#sunrise-critical
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I recently learned of a research on predicting the longevity of a marriage and it really helped me understand why anime InuKag was not at good as manga InuKag.
The research showed that fighting was not a problem, as lots of happy, long marriages had lots of fighting. The crucial aspect was whether the couple was mutually respectful during their fight. Observed disrespect was a very strong predictor of a short-lived marrriage.
The fundamental difference between manga InuKag and anime InuKag is how much disrespect was in the anime. InuKag bickered in the manga but I never cringed at their arguments, while in the anime there were insults randomly thrown in for the sake of more osuwari.
YES. I've always struggled to explain why manga Inukag's bickering / fighting made their relationship more endearing to me but @mustardyellowsunshine explained it perfectly:
"Their bickering (and even their genuine arguments) speaks to a level of security and trust in their relationship. They can disagree with one another knowing that it ain't gonna break the relationship." "Conflict in relationships is completely normal and unavoidable (and really shouldn't be avoided), it's really important to find a partner with whom you can be in healthy conflict. (Sometimes loving someone isn't enough to make a relationship work -- you've gotta be able to be in conflict with them too.)"
It's healthy to be able to be yourself around your partner and not constantly be afraid that a difference of opinion or a day when you're in a bad mood and you have a fight will break your relationship. Inuyasha and Kagome fight, they take some time to cool off, they potentially apologize to each other and then they move on.
As you pointed out, the big difference that turn their bickering in the manga into something unhealthy in the anime is the disrespect. Inuyasha is constantly insulting her to her face, and I can't blame anime-only fans for thinking Kagome doesn't deserve that. Sure it's supposed to be a joke, but Inuyasha is painfully aware of Kagome's insecurities regarding his "ex", and those are not treated as a joke in the series for the most part.
Sunrise's sense of humor is extremely childish and I'm just too old to find this endearing. I can easily explain Inukag's fights in the manga, but not this. This is just Inuyasha being unnecessarily mean to Kagome because some of the writers clearly didn't like her very much.
#ask#Anon#sunrise-critical#i also noted some other anime-only lines#where characters insult kagome#one time it was miroku and there was another time i can't remember#like those lines were not in the scene in the manga so a writer at sunrise literally just decided to add a jab at kagome#which makes it very clear to me they don't like her lmao
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"i don't know how to be lost in everything" ashton, baby, we're going to get you into meditation, we're going to find you a philosophical textbook by some zen guys, i promise, it'll be okay. there are cosmologies of cycles that are so ready for you.
#cr spoilers#critical role spoilers#critical role#punk 27 year olds having a religious revelation and acquiring a vague universalist ideology is how the world works#leylas kryn should get him into sunrise stretching and archaic ethical texts (she wrote half of them)#about what the power of primordial temporality means for you#they should raid nana morri's library and get really into some feywild philosophies that no one has espoused for centuries#get insufferable about change! have niche opinions on sectarian debates
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suzanne collins probably started tweaking - eye twitching, internal screaming, pulling her hair - when she saw the snow edits going around.
like,,,
i love the girlies, but the girlies missed the ENTIRE POINT with the ballad of songbirds and snakes. it was about how easy it is to control the masses with just a little bit of power and charm; it was about the illusion of beauty that hides the hideous intentions underneath and how it can lead to the oppression of an entire country of people. and y'all just... proved her point.
you were so ENCHANTED by some run-of-the-mill blond twink that you were willing to overlook how he INVENTED the hunger games as we know it; how he took an already cruel punishment against innocents and made it exponentially worse, but you know what? it's ok coz he's pretty.
think about that.
there's so much more about snow's character that should make him a subject of criticism and target of hate (his disgusting treatment and manipulation of Sejanus, his inhumane lack of emotion and sympathy towards humans, and his concern for his family name over his actual family members just to name a few), but it's all covered up by cute little edits featuring his witty little quips and his golden locks.
and don't even get me sTARTED on his "romance" with lucy gray. IT WAS NOT A ROMANCE. FROM THE VERY BEGINNING, IT WAS A MEANS OF CONTROL FOR SNOW. no, it didn't go awry when lucy gray figured out what snow had done - it was never "love" to begin with. if you read the book (which provides a more intimate insight into snow's internal monologue compared to the movie) you'd know that snow's idea of love was simply manipulation. he only cared about lucy gray because she was his medium of control - the moment she stopped serving her purpose to him, he did not hesitate to end her.
