. As he looks down at her the snake man feels her warm body heat radiating off of her seeping into his skin, the movement of her chest, her pulse. He can feel his cock poking out from the slowly parting slit on his white underbelly.
He licks the air one more time before his mouth catches hers in a needy kiss. She immediately kisses back with fever, fidgeting more in his hold making him tighten the heavy coils which only makes her let out a pleasured cry into his mouth. His tongue feels so odd on her own, it's much longer than hers and he pushes it down her throat with abandon.
His tail slithers around her body, lifting her shirt up. When she first feels his cold skin against her warm stomach she's filled with need to feel him against every inch of her skin. She struggles in his hold, kissing him with more need and trying to grind her neglected cunt against something.
The Naga huffs a laugh and watches her kick her legs helplessly.
"Do you have other clothes?"
He mumbles against her lips, she nods into the kiss.
His claws tear her pants and underwear away as if the garments were made of tissue paper, doing the same to the neckline of her shirt and undershirt. She groans at the feeling of his cold skin against hers and the humid night air on her cunt.
She feels a slick substance drip onto her pussy and groans loudly.
"Show me. Let me see."
She pleads and struggles even more. He chuckles and nibbles on the skin of her neck,
"Little thing like you should be scared. What if it's too much for you?"
His concern is real even if he's insanely turned on by this situation. Her body might not be able to keep up with her inquisitive mind.
"Try me."
She looks into his eyes with determination, he looks back. One of his hands go to stroke his growing cocks as they unsheath from their slit. She stretches to pear over his tail wrapped around her. There's two, one big cock clearly meant for insemination, the same colour as his white underbelly and a second reddish coloured one, she assumes is meant for extra stimulation. The Naga strokes the big one with one hand, both cocks have slick ooze spilling from them and they're dripping with slick which she guesses is produced from the slit they come out of.
She worms her hand over one of his coils to grip onto his tail, she whines loudly at him. She wants it inside her so bad. He chuckles at her again as more of his precum drips onto her pussy lips.
He can't deny her pleas for long and against his better judgement he prods at her entrance with his cock, rubbing the tip up against her hole.
She grinds up into him and he takes that as the go ahead to slide inside her. The slippery tip sheathes inside her rather easily, it's the rest of him he's worried about. He struggles to hold himself back from pounding the hot tight pussy squeezing around him, he truly doesn't want to hurt the Mage.
Said Mage is almost in tears at being unintentionally edged by him. She squeezes her thighs around his massive waist, squirming around as much as she can. The Naga finds he likes the way her soft naked body wriggles in his coils, he especially likes the way her thigh muscles tense and relax. His sharp claws gently caress the fat of her thighs, curiously squeezing and jiggling the fat slightly. She whines again and he decides to be merciful and slides his cock further inside her while gripping her thighs.
He's too slow, too cautious and she just can't take it anymore.
She mumbles a little spell and the Nagas body feels a sudden force pulling him closer to her making him hiss as his cock is suddenly thrusted to the hilt. The smaller cock is rubbing up against her clit delisciously and the slick coating his cock seeps out of her pussy.
"If I want you to stop, I can make you. Stop, pussying around fuck me."
He stares down at her with blown out eyes, she stares up at him so determined while still being thoroughly bound in his hold. His breathing is more ragged and a grin finds it's way on his face. He looks almost feral and it makes the mages pussy clench around him which makes him reactively thrust back.
She's spun around suddenly in his hold, his tail unwinding until her arms are free and there's one coil left around her waist. Her arms are quickly bound by his own hands, gripping her much smaller arms. He gives a hard thrust into her cunt and growls in her face as she moans back up at him.
He starts a rough pace, having thrown all cation to the wind. Her tight human pussy squeezes him so tight like he squeezes around her body with his tail. The loud wet slapping sounds his hips make against hers make everything even more erotic. His coiled tail around her grips her waist tightly and he groans when he can feel his own cock bulge against her stomach where his tail holds her.
He brings the end of his tail to wrap around her wrists binding them together while his ramming into her soaked pussy.
He speeds up even more and places his palm on top of his smaller dick, pressing it against her clit. His other hand is gripping her under thigh so hard she's pretty sure his claws have pierced her skin. The stimulation on his sensative cock makes him frantically thrust into her until he releases deep inside her. He shakes and spasms as he empties himself into her. If he was more conscious he would be embarrassed at how needy he must have looked.
His orgasm lasts quite awhile longer than she expected, she realises he must have been really pent up as his cock just keeps shooting seed into her every few seconds. The poor Naga looks exhausted when his orgasm finally ends. His eyes are closed, breathing deeply with strands of black hair fall delicately around his face. The tail around her wrists loosens and she immediately goes to pull him down into her embrace, clutching his sweaty body into her warmer one.
He hums into her neck, enjoying her warm softness. His tongue flicks out occasionally to lick her salty skin and smell her on the air.
"Did I tire you out, big guy?"
She jokes, while her hands caress the comparatively massive expanse of his back. She tries to remind herself that he might be inexperienced and more sensitive than usual, she doesn't want him to feel bad about getting overstimulated.
The Naga lifts his head from her neck, his body casts a shadow over hers as he looms over her again. He gives her a sharp fanged grin.
"Don't be so cocky, Mage."
The end of his tail slowly comes from behind to wrap around her neck as the coil still wrapped around her waist lifts her torso up high. His softening cock slips out of her dripping cunt as he lifts her up with his tail. She groans low as she feels the copious amounts of slick and spend fall from her pussy to the floor.
The naga curiously runs his thumb up the length of the mages pussy, gathering up the fluids. He feels a strange urge to keep as much of his cum inside her as possible. Careful of his sharp claws he opts to push his spend back into her pussy with his tongue, feeling the way she squirms and clenches around his forked tongue. The Naga hisses lightly in delight and smooshes his face into the fat warmth of her thigh while looking into her eyes. She peers at him with a dazed look, loving the way his tail lightly squeezes her thoat.
"I'm far from done with you."
As it turns out she didn't get to ask him many questions that night. Not that she complained about it much.
#omg finally finished this thank god#shitty title but idk#monster x human#monster boyfriend#monster x reader#I know snake skin isn't called a hide but it just sounded weird calling it skin???#teratophillia#terato#naga#naga x human#naga x reader#monsterfucker#monster lover#Mage! Reader
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Sorry for not having a Year of the Dragon MDZS artwork; Unfortunately, I can only picture Dragon LWJ in this particular flavour.
#poorly drawn mdzs#mdzs#lan wangji#wei wuxian#Dragon AU#MDZS AU#noodleji#(IT'S A REAL TAG!!! AAH!!! THROWING MY HAT TO THE LITTLE GUY LOVERS!)#Yes I watched Fruits Basket in my teen years and yes it left a significant impression on me.#'The Dragon Transforms' and its just into a small little guy.#Even more points if the human form is a Tall Guy.#Sadly this does not appear to be a common nor popular variation so I will sit on my little hill alone. (EDIT: I WAS WRONG)#Dragon LWJ probably would be some kind of river dragon. Lesser god of a small stream.#One that grows bigger with time but always has the reputation of being benevolent and calm to those who seek its clear waters.#Do not pollute these waters or your ass is going to be bit. 1000 tiny puncture marks.#I imagine that's probably how wwx first meets him (accidently pours booze into lwj's river) (gets bit - gets bit - gets bit-)#WWX eventually befriends him through stubbornly showing up every week to give him offerings.#Takes him into town in a little pot of water to show him how the people live. Maybe go to a festival.#When the day is done and he's back in his river and alone - LWJ finally feels a new emotion...it is longing and loneliness.
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Reunion. Cloud and Sephiroth are drawn to each other on a cellular level. I wanted to depict them from an unusual angle and ah, Sephiroth's beautiful long hair!
Also, HQ 3k naked version is here :))
#Sefikura#Sephiroth#CloudStrife#ff7#ff7r#final fantasy 7#final fantasy 7 rebirth#love#digital art#art#lovers
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— getting jealous over a crush prompt *ೃ༄
jealousy is such a dangerous feeling lol, enjoy!
constantly noticing them smiling so brightly with that one person
when was the last time they beamed at you like that?
violent churns agitating your stomach
an aching feeling starts nagging profoundly at your heart
"who was that"
not even being able to process the jealousy; solely that one scene of them with someone else repeats in your head
desperately demanding your crush's friends if you're seeing someone
the urge to search for answers from your muse, yet you don't want to strain your friendship (you do it anyways)
helplessly convincing yourself that your friendship has more worth compared to whoever that person was
"how long have you known them? are you both friends?"
self-doubts viciously devouring your thoughts; what if they were genuinely happier with them?
“why are you acting like this all of a sudden”
"if you're so worried that someone will snatch me up, why don't you just confess to me right now?"
#imagine your otp#otp prompts#dialogue prompt#otp ideas#romance prompts#writing scenarios#angst dialogue#jealousy dialogue#jealousy prompt#jealousy prompts#writing ideas#friends to lovers#this lowkey happened to me and i just drafted it and now im just trying to recall how i felt cuz it was during finals LOL
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the purest shade of white
↪ okkotsu yuuta x reader ⸙͎｡˚⋆ 𓋼
summary: yuuta looks almost like an angel, you think to yourself grimly, as you shift on the balls of your feet. you haven't seen your best friend in a couple years now, not since he left for africa. too bad he's attempting to kill the kouhai that you're trying to protect.
tw: manga spoilers! anime watchers, do not read. mild angst but happy ending. starts at the beginning of ch. 139. naoya zenin is here and he is his classic asshole self. reader is in the same grade as yuuta, both in age and in terms of cursed energy. swearing because reader is a bad bitch. mildly suggestive. unironic use of "senpai" and "kouhai." slight descriptions of blood and injury, everyone is subjected to the author's attempts at writing dialogue and fight scenes. not proofread but at this point that shouldn't be a surprise. it is blatantly obvious that the writer also does not know how to end stories
notes: thank you for 100 new friends! :) poll is technically still up but i'm impatient and yuuta was winning by a pretty decent margin so here it is lol. divider by @/saradika-graphics!
"Yuuji!" you yelp, slicing the head off a curse with a clean stroke of your katana. Purple ichor splatters to the ground as you whirl, searching for the familiar head of pink hair. "Stay close to me!"
Behind you, Choso grunts with exertion, sending out another bolt of Piercing Blood. Panting, you weave through the curses, letting their corpses fall behind you. Yuuji, where is Yuuji?
As the last body falls, you can't but let out an exasperated huff at the sheepish grin on Yuuji's face. "Don't scare me like that," you chide. "How am I supposed to protect you if I can't even find you?" Yuuji opens his mouth to protest but you shake your head. "I made a promise," you tell him, pain rippling through your heart dully. Gojo-sensei was long gone, stolen away by one of the people he had loved most in the world. Grimacing, you sheathe your katana, mindful of the blood that stains your palms, as you try to ignore the memory of his words all those months ago.
If anything happens, I need you to protect Itadori Yuuji. I know they're going to pull something on him once I'm not there to back him up.
"Senpai, what should-"
Yuuji immediately tenses as your hand flies to the grip of your katana. "I smell a rat," you mutter, nose wrinkling as you turn to face Naoya Zenin, standing atop a bridge. He bares his teeth at you in semblance of a smile. "How perceptive as always," he mocks.
"Cut the bullshit," you snap, hand still resting on the pommel. "What do you want?"
"Fushiguro Megumi," is his rather bland response, and you shift your feet into the opening steps of Flowing River.
"What do you want with Fushiguro?" Yuuji yells, and the way Naoya's face twists makes you want to vomit.
"I think I'll have him die."