like... girlies please, STAND UP.
idc how pretty you find him, that is president coriolanus snow. the man who is responsible for over sixty years of bloodshed of children. over 1400 children died in the hunger games.
think about that.
i don't know about you, but it's the same people who can overlook that kind of information because they're so far removed from the actual suffering who can also overlook atrocities such as the current crimes being committed against Palestinians. before you try to blabber some bullshit about "obviously i know one is fiction and one is reality", let me remind you, our brains don't actually differentiate between the two. you are essentially desensitising yourself to human suffering and training it into idolising genocidal figures simply because you find them visually appealing.
FICTION INFORMS REALITY. THE MEDIA YOU CONSUME SHAPES YOUR PERCEPTION OF THE WORLD.
think about that.
ms suzanne wanted to put the pen down so bad but she saw the rabid behaviour of snow fans and had to pick the pen the fuck back up.
start thinking critically. stand up. free palestine.
#thought daughter#thoughts#rant#the hunger games#the ballad of songbirds and snakes#sunrise on the reaping#suzanne collins#coriolanus snow#literary analysis#literary criticism#free palestine#free gaza
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WHITESTONE’S FOR LOVERS, ZEPHRAH’S FOR FUCKERS
#critical role#critrole lb#'sunrise yoga' lmao#absolutely perfect#meanwhile pate's living his best life
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So i'm slowly catching up with Candela Obscura and Tide and Bone, and shoutout to @quiddie for the amazing world and characters you give life to there. The glimpses we got of Oldfaire and the bits and pieces of magic were just *chief kiss*.
Thanks a lot for that.
#candela obscura#circle of tide and bone#critical role#co#Oldfaire#newfaire#workings of salt and blood#ancient sentinels made of sea water#a doorknob that rips open the fabric of space and time to lead to a cosy little office lighted by a nice drawing of sunrise on one wall#a soul trapped in gold and darkness a'd burned memories#a desperate kid who can only shouts her frustration to the sea#a ancient ancient sea who listens and helps#it's just so good
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I love tragedies but am scared of sad stories.
(Asking For Recommendations At The Bottom)
Tragedies feel so full of hope, so full of "it happened and it didn't change anything but it mattered anyway", full of people fighting against inevitability, full of people Trying and Believing in making things better.
Some examples of tragedies in media that I love:
They Both Die At The End by Adam Silvera
Exandria Unlimited: Calamity By Critical Role (featuring Brennan Lee Mulligan and Lou Wilson) (I cannot recommend this enough)
Hamlet (reading and watching and I love writing about this dude)
Fleabag (which if you've seen, go watch Crashing -her other show)
The Haunting Of Bly Manor
Hadestown (Orpheus and Eurydice in general, looking at you Hozier)
Dead Poet Society
etc.
I also love the more abstract or involved tragedies that happen in the middle of TV shows or books that people write about on here. What just made me want to write this was a post about Clara and the doctor and its mirroring of Hadestown and it just hit so right. what is weird about that is that I never thought I liked sad stories. I am absolutely terrified of reading A Little Life, The Giving Tree made me run out of the room as a kid because it made me so sad and mad.
Literally it is during writing this when I realised that it's not that I don't like them but that they just hit so hard. I was turning over an outlier in the back of my mind, that I love (though can't reread for another few years) The Book Thief by Mark Zusak. I can't classify it as tragedy because it just feels wrong to, it is tragic of course but in the sad way and it hurt in a way that didn't feel healing like I've come to associate and expect with and from tragedies.
I'm avoiding sad stories right now for the most part but I would love some tragedy recommendations.
Here is my current watchlist of sadness
Fellow Travelers
The Magnus Archives
What If It's Us
The Song Of Achilles
The First To Die At The End
Before Trilogy
If you want my fanfic tragedy recs ask and ill make up my list
#Tragedy#Tragedies#narative#haunted by the narrative#the magnus archives#tma#exandria unlimited#exu calamity#brennan lee mulligan#hannibal#nbc hannibal#Lou Wilson#Critical Role#dimension 20#fellow travelers#What If its Us#tsoa#the song of achilles#i dont actually know if#before sunrise#before sunset#before trilogy#are tragedies but they were recced to me by the same person who told me#me before you#was a rom com#so they lied#hadestown#hozier#orpheus#eurydice
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#lgbtqia#autism#fallout#taylorswift#blacktumblr#thebadbatch#transgender#thesunshinecourt#sonic#comics#dimension 20#genshin impact#sunrise#hades 2#israel#wellness#the sandman#taylor swift#cars#asoiaf#lgbt#the sunshine court#doctor who#the magnus protocol#dungeon meshi#critical role#watcher#yuri on ice#transformers one
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june 3rd/4th is some kinda holiday now i guess. lmao
#iykyk#finaloop's posts#post content is sarcasm or something. its just very unexpected and cool :)#atdas developer commentary is now perhaps accelerated. flr essay is perhaps also accelerated.#that or i might just post some of the mile-long ramblings ive done in discord to my friend who i am so thankful for putting up with it lmao#ill start digging some of those up maybe#and the references dissection doc. but the sunrise scene is SO layered there's shit in there that literally no one but me would understand.#hence why i haven't posted it up until now lmao. if i do director's commentary for 7/11/24 id probably clean that up#and probably do similar for everything else because there are a lot of layers with a bunch of those too#the argument also needs director's commentary mostly because snakeskins!feli's criticisms of flr!ciano work better as an essay than prose#but that's a whole other thing altogether lmao
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writing the new one shot is much harder than I expected, every word I wrote seems to be not good enough
#anyway I drank three tequila sunrises so far#it's time to be the most harsh critic in the whole world for myself#welcome to the circus#the clown is me
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The scenes where Inuyasha is shown not eating in inns also shows Shippo either sitting in front of him or beside him eating, implying Inuyasha is giving him his portions. The anime ruined those scenes by constantly making them fight for food.
Inuyasha and Shippo fighting over food in the anime didn't really bother me because they were bickering like siblings even in the manga. But now seeing that Inuyasha actually gives him his food in the manga, I wish they had kept it that way 😭
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anon hate anon hate anon hate!!!
Don't anon hate me, I'm very fragile rn
#asks#befickleforever#tequila supremacy#I will not. take criticism#timo boll#benjamín vicuña#tequila sunrise my beloved
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tiger and bunny is set up to make such a nice criticism of media and the justice system and it just... never makes it. like the first ep says here are our corporate superheroes who are all under contract to sponsors and take orders from reporters on how to get high ratings out of arrests. heroes literally say "our job is to get points for how many arrests we make" and then none of that is ever actually explored and its just another yaoibait superhero show where the issue is One Evil Guy and not the show's institution of heroism
#also the pacing is weird#everything about the show is just weird like#it feels like sunrise gave someone a mecha with themes plot outline and that person was like yea ok but what if it was bnha#and thats what got aired#it might predate bnha idk#its just fun enough tho im gonna watch s2 and see if it gets better#im invested in the yaoibait#barnaby you can rail that old man i believe in you#also i wanna be clear everything is there ready to criticize heroes like kotetsu is a deadbeat dad bc of it#but every ep ends like haha actually its all ok bc hes a superhero and those are categorically good
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someone to be thankful for
DBF! Joel Miller x Female Reader
summary: It’s Thanksgiving—when dinner with your nightmare of a family goes south, you find comfort in the person you least expect it from: your father’s best friend, Joel Miller.
warnings/tags: 18+ only, MINORS DNI. (AU, NO OUTBREAK) non canon, DBF! Joel, AGE GAP (reader is in her 20’s, i do not specify her age, but she’s a recent college grad so do with that what you will, not everyone graduates at the same specific age ya know? Joel is in his mid-ish 50’s). Reader’s a teacher, she is visiting her suburban childhood home from a big city. Reader’s parents are religious and practice traditional-ish gender norms (i.e father is head of the household kinda thing) reader’s family celebrates Thanksgiving (sorry) several mentions of food and alcohol, reader’s parents suck, she has two brothers who come with names, a lot of her relatives come with names, watch out for Aunt Ines she’s a bitch. (TW) body/weight shaming (twice) PLEASE BE MINDFUL if this could be triggering. mentions of and implications of childhood abuse (not graphic) reader’s dad gets in her face, implied infidelity (reader’s dad), implied toxic marriage (reader’s parents). soft, caring, protective Joel. Joel’s recently divorced, mention of Sarah, mentions of the ex-wife. SMUT. oral sex (female receiving) p in v sex, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it) reader states she’s on baby blockers (birth control), creampie, DADDY KINK (bc reader clearly has a few daddy issues), LOTS of pet names (darlin’, baby, pretty girl, sweetheart, honey), size kink (ish?), cockwarming. think i got it all?
PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS. if this isn’t your thing, that is fine but just keep on scrolling.
MOODBOARD FOR AESTHETIC PURPOSES ONLY, READER HAS NO PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION.
word count: 11.5k
a/n: yeah…idk. this was very delayed because it turned into a whole thing. if anyone actually reads all 11k of this, i will bake you muffins.
You take a deep breath and look in the mirror.
Skirt pressed, not a wrinkle in sight.
Hair brushed, not a single strand out of place.
Makeup done, not a blemish to be seen.
And somehow, someone will still find something.
Something to point out.
Something to comment on.
Something to criticize.
If not your appearance, it’ll be something else.
Because someone always had something to say.
“Should you be eating all of that?”
“Another year gone and still no boyfriend?”
“Don’t you want to get married?”
“When I was in my twenties, I had two children.”
Boundaries didn’t exist on Thanksgiving.
Actually, for your family, boundaries didn’t exist at all—somehow, they are still scratching their heads and wondering why you’d decided to up and leave the minute your high school principal handed over that diploma, your ticket to freedom.
“Sweetie!” Your mother’s shrill voice calls from the kitchen downstairs. “I need a hand! Our guests are going to start arriving soon and there is still plenty left for us to do before they get here!”
You groan outwardly.
There’s still plenty left to do?
How’s that even fucking possible?
You’ve been cooking and baking since sunrise.
“Don’t you think it’s too early?” you’d grumbled at five o’ clock in the morning when your mother had pulled you out of bed, declaring it was time for the big dinner preparations to begin—even though it’d be several hours before your family came over and gathered around the table to break bread. She had pulled the turkey out of the freezer a few days ago, a massive, thirty-pound whole bird that looked big enough to feed a small village. In addition, she had picked up a ham and a brisket. “Mom, why’s there so much food?” Rubbing the sleep from your eyes with the sleeve of your robe, you’d started making your way over to the Nespresso only to realize that the coffee machine was hidden behind paper bags full of groceries. “Are we cooking for all of Texas or something?”
“Very funny,” she had glared at you. “Of course we aren’t.” She started unwrapping the turkey. “We’re simply making sure we have enough food and that we have different options for everyone to enjoy, so knock it off with the wisecracks and get to peeling those carrots for me for the stuffing. There is not a single minute to waste today, you hear me, missy? We’re hosting a dozen people, so everything must be absolutely perfect. I won’t accept anything less than perfection today, do you understand me?”
Thirteen hours later, she’s still driving you insane.
You’re only home visiting until the end of the week and then it’s back to the Midwest. You can survive her for three more days, right?
You hear her calling your name and exhale a small, frustrated sigh. “I’m coming, mom!” you call back. It’s difficult to mask the annoyance in your tone of voice, but somehow you manage it. “One minute!”
Smoothing down your pleated plaid skirt, you take one last look in the mirror to make sure everything is in order—there is a loose thread on the sleeve of your brown, knitted sweater and you carefully snip it off with a pair of scissors before sliding your feet into the comfiest pair of ankle boots you’d packed and head downstairs, nose leading the way as you follow the warm, delicious scent of the made from scratch biscuits and rolls baking in the oven.
You find your mother standing at the center island counter garnishing a charcuterie board with sweet gherkins and sprigs of fresh herbs. She’s donning a festive apron embroidered with fall leaves over her designer dress, and her hair’s still up in rollers. “Finally, there you are,” she huffs out loudly the second she hears you walk into the kitchen. Down the hallway, your father and two younger brothers are shouting at some football game on the flat screen television in the living room—men don’t lift a single finger on this day, at least not in this household. “I need you to start setting the table for me. I have place cards in that bag over there. Make sure your dad’s at the head of the table. Oh and don’t forget to bring out the children’s table for all your little cousins—” She glances up, letting out a small gasp when she sees you. “What in the world are you wearing?”
Frowning, you look down at yourself. “Clothes?”
Her ruby red lips purse together in a tight thin line.
“Honey, that skirt is too short. It’s inappropriate.”