Cursed energy fills your body as you leap. Naoya's resounding cackle burns through your ears as you swing, barely grazing his shoulder. Before you can push forward off your feet, a heavy presence rests on your shoulders, locking you in place. All four of you freeze. Yuuji and Choso look horrified, and Naoya looks as though he's broken out into a cold sweat. But you know this feeling, feel it settle back into your body as if it never left.
Okkotsu Yuuta steps out from the building ledge, dark eyes unreadable. Your body sings. Yuuta, Yuuta, Yuuta! His hair has grown longer, bangs sweeping over his forehead, eyebags a little darker than they used to be. You can feel Rika's presence, swirling around you in a mass of death and decay. You're used to it. You've grown to crave it, even. His eyes meet yours, and for a split second, his facade cracks. Confusion, fear, and...regret?
Yuuta leaps, slamming into concrete and sending shockwaves deep into your bones. "Who's with Itadori?" God, even his voice is different, so different from the boy who said goodbye to you so long ago. You open your mouth to speak, but Choso beats you to it, brows furrowed.
"So you're Yuuji's executioner."
Blood turns to ice in your veins, and you can tell by the pained expression Yuuta has that you aren't hiding your emotions as well as you think you are. Naoya laughs. "I was going to tell you that, but you were being too emotional like the bitch you are."
"Who're you?"
Yuuta's voice is cold, but as Naoya babbles on, you can feel the horror settle thickly into your chest. Choso and Yuuji are talking behind you but it feels like you're underwater, you're sinking, drowning, and Yuuta must have come to a conclusion because all of a sudden he's surging forward-
You move before you can even think, steel clashing against steel. "Yuuji," you say, through gritted teeth. "Run."
A horrible grating noise fills the air as you let cursed energy flow through your body, shoving Yuuta's sword away from yourself. "I won't let you kill him," you hiss, body already shifting into Jagged Bolt. Yuuta's eyes flash as you surge forward, katana in hand.
"How would you describe my cursed technique?" you had asked Gojo, mindlessly swinging your feet. Gojo hums.
"Have you ever heard of Newton's Law's of Motion?"
You had crinkled your nose at that. "No?"
"An object in motion, stays in motion. Except you are the object. And your cursed energy is the motion." You remember how Gojo's lips curved slightly. "In other words, once you start, nobody can stop you."
You're crying, you realize with a start, as you cut a line into Yuuta's chest. Moisture seeps from your eyes as you twist your forearm into a parry, katanas sparking with each strike. Belatedly, you sense that Yuuji, your foolish, stupid, loyal kouhai has stayed, trading strikes with his fists between the precise movements of your blade. Your heart drops as Yuuta reaches for the ring on his finger.
No. No!
He twists it, and Rika appears behind you. Claws sink into your shoulder and you let out a cry of pain as she flips you into the ground.
"Be nice, Rika," Yuuta chides, as you hit the concrete. Blood spurts from your mouth as you choke, fingers clawing at the ground desperately for your katana. A piece of scaffolding is practically crushing your legs; instinctively, you know that if you try to break through it, you'll tear your limbs right off.
As Rika holds Yuuji up, you lunge desperately, uncaring of what you have to sacrifice. Inumaki's arm, the way half of Nobara's face had been practically ripped out of her skull, the remains of Nanami-san, the way that you were the one to find Maki's charred body-
I can't lose anyone else.
You scream as Yuuta pierces Yuuji's chest with his katana, cursed energy building in your legs as you prepare to shoot forward. Yuuta turns, eyes filled with an unidentifiable emotion as he sees you about to tear yourself in half just to reach Yuuji.
With a wave of his hand, Rika dives for you, and everything goes dark.
Yuuta had known you were special from the day he'd first met you. That spring, when Gojo-sensei had dropped him (and Rika) into a class of unsuspecting first years, he remembers that out of the four of them, you had moved so gracefully that he hadn't processed the katana in your hand until you'd pressed it against your throat.
"Gojo-sensei," you'd hissed. "What is this?"
While Maki, Inumaki, and Panda had been subsequently bruised up by Rika, you had dodged every single one of her movements until Rika had been (barely) called back by Yuuta.
"Another Special Grade," Gojo had hummed. "Just like you, hm?"
Special Grade?
What he hadn't realized then, he realized later; you weren't just special to him, but to the entire rest of the Jujutsu World as well. Special Grade Sorcerers were rare, Maki had told him. "You only have it because of Rika," she'd scoffed, "but she deserves it."
You quickly became one of his closest friends. You were fast enough to dodge Rika's ire, even laughing whenever she tried. You'd shown Yuuta kindness that he didn't think he deserved. You broke him out of his shell enough so that when he left for Africa, he felt as though he was standing with his own strength. His first katana had been the sister blade of your own, forged from the same metal by the same hands. The way your eyes had lit up when you saw it was a memory he cherished.
Somberly, Yuuta eyes the chains encasing your wrists and ankles, each decorated with the slips of protective paper that would nullify your cursed energy. Most sorcerers required only one. You required at least twenty.
He knows you, knows the way you always take the strawberry daifuku, leaving him the red bean ones even though he knows you prefer the red bean. He knows that you push yourself hard, harder than he's ever seen anyone work. But most of all, he knows your loyalty, how once your heart finally lets someone in, you'll never let them go.
Did you miss him like he missed you?
The chains are more for your own protection. He needs you to hear him out before you attempt to end his life for a second time. Yuuta knows now that Gojo must have asked you the same thing he'd asked him; to keep Itadori Yuji safe from the whims of the higher ups. Gojo, being the forgetful bastard he was, probably didn't alert you to the fact that he'd gone to Yuuta for help as well. Crouching, Yuuta eyes your body with a sad tilt of his lips. The injuries you'd sustained were immense, and it had taken quite a bit of his own cursed energy to reverse.
Will you forgive him?
You're asleep, breath hitching every so often. Yuuta wonders what you're dreaming of, before pushing the thought away. Tenderly, he cups your face in the palm of his hand, calloused fingers stroking your cheek.
"You need to wake up now," he murmurs, as your eyes flutter open, first in dazed confusion, before sharpening into panic.
"I'll miss you!" you'd cried, as you clung to Yuuta under the shade of the large oak. You were the first person he had told about his departure to Africa, and you took it hard. Yuuta had stood frozen as the first of your tears had dripped down your cheeks. It was the first time he'd seen you cry.
"I'll be back before you know it," he'd murmured, pressing a featherlight kiss to the top of your head. You'd looked up to him, eyes teary.
"Promise?"
"I promise," he'd said, interlocking his pinky with your own. A love like Yuuta's is a dangerous thing, you know, but in this moment you feel nothing but safe.
The first sensation you feel upon awakening is the dull ache in your (miraculously still attached) legs. The second is the warmth on your cheek. Yuuta is standing above you, hand gently resting against your face. Immediately you lunge forward, teeth bared. The rattle of chains stops you, and you swear. Of course he would have taken precautions. Yuuta looks almost hurt as you violently shake off his touch.
"Don't touch me, I swear to god I'm going to rip you apart."
Yuuta says your name sadly, but you're practically trembling with rage.
"He was just a kid, with the kind of power we wield, why the fuck would you listen to the higher ups?"
Yuuta echoes your name a bit more firmly, but you ignore him, tears building in your eyes.
"You're no better than the rest of them are you, you're just-"
"Senpai!"
Your heart stops as Yuuji pokes his head out from around the corner. They must have brought you back to Jujutsu Tech, you think distractedly. Just how long were you out?
"Yuuji!" you cry out, scanning his body for any injuries. He seems to be uninjured, but most importantly, he's alive. Tears fall down your cheeks. "Are you alright?"
Yuuji appears horrified by the sudden outburst as he hastily holds up his hands. "I'm fine, senpai, really, I'm sorry for worrying you. Okkotsu-san is actually on our side, I swear! It was a binding vow, that's why he had to actually kill me, but he did some really cool Reverse Technique shit and I'm all good now!"
Warily, you eye Yuuta, whose expression resembles that of a kicked puppy. "Okkotsu Yuuta," you say, voice hard. "Let me out of these chains right fucking now."
With a wave of his hand, the papers attached to the chains fall to the floor. Yuuta looks dejected as he looks away from you. "I'm so sor-"
Before he can finish you immediate tackle him into a hug, knocking the both of you into the floor as you bury your face into the soft slope of his neck. "You're such an idiot," you sob, unable to hide the rush of emotions going through you. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Tentatively, Yuuta wraps his arms around you, and you melt, pressing yourself closer to his body. "To be honest, I think Gojo-sensei is to blame. I think he forgot to mention to either of us that he asked us to do the exact same thing."
You let out a hiccupping laugh. "Of course he did. That forgetful asshole."
The sigh Yuuta lets out is shaky as he nuzzles the top of your head. "I'm so, so sorry," he tells you earnestly. "I must have scared you, and Rika's mad at me for making me hurt you like that. I think she likes you, even though she pretends not to."
You look up at him, really look at him, and see the look of adoration in his eyes as he stares back down at you. Thankfully Yuuji's escaped long ago, most likely understanding that you two would need privacy. "You came back," you whisper, and Yuuta's resulting smile makes your heart skip a beat.
"I promised you, didn't I?"
Before you can stop yourself, you pull Yuuta down for a searing kiss. He's so soft, and you nip at the plush of his bottom lip teasingly, pulling a whine from his throat. His large hands grip your hips, and in retaliation, you grab a fistful of his hair and tug. The breathy noise he makes goes straight between your thighs. You know he can feel your smile against his lips.
"I missed you," you breathe, pulling away. Yuuta looks dazed, lips kiss swollen, pupils so dilated that you can barely see the soft brown of his eyes.
"I love you," he blurts out, and your resulting laugh is airy as you press another chaste kiss to his lips.
"I've always loved you, Yuuta," you admit. "During Shibuya, I thought I wasn't going to make it. You were the only thing keeping me going."
The look in his eyes is fierce as he tugs you back into him, enveloping you in his arms. "You'll never have to worry about that again. You have my entire life. Where you go, I'll follow, and if I die, not even Death would be able to separate me from your side."
"Those sound a lot like wedding vows, don't you think?"
Yuuta's blush covers his entire face and you grin, pressing one last kiss to his lips. "Come on now. We have kids we need to protect."
As Yuuta leads you to where the others have convened, even under the dark circumstances you're in, the warmth of his hand clutching yours fills you with a giddiness you hadn't experienced in months. The sentiment is quickly dashed as soon as Maki opens her mouth.
"Fucking finally. Inumaki owes me 3,000 yen."
#haerinwrites#jjk x reader#jjk x reader angst#jjk x reader fluff#jjk angst#jjk fluff#yuta x reader#yuuta x reader#yuta okkotsu x reader#yuuta okkotsu x reader#i'm actually maki with the fucking finally#i love friends to lovers !!
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Wayne takes in a Beat to Shit Steve Harrington after Starcourt as n Owed Favor to Hopper Part 4
Part Three: link
First Chapter (parts 1-3 on tumblr) on A03: Link
The kid was madder than a wet hen.
Just as slippery as one too, when he got like this--music pulsing like a living thing to signal all his rage and upset.
Not like Wayne hadn’t expected it.
He just wished it wasn’t quite so damn loud.
The music had started up almost immediately after Eddie had stormed to his room, startling Steve awake and nearly making Wayne curse for it.
Normally it was a good thing--music meant Eds was willing to listen instead of heading for the hills.
Normally, they didn't have a house guest who looked like he'd gone ten rounds with a bear.
They had a routine for this, was the thing and the music was a key part of it. It worked all the edges off for Wayne, and he'd long figured out that about thirty minutes was a the perfect length of time for Eddie to stew before he could actually talk things through.
Given the hand Harrington put to his forehead, Wayne wasn't eager to give him that thirty minutes.