You resist the urge to roll your eyes at her. “It’s like an inch above the knee, how is that inappropriate? It’s not like it’s a miniskirt, mom.” As she eyes your skirt with disapproval, you decide you’re not in the mood to argue and say, “Okay, fine. I’ll go upstairs and change into something else then—”
“No, no, forget it,” she shakes her head. “We don’t have the time for that.” Your mother whirls around, picking up the bag of place holders—she’d special ordered little turkeys carved out of wood. She also takes a marker and a notepad, shoving everything into your hands. “Here. I wrote down all the names of everyone who’s coming for dinner. The children get place holders too but make sure the little ones are sitting beside someone older to help them. Oh! Did I already mention putting your dad at the head of the—”
Tuning her out, your eyes scan down the guest list and if there’s one thing to be thankful for today it’s the fact that your mother’s given you the power to seat everybody wherever you want. Halfway down the list, you see the names of several relatives that you don’t want anywhere near you at the table. An Aunt Miriam who smells like the inside of a casino; a cousin Jennifer who refuses to acknowledge her forty-eight month old is actually four years old; an uncle Richard who always has one too many beers and winds up spewing antigovernment conspiracy theories, ranting until he’s passed out somewhere, such as on the floor of the guest bathroom.
You get to the bottom of the list and can’t help but raise an eyebrow in surprise. “Joel Miller?”
She nods, returning to her board.
“You remember Mr. Miller, don’t you, sweetie? He and your father went to college together—he’s one of his oldest and dearest friends. Don’t tell me you forgot about him? You’ve met him plenty of ti—”
“Yeah, I remember who Joel is, mom,” you mutter, cutting her off. “Didn’t he and the family move out to Arizona like, four years ago? To Phoenix, right?” You’d been away for college then. Taking a second glance at the list, you notice she had forgotten the names of Joel’s wife and daughter. Surely, it’d just been a mistake on her part, though. “I had no idea they were in town visiting. Dad didn’t mention it to me at all.”
“They’re not.” She lowers her voice, as if someone else is standing in the room listening. “Joel moved back to Austin, he’s been back for a few days now. He and Connie, they um—” Pausing for a moment, she reaches up and clasps the cross hanging from her neck before whispering, “They got divorced.”
Taken aback, your mouth parts slightly. “What?”
“I know. Joel and Connie were the last people that I ever thought would get divorced. Such a shame,” your mother remarks, shaking her head. “I ran into Mrs. Adler at the super market and she was telling me all about it. Thinks they could have saved their marriage if only those two—”
“Would get right with Jesus,” you finish, biting the tiny smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. “She says that about everything, mom.”
“Well, she isn’t wrong! The sacrament of marriage is a lifelong bond that shouldn’t be broken. It’s not right.” Dropping her hand away from her necklace, she crosses her arms over chest. “Anyway, Connie stayed in Phoenix. Sarah’s spending Thanksgiving with her. Your father didn’t want Joel spending the holiday alone and invited him over for dinner. That means I need you to be on your very best behavior tonight. I don’t want you embarrassing your father in front of his closest friend. Is that understood?”
You can’t help but scoff a little. “I’m not a child.”
She narrows her eyes at you and scoffs right back, planting her hands on her hips.
“No, you’re a smart aleck. Need I remind you what happened last Thanksgiving with Aunt Ines?”
Of course she didn’t have to remind you about last year’s fiasco with her insufferable bitch of a sister.
“That’s an awfully big piece of pumpkin pie,” she’d remarked loudly, eliciting snickers from everybody sitting at the table. “Don’t forget, dear—a moment on the lips, forever on the hips. And you have quite a few forevers on your hips already, darling.”
You had smiled sweetly at her, your fingers itching to fling your mother’s fine china at her. “I wouldn’t really worry about my pie, Aunt Ines,” you had said as soon as you realized that nobody, not even your parents, would be coming to your defense. “Much less when your husband’s stepping out and eating someone else’s pie when he’s away on all those so called business trips. Worry about that instead.”
That comment hadn’t gone over all too well. Three months later, Aunt Ines and Uncle Louis started to see a marriage counselor. Whoops.
“Well?”
“She deserved that,” you say, shrugging lightly.
“She’s family.”
“She’s a jerk.”
“You crossed a line.”
“She crossed it first.”