Not when Steve deserved little peace he could have.
Unfortunately, so did Eds.
Still.
Strutting through the door and demanding to talk right now was a bad move and so, with a sympathetic look given to Steve, Wayne did what he did best
Gave space.
Let Eddie rage, as Wayne got up and shuffled about the kitchen.
Pulled out the soft earplugs he pretended weren’t there for Eds to steal (playing that damn loud guitar all the time could not be good for his ears) and offered them to Steve, before making two cups of what Wayne privately thought was the Munson “chitchat” drink.
One cup of hot water, one packet swiss miss, a small amount of maple syrup drizzled in, topped with little marshmallows they reserved for these types of situations.
Wayne took his time with it, thinking through what he wanted to say.
‘I understand that this is a screen door on a submarine kind of situation...’
Nope.
‘Son I know you hate listening to anyone for anything but this is serious...’
Absolutely not--that would end up with the boy bolting for sure.
‘Ed’s, I love you but could we please turn Ozzy off while we talk? That man wails louder than any damn cat I have ever met.’
That one was purely self indulgent, mostly because the wall was starting to shake.
Wayne put the finishing touches on the cocoa before staring at both of them.
Perhaps if he stared the Garfield mug in its eyes hard enough, the right words would come through.
They did not.
He kept trying, standing there long enough for the cocoa to reasonably have cooled and for Eddie’s song to flip over to something with more screaming in it than singing.
Wayne supposed that this was the hardest part of being a parent. You just didn’t get to have the magical one liner. The right thing to say at just the right time.
The joke that would ease all the tension and let things progress forward nice and easy.
Instead, you got to fumble your way through the dark with a flashlight up your ass and hope you were going in the right-ish direction. Ideally without making things worse.
Wayne was here though, and that had to count for something.
(Knew it counted for something--because Eddie was still here.
They had cleared hurdles far higher than this when it came to trust. They’d get through this too, come what may.
Steve too.)
“Can I just ask,” Eddie started, aggressive as always when Wayne finally gave in and entered his room, feeling all sorts of awful for the migraine Steve had to have, “what the absolute fuck is happening?”
Sure as fire he was sitting on his bed, leg bouncing a mile a minute.
An unlit cigarette hung between two fingers, looking a little chewed on, but otherwise undisturbed--as it should be, because one of Wayne’s few rules was that smoke stayed outside the house.
“You could.” Wayne said loudly but agreeably, as he turned himself around and dropped down next to his kid.
Held out the Garfield mug, and was happy when it was taken from him.
“Figured you might have other things to say, though.”
Likely a lot of things.
It was as good an opening as any, and his kid didn’t disappoint, launching right to it.
“Why is he here and not at a hospital?”
‘Here’ was punctuated by Ed’s hand winging towards the door, and while it wasn’t the righteous fury Wayne expected, it was at least, an easy answer to give.
“Steve has some people looking for him. Bad people. Hospital makes him an easy target.”
Wayne was still talking loud. Could only hear Eddie himself because he was looking at the kid’s lips more than he was actually hearing his voice.
Eddie took that in, swallowing it about as well as he’d swallowed anything he hadn’t liked.
And thank the stars above, he finally reached a hand out and turned the music down. Not a lot--Steve wouldn’t be able to hear them over all this--but enough that Wayne didn’t have to struggle.
“We’re hiding him from the cops now?!” Ed’s spat.
“Cops know he’s here. Hopper’s the one who asked me to take him.” Wayne reminded him, because it was the truth.
Not the full truth, but given how Ed’s pissed off half the local PD on a good day, Wayne absolutely did not want to see his nephew take on Federal Agents.
(Particularly not the kind who were going ‘round killing kids.)
“So--what?” Eddie yanked hard on his hair, a gesture that looked less intentional and more like he was trying to fight his own anger down. “Hopper just called you up and said ‘Hey, we had a whoopsie with the rich kid, the hospital’s not safe anymore. Can we stash him with you for a few days?”
Wayne nodded once, slow-like.
Always remembered how too fast movements had made Eddie flinch and jerk back when was littler, and given the way Steve was looking, figured it was a good time to be cautious again.
“He did.”
“And you just--agreed? Just like that!?”
“I did.”
He pretended not to see Eddie boggle at him at the simple admission, so furious that he seemed to struggle for words when he normally had too many to say.
Wayne took advantage.
“We did talk a bit more than that, I’ll admit.”
Ed’s scoffed. “About the weather I’m sure.”
“‘Bout trust.”
Eddie blinked at that.
“Trust.” He echoed flatly.
“What have I always told you? People like to ask you to trust them, but you they don’t get to have it until--”
“They provide proof or a reason.” Eddie finished with an eyeroll. “So which did Hopper provide then?”
Wayne took a noisy sip of his coca. Smacked his lips a little before saying: “Both.”
Didn’t bother to say anything else, because he knew Eddie would finish the thought for him.
“One of them was me, wasn’t it.”
Eds didn’t say it like a question, but Wayne hummed in agreement anyway.
He wasn’t gonna shame his boy, but he wasn’t gonna sugar coat Eddie’s involvement in this either. Not when he’d already admitted that was half the reason Hopper had gone to Wayne to begin with.
“No one is expecting Steve to be here.” He said, seeing the chance to hammer home the most important part of this entire shitshow. “So long as no one finds out he’s here, he’ll be safe. Everyone will be safe.”
Steve from the Feds who were hunting him for while he was busy being involved in shit he couldn’t control and Eddie because he had a mouth that most people didn’t like.
Not small town people anyway, and absolutely not authority figures with guns.
“Who’s even after him?” Eddie was theatrical as always, hands waving away as he talked. “Did he make a deal with the mob? Piss off some other rich guy? I know it’s not anything drug related, I’d have heard about it by now.”
After years of experience, Wayne knew exactly how far to lean away to stay out of range, too used to his nephew talking with his entire body.
“That’s his story to tell ya, Ed’s. It ain’t mine. Same way it ain’t my place to tell him your story.”
That at least got the boy to think for a minute. Put down that frustration he carried with him all the time, and use the brain they both knew he had.
“How long is he staying here?”
Wayne shrugged. “Don’t know.”
Eddie sighed and mockingly mimicked Wayne, taking an obnoxious slurp of his cocoa. “The neighbors are going to notice if he’s here more than a few days. The trailer park isn’t exactly big.”
“They didn’t notice that time you decided to make fireballs with the cooking spray and about blew up half the driveway. Don’t think they’re gonna notice someone being quiet in the house.”
Eddie snorted, and probably rolled his eyes again, not that Wayne could see it given the kid was looking into his own mug as he thought it all through.
Wayne sat with him as he processed.
Eds worked at his own pace with things, and while life at large might be against that, Wayne was happy to let him do it. Found it easier that way, then trying to poke and prod and force him like so many father figures did.
Wayne’s patience was rewarded not even a full minute later, when Eddie turned to him and asked;
“What if he finds out?”
This in a quieter voice. An unsure one--words and body hunching in a way unlike the Eddie the world outside knew, but very much like the little boy Wayne had brought inside his home.
It took Wayne a moment to connect the dots--he’d been speaking out of the place parents and authority figures often do, and in doing so hadn’t thought much of the fact his nephew had a real secret.
The kind small town minds didn’t like--and would kill him over.
This all wasn’t about Wayne taking in Steve, he realized abruptly.�� It was that Steve being here meant Eddie couldn’t be himself.
Could not relax in a place he was accepted for who he was, because Wayne knew and made sure Eddie understood he was wanted here, had a place here, regardless of who he loved.
Now, Wayne had gone and removed it.
‘Shit.’
“He won’t.” Wayne said.
Knew that wasn’t enough, and so, promised: “But if he does, I’ll make sure he understands his safety here relies on your own.”
Ed’s chin jerked in a nod, the two of them sitting in silence for a moment before the boy did as he often did when he wanted a hug but felt too awkward to ask for one, and tipped himself into Wayne’s side.
“Thanks old man.” Eddie whispered into his shoulder and not for the first time, Wayne wished things were easier for the poor kid as he put his mug in one hand and hugged his kid with the other.
Hoped that in the future, it would be.
Even if he had to force everyone and everything coming after him--and now Steve--to do it.
(Wondered vaguely, how bad it was that he was already getting as protective as Steve as he was of his own kid.
Probably very, given his kid clearly hated Harrington.)
xXx
Wayne took the first night of Steve’s stay off.
He wasn’t the type to use his PTO lightly. Was used to rationing it for any possible thing Eddie might need him for.
A night up sick when he was younger, to a night spent chasing him down during some of their bad spots--but the last year or so Wayne had slowly realized he hadn’t had to use it much.
He was still careful with it though, precious as it was, and was thankful for it now as it ensured his nephew didn’t murder their house guest.
Or at the very least, didn't sit there pecking at him.
The kid might've failed English a few times, but he had a real gift with words and an even better one with insults.
(Wayne wasn't quite clear on what all the "King" jabs were about, and absolutely did not get why Steve looked far more hurt at the comment about his "sad ass floppy hair" but given the increasingly flat look Steve was throwing Eddie's way, Wayne figured it couldn't be anything good.)
Thankfully a pointed reminder about Steve's injuries had finally gotten them all some peace, enough for Harrington to drop back to sleep--and for Wayne to realize he looked a little too dead while he did it to be comfortable getting any sleep himself.
The kids chest barely moved, and that it ate at Wayne’s until he got up and shoved a hand under his nose.
Felt his breath, and told himself the poor sod was fine.
Hurt, absolutely, but alive.
Over and over again, until the sun had made its rotation in the sky, bringing the morning with it.
‘Better than nightmares, I suppose.’ Wayne figured, as exhaustion scraped at his eyelids.
Those Wayne knew, would come later. When Steve’s brain caught up to the rest of him, and stopping dumping survival chemicals through his battered body.
He'd given up on sleep entirely sometime around 1 am, and now he sat at his small kitchen table, writing out a medication schedule for Harrington so he and the kid both knew when he could have his next Tylenol.
Wasn’t even halfway through it before Eddie made his typically late appearance and blew through his door.
Had his back up from the moment he’d stepped a foot in the kitchen and it didn’t take a genius to see he’d worked himself into a snit again.
Unfortunately for him, whatever scenario that imaginative brain of his had cooked up fell flat to the reality that was the poor kid on the couch.
Steve Harrington was one a hell of a sight.
Didn’t help that he was doing his level best to make himself as small as possible, curled deep into Wayne's ancient couch.
The blankets covered the ribs and hid away most of the damage, but there wasn’t much Steve could do to hide the shiners on his face--or the marks around his neck.
Not when they’d grown worse overnight, practically inviting questions.
It was almost laughable how quickly Eddie ate whatever words he’d prepared, mouth awkwardly chewing around them as if they were tangible.
The less-than-sneaky looks he threw at the younger teen were equally amusing, and if Wayne wasn’t trying to peace keep, he’d have given in and chuckled when Eds split attention caused him to pour half his coffee into the sink rather than a cup.
Looked utterly lost when, after finishing putting his coffee together and grabbing some junk food thing that absolutely was not a breakfast item, he came to stand awkwardly at Wayne's shoulder, openly staring as Steve blatantly ignored him.
Eds didn’t know what to do, and Wayne couldn't blame him.
Seemed to keep thinking he was going to encounter a boy that likely no longer existed, and whose blood tinged specter just made things sad.
Shit like this, Wayne knew, took a man’s ego and warped it, shaping it to something else entirely.
At least for Steve, it seemed that getting wrapped up in whatever mess he had had shaped him for the better, instead of pretzeling him into something worse. That, Wayne thought, spoke to the boy's character more than anything he’d done prior.
(It helped to know what Hopper tolerated and what he didn’t. That he’d vouched for Steve in the same way Wayne knew he’d vouched for Eddie, even if Eddie didn’t yet realize the cop he antagonized so much would do that for him.)
That didn't erase the history his kid had with Harrington, though.
Wouldn't stop him from seeing the old Steve, first.
‘Don’t you got school?” Wayne asked when he decided Ed had stared enough.
“Yeah, yeah.” Eddie waved him off, trotting out the door. “Bye old man, house parasite!”
It was clearly a jab, meant to nettle, but Steve barely acted like he heard it.
Wayne rolled his eyes.
“Goodbye, Eds.” He said firmly, much of a warning as he ever gave, and fondly watched his nephew scuttle out the door.
Turned to see how Steve was taking things, and was once again given a reminder that Steve wasn’t doing a hell of a lot other than feeling his injuries.
“I think I promised you a game, son.” Wayne said gently, startling Steve out of the distant, dim look he had trained on the wall.
It wasn’t a lot to offer in terms of a distraction, but it would have to do.
#small town rumors#this is the first part of chapter two#I will post all parts of chapter two once im done fighting through it lol#steddie#or pre steddie#where I exist as a person#best dad wayne munson#wayne pov#did I say this entire chapter was going to be eddies pov bc haha I lied#outsider pov#s3 au#hurt/comfort#enemies to lovers but like softish enemies to lovers as in Eddies not caring a whole lot that Steves hurt....yet#beat to shit steve harrington#0o0 fanfics#stranger things#eddie munson#steve harrington#Eddies out here ready to face down snotty af rich boy king steve#keeps working himself up so much he forgets how badly off Steve is lol#dont worry his munson doctrine goes to shit later#mostly bc Eddie thinks steve stuck his nose where he shouldnt have and finally got what he deserved lmao
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Futamono Flower Meaning
So you're telling me that the very night after Will whore Graham sent someone to murder Hannibal simp Lecter, the man created this?!
#will graham#hannibal#hannibal lecter#murder husbands#hannigram#nbc hannibal#hannibal is a simp#SUCH a simp#“oh? you sent someone to slit my wrists at a swimming pool?”#*instant heart eyes*#also#can we just#talk about these flower meanings for a sec?!#cause like#everlasting love and passion and affection and all that#we already knew#but resilience?!#caution?!#forgiveness?!#hope?!#graTITUDE?!?!#this man straight up almost died#and here's out here#planting a garden#to celebrate his future lover's attempted murder#because “growth” is making him think Will is finally accepting his darker side#and “desire” is him lusting after it#and “everlasting love?!” not just love but everlASTING#this man has it SO bad#it's embarassing
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For me, the Lover album is open fields and sunsets and SUMMER. I want to celebrate the album and perform it live with you in a way that feels authentic to the music.
FOUR YEARS OF LOVER
August 23, 2019
#tswiftedit#taylorswiftedit#tswiftgif#taylor swift#the eras tour#eras tour#lover#*mine#*2023#*gifs#mine: eras tour#mine: lover#album anniversaries#[colourful]#2k#whatever possessed me to make big colourful gifs with barely passable footage I do not know#BUT HAPPY ANNIVERSARY TO MY FAVEEEEE finally getting its time to shine and be appreciated 🥺
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a lover's pinch | seven
joel miller x f!reader
pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader
rating: explicit, 18+ mdni
summary: things get a little messy after returning home. a confrontation sparks the beginning of a new stage in your relationship with joel.
warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, angst, miscommunication trope, self-doubt, alcohol consumption/hangover, joel is 50 and he texts like it, les mis spoilers???, phantom of the opera spoilers???, jealous!joel, food/eating, hurt/comfort, professor DAD, professor COWBOY, soft emotional smut, unprotected piv sex, cream pie, oral [f!receiving], joel says dadgum cause i think it's so classic him and so cute.
word count: 11.1k jesus
series masterlist | main masterlist
chapter moodboard
a/n: merry christmas to all that celebrate. as always, thank you for your patience and kindness. the love for this series is nothing short of mind blowing, and i appreciate you all endlessly. i hope you enjoy this angst and potentially the most flowery + emotional ALP smut yet [if that's even possible]. also rachel i love you i'm sorry. without further ado, the beginning of our descent into The End Times x
follow @hier--soirupdates if you'd like to be notified when i share my writing
this is part seven of ALP. you can read the previous parts here: one, two, three, four, five, six.
Tuesday.
It's nine thirty in the morning and you buy a Coke anyways.
It’s raining heavy outside; fat droplets of water that splatter against the windscreen of your car and dribble down, slipping through the crevice at the top of the bonnet, searching for the engine, for the oil gasket, for somewhere undercover to dry out.
You tuck your legs beneath yourself, sit criss-cross in the driver’s seat, and take small sips of fizzing black sugar. Allow it to moisten your lips, coat your tongue and your teeth in that sickening, viscous way soda always does, before it slips down your throat.
There’s something unearthly about the day, unnerving—it’s Tuesday morning and you’re hungover. A dull ache behind your left eye, a kink in your neck. You check your phone.
Thick, rolling clouds loom across the sky. Occasionally, a flash of lightning, a thrum of thunder. You tear open a packet of peanuts and pluck one out, and then another. Eat until your lips are dry and puckered, and then take another drink. More peanuts then. Salty, sweet, salty, sweet.
It’s all you can stomach as your liver pumps and spasms, still working to cleanse your blood of the night before, spent sprawled on the couch with Trin and Nora.
Wearing sweaters and thick socks, gripping full glasses of wine, and watching Les Misérables. Nora, tears on her cheeks, had sung along with Hugh Jackman—'This innocent who bears my face, who goes to judgement in my place, who am I?’—and you, bleary-eyed and tipsy, had discreetly checked your phone.
You didn’t cry during I Dreamed A Dream but you’re crying for this? Trin rolled her eyes.
He sacrifices his freedom to save that man, Nora whimpered.
You woke up starving and the traffic was slow. At every red light and stop sign your fingers itched against the wheel, desperate to press inside your bag and pull out this little packet. And now, safe in the campus parking lot, you feast. Salty, sweet, salty, sweet. You feel a fleeting moment of pity for people with peanut allergies, and then you check your phone.
Still nothing.
Since you left New York on Monday morning there’s been no sign of life from Joel. No get home safe, no see you on Tuesday; no acknowledgement at all.
You stare dejectedly at the messages you’ve sent him.
First from yesterday afternoon:
Home now. Enjoy your last day in the big apple x
And then from late last night, two bottles of wine deep:
It’s raining and miserable here
Wish I was still in new york
With you
Sitting in your car now, glowering at the blank space where his response should be, you reconcile with the thought that perhaps he wants what happened in New York to stay in New York. Stolen glances and all-too-brief touches in a conference hall, his hand on your wrist at the museum, skin against skin in his hotel room, and in yours—perhaps it was supposed to happen there, not here. The lowering of walls came with a change in location, and maybe that was his intention. But those thoughts don’t ease the sharp twist in your chest when you think of him. Doesn’t take away how much you wish he would give you something – a morsel of communication, even a single word of acknowledgement. For as hard as you try to understand, you can’t forget the look in his eyes when he touched you at the cloisters, the way he breathed your name into your mouth. Sewing the seed of JoelJoelJoel into in the soft folds of your brain, impossible to forget.
You don’t think about his dinner with Rachel. Don’t consider that something may have happened that night, something that changed his mind about you. Something that made him rethink the entire weekend as you slipped into the shower and out the door, leaving him alone in your hotel bed while you headed to the airport.
No. You don’t think about that at all.
When you make it inside, clothes wet and cool from the rain, you shake your hair out like a dog. Let droplets fly across the hall as you make your way into the lecture theatre; a drizzled trail left in your wake.
The room is full when you step inside, but there’s no sign of him yet. You collapse into an empty chair in the front row and wait. The final few students filter in through the door, shaking out umbrellas and wiping their feet. And for another ten minutes you, foolishly, still expect Joel to show up.
It’s only when the door creaks open and an old man walks through, that you let the hopeful feeling rest.
He lays a worn old satchel against the desk and turns to smile at the room.
“Hello,” the stranger smiles, and his jowls quiver as he speaks. “I’m Jerry Dorfman, a Professor from the literature department, and…”
You zone out for a second, eyes darting down to your phone screen. Nothing.
“Oh, and Professor Miller,” Dorfman says, as if he’s just remembered that he shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be standing up there, in his spot. “Is tied up with a family matter. I trust he’ll be back with us later in the week.”
A family matter?
Slick with rain, staring at this stranger stood in Joel’s place, you feel like a kind of newborn. Some fresh lamb, soaked in the blood and amniotic fluids of her mother’s womb, staring through unseeing eyes, hoping to glean some understanding of this moment. This sudden burst of light, this shocking cold after so many weeks of warmth, of sweat and strong hands on your skin, holding you close. But this is Eros; the blacksmith, the limb-loosener, the crusher. A deviation from stoking the flame to the suddenly desperate, grasping loneliness of feeling as though you are standing by a lover’s window, staring helplessly through the glass, and watching them from the outside. Alone.
Dorfman tries and fails to connect his laptop to the projector.
Numb fingers type;
Are you okay? Where are you?
But no response comes.
No, not until later that night, not until you’re tucked beneath the covers of your bed, showered and sleepy, does he finally reach out.
The clock has just ticked past midnight when your phone vibrates.
Hey, I had to stay in the city another day. Just landed at PWM. See you on Thursday.
A hot, jagged feeling swims in your gut as you read the message, and then reread it. Twice, three more times, searching for some hint of familiarity. Some indication that he has been thinking about you as much as you’ve been thinking about him. That the past weekend meant something to him, like it meant to you.
Minutes pass, and when you don’t find what you’re looking for, you fall asleep without responding.
Thursday.
Nora wakes up with a stuffy nose.
This always happens to me, she sniffs. I hate being sick.
The tiles in the kitchen are cold beneath your bare toes and rain smears heavily against the windowpane. You can hear fat blooms of thunder bellowing outside. Nora’s sullen, husky voice paired with the steam rising from your mug are all it takes to convince you to stay home with her.
The two of you spend the day curled on the sofa beneath blankets. You stare at your laptop, a document open on your screen with the title of an essay sitting pretty at the top. The cursor blinks and blinks at you, taunting you, daring you to write something, anything. But Sex and The City is playing on the tv, and Nora is snoring at the other end of the sofa, and you can’t help but watch the minutes tick by on the clock. Listen to Carrie and Miranda argue about Big, and wonder if Joel has even noticed your absence.
Trin gets home from class, and you follow her into the kitchen. Peel and slice oranges and apples and lemons while she tells you about her day. Boil them in sugar with cinnamon and star anise while she complains about an argument she had with her boyfriend. Add red wine and brandy while she tells you that her Dad sent her some money, and she’ll order take out for the three of you.
So together you huddle in the lounge and eat hot Indian food with your hands. Soak pieces of naan in tarka dal and saag paneer and top if off with mulled wine, unphased by the clashing of flavours in your mouths.
And you don’t check your phone, or look at the time, and you don’t complain when Nora asks, with glassy-eyes and spinach in her teeth, if she can put on another musical.
He’s a freak, Trin frowns at the TV.
He loves her, Nora implores, staring doe-eyed at a masked Gerard Butler.
Nor, Trin scoffs, he put a wedding dress on a mannequin that looks just like her. In his fucking lair, no less. That’s freak behaviour.
He has amazing sideburns though, Nora grins. So he gets a pass.
Your phone vibrates as Erik strokes a passed-out Christine’s face, singing help me make the music of the night.
Careful that Nora won’t notice, you pull it from beneath your thigh.
Where were you today?
You stare at the words for a moment and feel your lips curl into an disbelieving sneer.
“Oh, fuck off,” you mutter, and shove your phone into the crevice between the sofa cushions.
Wednesday.
A week goes by with no word from Joel.
No word from you either.
You stay home every day. Write and read and catch up on work and take Benadryl and sip soup and then you wake one morning, relieved to find that Nora’s cold has finally left your system.
So you tug on jeans, a sweater, and share a pot of coffee in the kitchen. Share quiet conversation with Pete in his shitty old Beamer as he gives you a ride to campus, and walk into Rachel’s lecture with zero expectation that today will be the day you finally see Joel again.
“We understand that Antigone is a victim of her father’s sins,” Rachel explains. “In the wake of patricide, of incest, every one of her actions is seen as a direct consequence.”
“Even her fate to be buried alive was sewn by her father’s unwitting actions,” she pauses, eyes searching the faces across the room, gauging reactions. “And, of course, this concept isn’t unique to Greek mythology. We see it plainly in the Bible, in Exodus; the sins of your father are to be laid upon the children… these themes of ancestral curses, of the inevitability of fate – they are integral to understand when looking at our tragic heroines. We saw it with Medea, we see it with Antigone, with Iphigenia, with Electra. Electra herself said, we are bound to acquiesce—”
An interrupting knock sounds against the door. Rachel’s head swivels around, eyebrows knitted in frustration as she calls for whoever it is to come in.
The door creaks open and her expression lifts. A saccharine smile spreads across her face, shoulders loosening.
“Joel,” she says warmly. “What can I do for you?”
A shiver wracks down your spine, toes curling in your sneakers.
The broad mass of him rests in the doorway. His head peeks past the wood, just a glimpse of his curls, his glasses, visible from where you sit. Your heart thunders in your chest, palms going damp at the prospect of this being the moment you finally see him again.
He speaks a few words in her direction, too quiet to catch, and then he’s taking a step into the room. His hand grips the edge of the door, keeping it open, and he casts a glance out towards the audience. Dark brown and searching, those eyes filter through countless faces until they finally land on yours.
And for a second, he doesn’t say a word. Just gazes out at you, eyebrows pulled together in the middle of his forehead, and then—and then he fucking looks back at Rachel. Your stomach goes hollow when you see the smile on her face. She lazes against the corner of her desk, and it feels like minutes go by as the two of you stare at him. And there’s something about waiting, you think, that feels like torture. That slow, painful build-up of pressure as you sit and stare and prepare yourself to discover who he’s here for. You or her.
You’re reminded painfully of a Graham Greene quote. A passage from The End of the Affair – one you’d, perhaps foolishly, found romantic when you read it that first time. Chosen words that had warmed your chest and made you feel light, lighter than air; the way only words could do sometimes.
‘Yes, Henry?’ and then ‘You?’ She had always called me ‘you’. ‘Is that you?’ on the telephone, ‘Can you? Will you? Do you?’ so that I imagined, like a fool, for a few minutes at a time, there was only one ‘you’ in the world and that was me.
Now, as you stare at Joel in the mouth of the doorway and memory of that passage sinks its hooks in, you feel only contempt for Greene.
For you had always read that passage imagining yourself as Sarah. And someone else, some misfortunate Maurice Bendrix, had fallen into your lap, and he was the ‘you’. But not you, never you. And it’s that pride which deceives. That pride which lulls us into false senses of security.
Joel says your name then.
Says, “Can I speak with you?” You, you, you.
And it should feel like relief, to hear your name on his lips again. But you catch the way he spares another glance, soft and sympathetic, in Rachel’s direction, and that sickly hurt isn’t abated.
Her face falls, but she smiles at you. Nods her permission for you to leave the room, and only when you’re halfway across the lecture theatre, bag swung over your shoulder, does she continue speaking to the class.
Palm flat against the door, he holds it open for you, making you press against him as you slip out of the room. It clicks shut behind you and he begins to move down the hall, leaving you to follow behind with no explanation. You assume that he’s going to lead you to his office, or anywhere more private than this, but a metre from the door Joel pauses abruptly, turns, and you slam into his chest with a huff.
“Jesus,” you mutter, stumbling a few steps back.
“Where have you been?” he glowers, brows drawn tight and angry over his eyes.
“What?”
“I’ve been busy,” you grit, glaring back. “Where have you been?”
“Busy?” he scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’ve been busy too. Busy teachin’ the classes that you don’t even show up for.”
“I’ve been sick,” you roll your eyes, unable—or perhaps just unwilling—to stray from nastiness, from spite. “My apologies, Professor.”
“Don’t—” Joel snaps, and flinches as quickly as the word comes out of his mouth, surprised by how harsh it sounds in the air between the two of you. He takes a step closer, voice low now—“Don’t call me that.”
“Fuck, what is your problem?” you huff, eyes widening, exasperated. “I missed two classes, it’s not a big deal.”
“And the silence?” Joel takes a step forward as he says it. Close enough now to see the smudges on the lens of his glasses. Close enough to see the muscle in his jaw twitch. Too close for public; too close for here. “Can’t even text me back, huh? What the hell is goin’ on with you?”
Your body pulls taut at that, hands balling into fists at your sides.
“Oh, you don’t like silence?” you hiss, matching his volume. “You can’t be serious. Joel, I didn’t hear from you for days after New York. Why would I waste my breath when it’s obvious you don’t want to fucking hear from me?”
“It was barely two days,” he shakes his head, shakes off the insinuation, shakes off whatever blame you’re trying to put on him.
“Two days,” you nod, smirking angrily. “Two days after we spent an entire weekend together. Two days after we kissed and fucked and practically went on a date.”
And the word date must elicit something in him. Some minute, man-brain trigger that snaps him to attention and helps him understand the hurt on your face, the tremble in your hands. Because he says your name, voice softening, posture loosening, every bit of his body language screaming out that he wants to step forward and touch you.
And he’s speaking again, voice low, but there’s people coming down the hall, heading your way. Two figures that you can’t make out through the haze of Joel in your immediate vision. So when he reaches out and touches your hand you flinch, jutting your chin over his shoulder. A warning. Don’t do this here.
One of them calls your name and you pause, mouth open. Drag your eyes away from Joel’s features to watch the figures get closer.
“Pete,” you force a smile. “Hey.”
You realise quickly how it must look; your sullen expression, Joel staring down at you with his shoulders hunched. He must understand at the same moment, because he takes a quick step away, folds his hands behind his back.
“Hey,” Pete takes a step closer. He glances warily between you and Joel, confusion colouring his face. “Everything cool?”
Stony faced, Joel looks between the two of you, posture stiffening the longer he stares at Pete. So much larger than him, taller and broader and far more intimidating. But a man with a secret to keep isn’t one to jump quickly at confrontation, so he keeps his mouth shut. Let’s you do the talking.
Ian catches your eye over Pete’s shoulder and offers a sleazy sort of smile. You swallow down a glare and hold Pete’s gaze.
“Everything’s fine,” you lie, taking a step towards them. A step away from Joel. “What’s up, what are you guys doing in this building?”
Pete’s eyebrows pull together, and he cocks his head at you. “Said you needed a ride home today. This morning, remember?”
“This morning,” you repeat, nodding slowly. You raise your hand and pinch the bridge of your nose, thinking quickly, mind a mess. “I, uh… right, look, Pete, I actually forgot I have a meeting with Professor Miller about my final essay this afternoon.”
“Your final…” Pete trails off, frowning. “Isn’t that due in like a month?”
“Yeah,” you say vaguely, and do not look at Joel. “I’ll find a way home later, okay?”
“I mean, sure. I guess,” Pete agrees reluctantly, reaching up to grip the strap of his satchel. “Call me if you need me okay?”
And Joel’s face turns to stone at the insinuation in those words. The idea that Pete could give you anything he couldn’t. That anyone would need to swoop in and save you from him.
The pair of you stand in silence for a moment, eyes trained on Pete and Ian’s retreating backs as they head down the hall. You watch and watch until they turn the corner, disappearing from sight, and only then do you exhale a breath of relief.
You contemplate leaving him there. Turning your back on him and returning to Rachel’s lecture, ignoring his texts and letting this all fade into some painful memory. But when you look at him again—at those big brown eyes that gaze back at you—you know you couldn’t if you tried.
“You look tired,” he frowns, and it’s not angry anymore. A little sad, maybe.
“I am,” you admit, and wonder if your face betrays how much of a role he plays in that exhaustion.
“Are you hungry?”
You stare for a moment, blinking slow, and then say, “Yeah.”
Joel nods, attempts a crooked smile, and says, “Let me take you to get something to eat.”
It’s silent in Joel’s car, aside from the soft patter of rain against his windows and the dull squeak of his windscreen wipers sliding it away. The truck glides through the winding streets of Biddeford, cruising down the main road and into the left lane of a fast-food drive thru. Orders you a burger, fries, nothing for himself, passing the bag into your lap and then continuing to drive.
The bun is soft beneath your fingers. Grease soaks your skin, and you taste beef, taste onions so soft, so sweet. A crimson dot of ketchup spattered onto your pants; a bright shock of mustard on your tongue. A fry here and there. Joel’s hand, outstretched fingers, sneaking across the centre console to steal one. You shift the paper bag on your lap, tilt the opening so it faces him, easier to access, but he doesn’t take another.
He grips the wheel and asks, “Do you want me to take you home?”
You think about Pete waiting for you at the house. Think about if Ian and that filthy smirk on his face and whether or not he’ll be there too. Think about having to flesh out your excuse, your lie, and finally say, “No.”
Joel keeps driving. You eat until your pants feel tight and the greasy brown bag is crumpled in your fist and he’s pulling his truck off the road and into a short driveway.
“Full?”
“Very.”
“Good.”
“Is this your house?”
“This is it.” He drags the keys out of the ignition and knocks the door open. It’s not long, barely a second, before he’s pulling yours open with a rough yank and a soft, “Door always sticks on this side.”
A vague sound spills from the back of your throat, and he guides you up a path towards the small home. Single storey, with a large brown door and windows decorating the outward façade. Your immediate thought is that it’s very Joel, but you stop the idea in its tracks. Remind yourself that maybe it isn’t your place to think things like that.
Inside it’s even more silent, even more tense. The two of you stand in the entry way, toeing off damp shoes. Your eyes flit around his front room, but it’s difficult to focus on anything. Too much to look at, too much you want to know, and you find it easier to just look at him.
“Realised you’d never been here,” Joel murmurs after a while. He shifts awkwardly on his feet, decidedly unsure of what to say as he rests beneath the weight of your stare. “This is the, uh, the livin’ room. Kitchen’s over there.”
When you don’t respond, he clears his throat, ticks his head towards the hallway. “Bathroom is down the hall. Bedroom too.”
You feel your face shift. Deadpan stare turns to surprise, to incredulity, to blatant anger.
“Oh, the bedroom, huh?” you smile, sardonic, cutting. Your throat feels tight. “S’that seriously why you brought me here? Ice me out and then come crawling back when you want something to fuck again?”
“Woah, hey,” his eyebrows shoot up, hands drifting forward like he’s trying to calm a startled animal.
“Don’t,” you hold up a shaking hand, eyes wide and wet suddenly. “Just… don’t touch me right now, okay? What are we doing here, Joel? Seriously.”
He says your name hard and fast, surprised by how quickly it’s all unravelling, spilling from you in a tidal wave.
And spill it does. The words are wet and watery, a tsunami of pent up emotions pouring from your mouth without permission, without forethought.
“I mean, we haven’t seen each other since New York. And I… I thought being there changed things between us. But maybe I was wrong… and then you pull me out of a lecture, bring me here and say my bedroom is down the hall? Am I just… do you just like having someone to fuck whenever you want? Is that it? Someone at your beck and call?”
Joel repeats your name, sharper this name. “Don’t put fuckin’ words in my mouth.” His face pinches in anger, hands dropping.
“When it’s not convenient you try to shake me off, but when it is—at a bar, or out of town—” you list them off on your fingers, eyes growing wider and wider. “Oh, you want me then?”
“That ain’t fuckin’ true and you know it—”
“Do I?” you scoff.
“I came that night when you texted,” he implores, voice raising, all wild-eyed and pleading. “You were drunk, and textin’ and you needed a ride.”
“I didn’t ask you to do that—”
“You didn’t ask me not too either,” he crosses his arms across his chest. “You wanted me to come. Don’t fuckin’ deny that now.”
You open your mouth but he’s too quick, matching your spill with his own now.
“And as if you’re any better?” he bares his teeth now, voice low. “As if you didn’t find out I was your teacher and keep fuckin’ me just for the thrill of it. As if you actually wanted me, and you weren’t just gettin’ off on chasin’ some forbidden fantasy.”
“I…” you gape at him, unafraid to let the hurt show on your face. “Is that really what you think of me?”
“What the fuck am I supposed to think?” he hisses, exhaustion evident in the way he runs a hand through his curls and sags against the door. “You tellin’ me I should believe that you just want me for what I am? A fifty-year-old teacher who spends his time giving fuckin’ speeches to people that are hardly listenin’? Who goes home to an empty bed? That’s what you want?”
And it deflates you, a little. The wounded expression on his face – the devastating truth in those words, splashed across his expression so plainly for you to see. Disbelief.
“Is that such a crime?” you ask quietly. “To want you… and have it be that simple?”
“You shouldn’t,” he shakes his head. Grimaces. “You shouldn’t want me, I’m—I’m no good for you.”
You swallow. Feel tears hot and sharp behind your eyes.
“Then why do you keep letting me?”
“Jesus,” he exhales, and his hand is on the hem of your shirt, pulling you closer, closer, until you’re pressed against his chest, hands coming up to grip his shoulders and steady yourself. “Because I can’t fuckin’ quit you, alright?”
“Because I don’t just want you when it’s convenient,” his lips curl around the word, disgusted by the insinuation. “Because I think about you all the god damn time and if I can only have you some of the time then I guess I’ll take it. Because if you want some fucked up fantasy, then I’ll play my part if it means I get you, I don’t care—”
You cut him off, lips firm and searing against his. He goes still for a moment, mouth parting with a surprised exhale, warm when you press inside with your tongue. And then warmer, salty; tears on his cheeks, on yours.
“That’s not what this is,” you whimper into his mouth, desperate for him to believe it. “It was never about that, it was about you, Joel. I want you.”
He kisses you again, slow. All of the anger and hurt and frustration pools out of the both of you, spilling from your mouths and into the air. His lips mould over yours and his hands are warm on your waist, your back, holding you tight against his chest. When you sniffle, he pulls back, forehead heavy against yours, and sighs.
“I’m sorry,” he rasps, eyes closed. “I missed you, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for—"
“Where were you?” you interrupt. “What happened in New York?”
He hesitates for a moment, nervous and calculating as he stares you down.
You wilt a little; dejected all over again. Recoil from him and quietly ask, “Why won’t you let me know you?”
Joel’s hand hovers in the air, as if contemplating reaching for you again, but then it drops and he says, “I was with my daughter.”
You blink.
Daughter.
Daughter?
“She lives there now,” Joel sounds a little breathless, cheeks pink as the words spill from him. “In New York, with her girlfriend. I’d planned to spend an extra day there with her, and then Nina—Nina cut her hand open at the studio and we had to go to the ER, and she had to get stitches and—” He pauses, waiting for you to jump in, to interrupt, to say anything. When you don’t, he takes a breath and continues. “And I wasn’t gonna stay any longer but Ellie was worried, and she needed me. She needed me there, and—and I’m never fuckin’ there, because she never needs me anymore. So I stayed, and I’m sorry I went silent but I was… I was takin’ care of my kid.”
You think it might be the longest—and the fastest—you’ve ever heard him speak outside of a lecture hall.
His eyes drift to something over your shoulder and his entire body seems to sag a little. But it isn’t sad. It’s a resigned, sort of relaxed thing that happens – the corners of his mouth tilt up and he smiles weakly.
You turn, follow his eyeline until you see them.
Pictures, so many pictures, lining the walls of his home. Ones you’d paid no attention to when you first stepped inside, but can now see clearly. Bright eyes and wide toothy grins.
Some of Joel younger, leaner, smiling beside a little girl with curly hair. Some of him as you know him now; scruffy and greying, beside a different girl. This one lanky and pale and grimacing toward the camera as if she were forced into being placed in front of it.
There’s one picture of the girls beside each other, teenagers maybe, sat on either end of a seesaw. The curly-haired girl is on the upper end, grinning madly at the lens, while the other sits with her feet planted firmly on the ground, laughing up at her. Two of them. Two daughters?
“Please say somethin’.”
There’s a picture of Joel and he’s holding a tiny little bundle in his arms, and he looks so young and so fucking afraid. Dark eyes wide and teary as he gazes down at chubby cheeks, his index fingers crooked around the edge of her swaddle. A warm feeling swells in your chest and your body softens the longer you look at it. He’s a father.
Joel says your name and when you turn his face is all twisted up, and he looks the smallest you’ve ever seen him. Almost curled in on himself.
“I should’ve told you,” he nods, brown eyes darting across your face in an attempt to decipher your silence. “I know that, and I—”
“I’m an asshole,” you interrupt softly, and the tears never left but now they feel heavier on your waterline. Begging to spill over again.
“Hey,” he frowns, hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb swipes at the soft skin beneath your eye, begging the wetness there to disappear. “Hey, hey, no—”
“I didn’t think…” you trail off, sniffling. A sickly cocktail of embarrassment and guilt and shame swirl in the pit of your stomach and you try to swallow it down, try to send it away, but it’s persistent. “I never stopped to think that something had actually happened, that you had… I feel selfish, Joel, I’m sorr—”
“You’re not,” he hushes, fingers curling into the hair behind your ear. “You didn’t know. I should’ve told you before, and I’m sorry.”
“I thought you were staying away because of me,” you offer a watery smile. “I thought maybe you and…” You can’t bring yourself to finish the sentence. Can’t make your lips form the name Rachel.
“No,” he shakes his head, jaw tight, as if reading your mind.
“Is she okay?”
“Ellie?”
“Ellie,” you roll the name around in your mouth. His daughter. “Yeah.”
“She’s okay,” he smiles, nodding. “They’re both fine.”
“And…” You look back at the pictures. Two. “And the other girl?”
“Sarah,” Joel says softly, pointing at wild curls and brown eyes that look just like his. And he must see the questions swirling in your brain because he speaks again. “I was twenty. My, uh, my girlfriend at the time didn’t know what to do. Didn’t wanna be a Mom, but didn’t agree with abortion, and we were so young and… well, I asked her to marry me cause it felt like the right thing to do, but she didn’t…” he shakes his head a little, a faraway look in his eye as he remembers it. “She said no. She never wanted that… so, after Sarah was born, I told her that she didn’t have to.”
“Didn’t have to?” you repeat the words, eyebrows furrowing.
“Didn’t have to stay,” he clarifies. Your lips part, surprised. “So, she didn’t, and we ain’t seen her since Sarah was a few months old.”
“Shit,” you whisper, eyes widening as the information finally starts to sink in.
“And Ellie,” he laughs then, gazing at a picture of auburn locks and shock grey eyes. “Well, that one showed up on my door some time fifteen years later. Been in ‘n’ outta foster care for years, and just started followin’ Sarah home from school one day. We did this little dance for a while; dinners and sleepovers and me slipping money into her backpack so she could buy lunch at school. And then one day she just… begged me not to make her go back to her own house. So I didn’t.”
“Wow, I…” you blink. “You adopted her? Alone?”
“I…” Joel pauses. Wets his lips, frowning as he collects his thoughts. “Alone is… I don’t think that’s the right word for it. You see Ellie was… Sarah and me, we just knew. She was family so fast. It was the only thing that made sense, you know?”
And it does, you suppose. The image isn’t hard to conjure. Joel at the dinner table with two teenagers on either side of him. Arguing over homework, over curfews, over what movie to watch. You can see the fondness in his eyes as he talks about them – the emotion laced through his words; we just knew.
“Tell me what you’re thinkin’,” Joel says, and that line between his eyebrows is back and it’s so deep that you can’t help yourself from reaching up and smoothing it over with your thumb. He catches your hand and holds it against the centre of his chest. Lets you feel the way his heart thuds heavily beneath the skin, a sturdy rhythm against your palm.
“It’s… it’s a lot to take in,” you confess, and his hand tightens over yours. “But I’m glad you told me.”
Brown eyes search yours, gaze heavy. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” you nod. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Okay then.”
You flex your palm against his chest. Dig your fingers into the flesh there a little.
“Can I…” he hesitates, eyes flickering down. “Do you… Can I kiss you?” You, you, you.
Your heart beats fast, and you feel his do the same, and Joel is a father, and two daughters, and I can’t fuckin’ quit you, and you’re breathing into his mouth yes, yes you can kiss me, please kiss me.
It’s warm and it’s gentle and it feels like such a kindness to kiss him now and feel less space between the two of you. Feels like a thousand apologies and explanations slipping off his tongue and you opening your arms to him, saying I understand, saying thank you for telling me.
And when you pull him closer, wrapping an arm around the back of his neck, he meets you in kind, pressing your back against the wall. He shifts his hips between yours and shows you how much he’s missed you, and only when his hand drifts beneath the hem of your shirt do you pause.
He stills, warm breaths drifting across your mouth as he looks into your eyes.
“Talk to me.”
“I’m exhausted,” you admit shyly, twisting a finger through a frizzy lock of hair at the nape of his neck. You tug at it, not meeting his eye, and watch it bounce back into a curl when you let go. He nods and kisses you again, closed lips soft and not asking for anything, never asking for more than you want to give, before he takes your hand and leads you through his house for the first time.
He runs you a bath. Makes you sit on the edge while he lays out a towel and checks the temperature every few minutes. Only when he’s satisfied that the water is perfectly warm does he help peel the clothing from your body. He grips your hand and helps you step into the tub, lowering you down into sudsy water. And when you’re settled, he pulls a stool nearby and sits, keeping you company as you soak.
“S’nice,” you tell him quietly, dragging a foamy sponge across your arms. “Thank you, Joel.”
The weight of before hangs over you a little, pressing down against your shoulders as you watch him. Gauge him. But he doesn’t seem angry or upset anymore. He leans over the lip of the tub. Runs his hands through the water, over the skin of your calf, your knee. Feels the coarse hairs that have grown there over the past fortnight and smiles when they scratch against his palm.
“Said you were sick?”
“Mhm.”
“What kind?”
“Just a cold,” you whisper. He squeezes your knee, palm against your patella, fingers soft in the flesh around it. “M’fine. Past it now.”
In the soapy water, his skin feels like silk against yours.
“Changin’ of the season,” he muses with a nod. “Normally gets me too.”
And you laugh a little at that, because it’s such a fatherly thing to say and you can’t believe how naïve you’d been to not see it before. Can suddenly picture him doing this a thousand times over; resting by the bath while one of his little girls floats in the water, nose all stuffy from the flu.
At the sound of your laughter he smiles, gaze dropping to your mouth, and the skin beside his eyes pinches. Little wrinkles, so soft and so beautiful that you want to reach out and brush your fingers across them.
“You’re so beautiful,” Joel murmurs, and his voice is hushed, so low in the small bathroom.
His fingers skirt against the inside of your thigh and you splay your legs open for him, knees knocking against the sides of the tub. He glances down through the water to where you’re spread open for him to see, shameless, and smiles.
“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he repeats.
“So are you, Joel.”
“Psh,” he rolls his eyes, offering a delicate little smile. So shy, so feeble, and so desperate to believe you. A little glimpse of that wary weight, still pressing down on him as well.
“Mean it,” you insist in a whisper. You lift a hand from the water, wet thumb grazing the corner of his mouth. Feel the bristles of his moustache, the hairs on his cheek, prickling against your skin.
“Swoony type,” you say, smiling when recognition flashes in his eyes. Stroke the fresh blush on his cheeks. “Long hair, bedroom eyes, cheeks like wine.”
“Hmm,” he murmurs, turning to press a kiss against your palm. “Can’t get away with plagiarisin’ Carson in this house, baby.”
“She just said it so well.”
“She did,” he agrees. “So did Tartt.”
“Tartt?” your mind wanes, the warm water lulling you into a sleepy sort of daze. You rest heavy against the side of the bath, gazing up at him
“Beauty is terror,” he quotes tenderly, eyes bold and earnest as he holds your stare. “Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it.”
You wrap an arm around his shoulders, water droplets staining his shirt where your fingers grip the material, and pull him forward to kiss you. Joel grips the inside of your leg and kisses you until your skin prunes and wrinkles. And when he notices he laughs with you, gripping your hand to press his lips against fingertips that look like raisins. Worships the soaked skin of your fingers until you pull his face back to yours; jealous of your own hands, fearful that they might come to know his kiss better than your lips.
And when the water goes lukewarm and you don’t know what time it is anymore, he dries you off with a soft towel and offers once more to take you home. But you say no, so he smiles and kisses you again—your lips, your cheeks, your eyelids—and leads you to his bedroom.
He drags a too-big shirt over your head, helps you loop your arms into the sleeves. Dark blue and warm, so warm, against your skin.
The two of you slip beneath the covers on his bed and he drags you against his side; lets you press your cold toes against his shins without so much as a flinch.
Facing each other on your sides, those hands slink beneath the shirt, rough palms cradling your ribs, your back, holding you tight against his chest until your breathing falls in sync. And those hands don’t stray, don’t move down, they just embrace you. A carefully held apology that promises I want this, to hold you, to be with you, too.
It stays like that, nothing more, until your eyelids are heavy, and his breathing has evened out. Stays like that until your hand drops from his back to the band of his boxers, sleepy little fingers plucking at the material, trying to slip underneath.
“You should rest.”
But you whine softly; needy and insistent as your fingers press harder.
“What do you need?” Joel rasps into your neck, helping you shift them down his legs.
“Need you,” you whisper back into the darkness of his bedroom. “Wanna feel you, I—”
His mouth is soft against yours, plucking those words from your mouth and swallowing them down. He sucks your bottom lip between his, prying your mouth open so he can slip his tongue inside.
His hand in on your knee, pulling your leg up until your thigh rests heavy around his hip and you can feel the hot weight of him against your core, still slick and warm and needy from when his hand rested on the inside of your leg in the bath.
And if you’d ever subscribed to the meaning behind words like sin you suppose that once this might have counted as one. An act worthy of being sent to reside in that second circle of hell, reserved solely for those overcome by lust; left to blow back and forth in the storm of their own desire. Two people who cannot touch, should not touch, who hold their hands out to feel anyways. A touch once spiteful, once desolate and removed, now so forthcoming. A touch that says this is the only way it could have ever been. And there can be nothing sinful about it anymore. No more shame or derision behind heavy eyelids, no more you shouldn’t or I’m no good for you. Here you rest comfortably in the hurricane of that second circle, and you welcome the breeze as a comfort.
Lips against yours, Joel feeds his cock to you in slow, careful passes.
Ensures you feel every ridge, every hard line of his body. And with each gentle press inside he murmurs against your mouth. Incessant, low nonsenses of so fuckin’ beautiful and god I missed you and that’s it, baby, I know, I know. His kiss smooth as an almond, tender as a fig. Ripe and wet and tremulous as his tongue finds a home against yours, over and over.
The comforter on his bed stays pulled high, up to your shoulders, and it traps the warmth of your bodies between you.
He coaxes rough, gasping sounds from you with every shift of his hips.
Long fingers grip the back of your thigh, using his hold there to rock your body into his over and over again, slowly, making sure you feel every second of it. Slick seeps out of you around his length, smearing against the inside of your thighs and his, and he groans at the wet sounds that slip from where the two of you are connected.
Joel says your name, low and gravelly, praising every syllable. He tells you how good it feels, how perfect you are, and every word is like an undressing of the flesh. Like you’re some tender butcher, peeling back layers of his skin to let the air hit hot, red, pulsating matter, flashes of thick, porcelain bone swimming amongst it all. He keeps you close, hardly an inch of your body not touching his, and yet you can see all of him. The whole surface and everything underneath it now too. And when you say his name in return and he moans, begs you to say it again, say my name again, it’s hearts on wings, thin fire racing beneath the skin, eyes unseeing, drumming filling your ears. It’s the cold sweat on his hands that hold you shaking, that feel the way you tremble and grip tighter. It’s wanting to take those bones of his and suck them clean; lick past the gristle and taste the marrow beyond it.
It's everything and it’s nothing and it’s that silly little four-letter word that you can’t bring yourself to say, let alone think, and it doesn’t even matter because he’s here and that’s enough.
His nose rests in the hollow above your collarbone and he inhales, smothering soft kisses to skin and bone there.
He says, “You smell like me,” and when he looks up and presses his forehead against yours, he almost looks wounded by it. He stills, holds himself deep inside and just stares, and his eyes are screaming I can’t fuckin’ quit you, so you lay your thumb over the dimple on his cheek and smile. “S’my clothes, my soap…”
Your body flutters and tightens around him, and your mouths fall open in soft moans, lips slotting together again.
“You like that?” you breathe into the kiss, and he tightens his fist around the back of the shirt, pressing inward until your back is arched, and your stomach is flush against his and he’s groaning yes.
“Want you in my clothes all the fuckin’ time,” he pants, and the tip of his cock presses so deep inside that you’re gasping, mouth hanging wide open. “And when you give ‘em back I’ll wear ‘em and smell like you, and then we’ll be even.”
“Even?” you laugh a little, nipping at his bottom lip. He smiles, eyes glinting in the darkness.
“Yeah, even,” he repeats it and presses forward in a sharp thrust to emphasise his point. You don’t need to hear it again to know exactly what he means.
“Tell me you’re mine,” you whisper, and he grunts, hips shifting a little faster against yours. You feel him pulse inside of you, his stomach tightening against yours.
“M’yours,” Joel murmurs, voice like velvet and honey, so soft as he leans forward to kiss you, licking the words into your mouth. You say it back, spell it out against his teeth, his lips, his jaw. Yours, yours, yours.
He says something else then, lips soft against your chin, and you’re so close; can feel it hot and burning in your gut, almost at tipping point.
“Hmm?”
“Baby,” Joel nips at your jaw, sharpening your senses. “Tell me you’re on the pill or somethin’.”
“I am,” you whimper honestly, and his body seems to sag against yours, hips shifting in sluggish, tired movements.
Something snaps at the base of your spine, and you tremble against him, gripping the back of his neck. Soon enough he’s shuddering into you, arms going tight around your back, trapping you against his chest as his cock pumps inside your core. And it’s warm and wet and sticky and his seed drools out of you, down to your asshole, smearing against the inside of your thighs, his sheets. Your legs wrap around his waist, holding him to you, keeping him there as long as you possibly can. Riding out your highs, and then the trembling, stuttering aftershocks in each other’s arms. He pants into your mouth and all either of you can say is mine or yours, until the words mix together and become a meaningless blur of sound murmured between locked lips.
It could be minutes or an entire hour before you manage to separate from each other. All eager little kisses and whines as his soft cock slips from your hold, thick spend seeping out of you in his absence. And you just want to sleep, want to curl up in his arms and never leave, but you slink off to the bathroom first. Wet your face and drop down on his toilet. Urinate and feel his come drip out of you. And where once, with someone else, you might have cringed at the feeling, you only feel warmth; calm.
In the bright lighting of his bathroom, you can see yourself reflected in the mirror above his sink. Hair a wild mess, cheeks and lips swollen with warmth. This woman in the mirror stares back at you and she has bright eyes. She smiles at you, and you feel your lips peel back, teeth on show just like hers. You stare at her and think god, she looks happy. When you wipe between your thighs and stand, she does too. And with your finger on the light switch, a wet handtowel clutched in your other palm, you give her one last look before turning out the light, feeling lighter than you have in weeks.
Thursday.
Joel sleeps on his stomach. At least, that’s how he ends up overnight.
Face buried deep in a pillow, one leg slung outside of the covers, with a heavy arm out to the side. When you wake, at first, you’re careful not to move. Not to breathe too heavily, not to cough or jostle him awake. He looks so peaceful like this. Heavy breaths puffing from chapped pouty lips, forehead smooth and devoid of the stress and exhaustion that often lines his face. A large hand rests close to you. Despite you drifting a part in the night, the body heat getting too much for you both, his fingers remain outstretched in your direction. The tips just grazing the skin of your stomach as you lie on your side and watch him.
A low murmur escapes from his mouth, face twitching a little, and then he’s relaxing again, humming in his sleep. You smile, and let your eyes wander.
There’s a pile of books on his bedside table, reading glasses dropped haphazardly atop them.
An Idiot’s Guide to Space, one of the weathered spines reads. Interesting.
A framed painting rests above a set of drawers on the side of his room. A vast landscape with a herd of horses galloping across it. Gorgeous hides of orange and brown and black splashed across green grass and blue sky. And on the back of his door… hangs a cowboy hat.
You move slowly, careful not to wake him as you rise and tip toe across the room. Coming to rest directly in front of the closed door, you slip it off the hook and admire it. You don’t even hear his breathing change as he wakes up.
Dark brown with a curved brim; the felt is soft beneath your fingers. The image of Joel wearing it, perhaps often, while living in Texas flits through your mind and you can’t help but smile. And then warm hands are on your hips, arms snaking around your waist to pull you back into a warm chest.
You gasp in quiet surprise, but your smile only broadens when Joel rests his chin on your shoulder, peering down at the hat in your hands.
“Mornin’,” he murmurs, voice gruff and deeper than usual. A pang of arousal swims in your core at the sound of it, but you ignore that, turning in his grasp.
“Good morning, cowboy.”
Joel groans, sleepy eyes drifting closed as he hugs you to his chest, swaying the two of you from side to side.
“Wanted to lie in,” he grumbles. “S’too early for this.”
“For what?” you blink in mock confusion, holding the hat against your chest.
“For you to see that.” He moves quick, tugging it from your grasp.
“Hey—” You gasp, wide eyed and ready to steal it back. But before you can Joel just lifts it onto his head with a heavy sigh. “Oh.”
“Oh?” he repeats, eyes narrowing.
Warmth simmers in your stomach and you smirk, stepping back to give him a quick once over.
“I could get used to this.”
“Jesus,” he rolls his eyes, moving to take it off but you grip his hand, shaking your head fiercely.
“Not so fast,” you coo. “I want the whole experience.”
“And what exactly is the whole experience?”
“You know—” You shimmy your hips a little. Imitate twirling a lasso in the air, wiggling your eyebrows. “Show me some tricks.”
Joel laughs at you, and you can see the desire in him to say no, to refute it, but the longer you stare him down, the more it cracks and fizzles away.
“Go on, cowboy,” you try out your best Texan drawl, falling down to sit on the edge of his bed.
He adjusts his legs, elbows bending as he waves two finger guns in your direction. You suck your lips into your mouth, swallowing down a laugh as he makes a small pchew pchew noise out the side of his mouth.
“Oh,” you smirk. “Is that all you got?”
“I’ll have you know,” Joel huffs, pretending to holster one of his guns. Hip cocked now, still dressed in nothing but his sleep shirt and boxers; he stares you down. “I’m startin’ to think this town ain’t big enough for the both of us.”
And that gets you. A sharp, barking laughs slips from your mouth, and Joel grins in return, the skin beside his eyes creasing as he adjusts the Stetson over his curls.
As your giggles calm, he just shakes his head, still smiling, and murmurs fondly, “Dadgum, you got a good laugh.”
Your face warms beneath his stare, and you just shake your head, bottom lip snagged between your teeth. Moving quick, Joel pinches the brim of the hat and places it onto your head. It’s a little big, and the brim falls down, obscuring your eyesight before he adjusts it for you. Then he takes a step back, hands on hips.
“How do I look?” You bat your eyelashes up at him, smiling shyly.
“I don’t know,” he fakes an air of contemplation, giving you a long look up and down. “Think you might be all hat ‘n’ no cattle.”
“Hey,” you pout. “I’d make a great cowboy; just need a pair of chaps.”
“Well, you can wear the hat and the chaps all you like,” Joel murmurs, gaze heavy. “But you ain’t a cowboy ‘til you prove you can ride like one.”
Your thighs tense and you arch an eyebrow, trying to remain nonchalant.
“Is that right?”
“S’right.”
“Mm,” you hum. You lick your bottom lip and watch the way his gaze darkens, eyes trained on the movement. “Gonna let me show you what I got?”
And so you end up back in bed, straddling Joel while he smirks up at you, long fingers twisting around the hem of your t-shirt. But when you slip a finger inside the hem of his boxers, the movement so reminiscent of last night, he laughs a little and gives you a look that says, really?
You pout, confused. “I thought you wante—”
“Uh uh,” Joel shakes his head. “Not what I meant.”
“Then what?”
“Get up here.” He lifts his chin upward.
Your eyes widen, stomach tensing a little.
Desire warms the inside of your thighs, and you murmur, “You want that?”
“Do I wa—?” he cuts himself off, eyes darkening a shade. “I said, get up here.”
Heart racing, you shimmy up his chest until your knees are planted on the mattress on either side of his shoulders. He smiles, encouraging, and you grip the hem of his shirt, prepared to pull it over your head, but he stops you.
“No,” he exhales, hand quickly gripping yours. “Leave it on for me.” And then he leans in and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, and you can only nod, holding your breath as you wait for him to reach where you want his mouth the most.
Face tucked in the cradle of your hips, Joel sighs your name. A rough exhalation, nose pressed into your skin. And it feels a little silly at first – your face is warm as you stare down at him, the wide brim of the cowboy hat tilting forward.
But then, breath hot and heavy against you, he mouths at the crease where your hip meets your thigh. Slow, drawn-out kisses that have your legs tensing over him, his hands slip beneath the shirt, tracing light patterns into the skin over your spine, all the way up to your shoulders. He keeps going until you’re shivering, a wet trembling mess in his hands, hips twitching forward with every touch of his mouth to your skin until he finally glides his tongue through your folds.
Your breathing hitches as he pants against you, chest vibrating with low sounds as he licks thick stripes up the entire length of your pussy. Eyes closed, he tastes all of you; tongue slipping over every piece of exposed skin that the position grants him. And with every broad stroke of his tongue, he dips inside your weeping hole and finishes with a gentle flick against your clit. So soft and so slow, building you up over and over until finally you break and begin rocking your hips into his face.
Joel grunts at first, a little surprised maybe, but in a second his hands are dropping to grip your thighs, locking you in place against his face.
At first, he guides you. Helps you find a rhythm that works, that feels good. Flattens his tongue and uses his grip to rock you back and forth over his face, groaning as you roll your clit against him, huffing and panting quiet little pleas. But soon enough your fingers are carding through his hair, holding him tight against you as you grind down into his mouth. Sharpening his tongue, he dips it inside of you and then drags upward, pulling your clit into his mouth and sucking gently.
You gasp, vision going hazy as you try to keep your eyes on him, try to watch, but it’s too good. He knows exactly what you like, and it all moves far too quickly for your liking. You can already feel your hips winding faster and harder against him, breaths falling shorter, everything in your stomach pulling tight and hot.
Joel can tell – he can always fucking tell – and one of his hands drifts over your ass, fingers slipping between your thighs from behind until his middle finger is circling your entrance.
“Fuck,” you inhale sharply, jaw going slack as he prods at your cunt, tongue lapping lazily over your clit all the while. “Please, your fingers, yeah, ohhh—”
A long finger sinks inside and you moan, head falling back.
“You like that?” he murmurs, pulling back to graze his teeth along the inside of your thigh. A second finger presses inside, and he curls them against that soft spot, fucking you slow and steady until you acquiesce, whimpering yesyesyesfucksogood towards the ceiling.
“Good girl,” he hums, slick tongue finding its way back to your clit.
He eats at you so lovingly. So generous as he lathes firm circles around your nerves, only ever pausing to suck you into his mouth again or press wet, open-mouthed kisses against the entirety of your cunt. Nose buried in the short curls over your mound, he doesn’t let up until your moans turn high pitched; strained little whimpers of his name falling from your lips as you press down harder and harder.
“Oh fuck,” you cry, hips rocking back and forth, faster now. He breathes you in, jaw shifting from side to side, matching the intensity of your movements with sharp flicks of his tongue. And when you fall apart, shoulders sagging forward, he moans, taking and taking and taking every last drop of what you have to offer.
And what an image it must be – you, wearing a Stetson, riding Joel Miller’s face. You almost wish you’d filmed it, for posterity’s sake.
He presses a small kiss to one swollen lip of your pussy, and then the other, before his head is falling back into the pillows and he’s smiling up at you.
The lower half of his face shines, lips and facial hair slick with your come, and you can’t help but grin back, a tired snort of laughter slipping from your mouth.
“How’d I do?” You grip the brim of the hat, tipping it down at him.
Joel smirks, hands squeezing your thighs, helping to shift you up and onto the side of the bed so he can sit up.
“I’d say you more than proved yourself,” he hums, leaning in to steal a kiss. You sigh, whining against his warm wet mouth, and reach a hand down to press it against his abdomen. Shifting lower, you trail your fingers over where his cock strains against his boxers, but Joel just tuts, pulling away and slipping off the bed.
“Hey,” you huff, gripping his shirt and trying to pull him back down, but he just shakes his head, laughing, and drags you to your feet.
“Gonna be late,” he tells you, squeezing your hips and pressing a kiss to your temple. “And you needa eat.”
Late. You’d almost forgotten that you had a lecture this morning. Joel’s lecture.
He turns, rifling in the chest of drawers, pulling out clothes, a pair of socks, while you stand behind him and watch, knees still shaking, with a fucking cowboy hat on your head. After a moment he turns, stares, and a rough laugh hits the air. Shaking his head, Joel grips the brim and tosses the hat back up on its hook before pointing towards the ensuite, telling you to shower.
“You coming?” you ask, and he just shakes his head, tugging on socks before padding towards the hallway.
“Cowboys don’t shower, baby,” he flashes a smile over his shoulder at you and winks. “They just dust off.”
When you make your way out of the shower, Joel is in the kitchen. Ironed black trousers and a neat white shirt cover his frame, and from across the room you admire him. That strong back, the pert rounded muscles of his ass. Fuck.
He manages to over scramble the eggs and burn the bacon because he can’t stop looking over his shoulder at where you rest at his dining table. Head resting heavy in your palm, you smile back at him. And when he puts a plate of food in front of you, you don’t have a single complaint.
The two of you eat fast, plucking little pieces of eggshell out as you go, smiling and laughing shyly as your feet tangle beneath the table. He watches you; makes sure you clear your plate before he takes it to the sink, murmuring something about how he won’t make you sit through me talkin’ for hours on an empty stomach. Says he’s pretty sure that counts as torture somewhere, baby.
And when he turns, dirty dishes forgotten in the sink, you’re staring at him, heart on your sleeve, and he must see it in your eyes. You know that it has to be clear as day; that forbidden four-letter word blazing across your forehead in bold letters.
Joel clocks your gaze and moves to hover over where you sit, wordlessly cupping your face in two broad palms and slotting his mouth over yours. And as he licks into your mouth, tasting the remnants of eggs and bacon and every unsaid word, you start to believe that maybe confessing wouldn’t be so bad. That maybe forbidden is a word you’ve prescribed to this feeling all on your own – that he might just be feeling the exact same way.
But he pulls back, presses two more quick pecks to your mouth and tells you to get ready, says he’ll drive the two of you to school, and the moment slips from your grasp.
Back in his car, you feel relieved to replace the memory of yesterday with this one. Windows down, the air is cool and calm against your skin as he drives you through town, sated, dopey smiles across both of your faces.
A Bob Dylan song drifts from the speakers and Joel sings along under his breath.
“We’ll meet again someday on the avenue. Tangled up in blue.” Voice low and breathy, left hand on the wheel, right hand on your thigh. You nod along to the lyrics, your fingers tracing the veins and tendons on the back of his hand all the way until he pulls over.
“Shouldn’t be seen walkin’ in together.”
“Yeah,” you agree, understanding. “Best not.”
The truck idles on the side of the road, somewhere inconspicuous down the street from campus, and you slip out his passenger door. Close it with a thud and peer in at him through the open window, eyes devouring every part of his face as if you won’t be seeing him within the hour, stood up in front of the room giving a lecture.
The truck peels away from the curb, Tangled Up In Blue still whining from those speakers, and Joel sends a quick wink out the window at you, his face a blur as he drives off. And you just smile, chest warm despite the cool Spring air on your face, walking along in the same direction – because you know exactly what that wink means. And you love it.
Our little secret.
a/n refs:
in Dante’s Inferno he said that those overcome with lust were doomed to the second circle of hell, wherein they would be buffeted back and forth by the terrible winds of a violent storm, without rest. slay.
the bacchae tr. by anne carson [read if you have mummy issues, a massive ego, or just like the idea of frolicking in the woods for a while...]
the secret history by donna tartt [read if you like unreliable narrators, strange professors and stranger students, and the nursery rhyme 'the farmer in the dell']
the end of the affair by graham greene [read if you like weird intense guys and angst and infidelity]
eros the bittersweet by anne carson [read if you're cool as fuck]
thank you for reading! x
#finally am i right?#my writing#fic: a lover's pinch#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller x reader#joel miller smut
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I think there's something in that.
#good omens#ineffable husbands#good omens 2#aziraphale#aziraphale x crowley#crowley#ineffable partners#ineffable lovers#good omens parallels#good omens analysis#good omens thoughts#aziracrow#bullet catch#good omens 1941#the final fifteen#ineffable divorce#good omens kiss#good omens clues
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words by Henry Rollins
i see a quote, i make a devastated little “oh” sound, i reach for my ipad. rinse and repeat <3
#sorry i would’ve made the words fit the scenes better but honestly I’m too tired aksjkajd sorry#good omens#crowley#ineffable husbands#aziracrow#aziraphale#good omens 2#go2#good omens season 2#ineffable lovers#ineffable wives#goodomensedit#my edit#gomens#gomens 2#David tennant#Michael sheen#ineffable divorce#no nightingales#final fifteen
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menphina, the lover 🌕
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#ffxiv#final fantasy xiv#final fantasy#menphina#menphina the lover#fanart#fan art#videogames#video games#gaming#ff14#final fantasy 14
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