Before your mother can respond, the sound of the doorbell ringing echoes throughout the house.
“Jesus, we don’t have time for this!” Your mother’s eyes widen when she tries running a hand through her hair and realizes she still has her rollers in. “Oh no, people are arriving and I’m still not ready!” She makes a beeline for the hallway. “Get the door and greet our guests, I’ll be down in five minutes!”
She disappears upstairs into her bedroom and you hear the doorbell ring again. Your father shouts for someone to go answer it, someone other than him or your brothers because it is the end of the fourth quarter and they just can’t possibly miss that.
You make your way through the foyer and open up the front door expecting it to be one of your family members, but it’s not.
Your throat instantly goes dry at the sight of him.
He’s broader than you remeber, so much broader.
The fabric of his sage green dress shirt is nice and snug on his frame—stretched taut over the planes of his chest and his wide shoulders. He’s holding a box of store bought something or other but you’re much too preoccupied with the way the sleeves of his shirt are hugging his biceps to notice what it is although you assume it’s some kind of dessert. He looks far more delicious than whatever sweet treat could be in that white box he’s got in his hands.
After a minute, you realize you’ve been gawking at him and the heat rushes to your cheeks. “Hello Mr. Miller,” you greet him politely. “It’s very nice to see you again. Please, come on in.”
He smiles, his brown eyes warm and sweet behind his square, black-rimmed glasses. “You remember me,” he states and the syrupy richness of his voice sends a pleasant tingle up your spine. Stepping off to the side, you allow him inside—as he steps past you over the threshold, the tantalizing scent of his cologne almost brings you to your knees. Notes of a citrus accord like tart grapefruit, fresh bergamot mixed with the woodiness of vetiver and musk; it’s intoxicating, something you could easily get drunk off of if you’re not careful. “I’m surprised. S’been a real long time since you last saw me.”
“It hasn’t been all that long,” you reply, closing the door behind you. You speak to him in the steadiest voice you can muster, with nonchalance—as if you aren’t one missed heartbeat away from feeling like a silly little schoolgirl with her first crush. “Has it?”
He thinks about it. “‘Bout four and a half years.”
“That’s really not that long.”
“S’not,” Joel admits with a chuckle. “But with how much I’ve aged in that short amount of time, I just wasn’t sure if you’d recognize me, y’know? I look a lot different than I used to.” He pauses and laughs, shaking his head. “I must look like an old geezer to you now, don’t I?”
Grays lightly pepper his thick dark brown curls, his beard and his mustache. He’s got crows feet when he smiles, he has worry lines and creases between his eyebrows—he does look a lot older, but he’s so goddamn handsome, wrinkles, fine lines, and all.
You toss him a playful eye roll, prompting a grin. “I don’t think you look like an old geezer, Mr. Miller.”
“Well, you’re sure as hell makin’ me feel like an old geezer by callin’ me that, darlin’ girl.” He gives you a little wink and you’re not quite sure if it’s that, or if it was the way he’d used a pet name that knocks all the wind out of your lungs. “Please, just call me Joel.”
You nod and shyly agree to it. “Okay, then. Joel.”
“S’much better.” His grin widens and a prominent, deep dimple appears on the left side of his cheek.
There’s a silence that follows, but it’s not awkward or weird. It’s comfortable—being in his presence is comfortable. His sweet disposition makes you feel so calm, so at ease.
Joel’s always been a nice man of course, although your interactions with him had been limited—kind, quick hello’s in passing on Sundays whenever he’d come over to watch football with your dad, maybe a polite how are you here and there if you bumped into him at gatherings like a backyard barbecue or birthday party. But you’re older now, no longer the child who greeted her father’s best friend because it was bad manners if she didn’t. You don’t want to throw him that kind, quick hello or that polite how are you and then scurry off the way you used to as a little kid. You actually want to talk to Joel Miller.
But you suddenly remember he’s not here for you.
He’s here for your father.
Joel!” Your mother screeches, five-inch high heels clacking loudly as she descends the staircase. She had ditched the apron and hair rollers—and put on one too many layers of her heaviest perfume. With a delighted squeal, she rushes up to Joel and pulls him into a bone crushing hug, almost causing him to drop the box he’s still holding. “Oh, it is so good to see you! It’s been far too long!”
You force back a small, amused snort.
As if she hadn’t been judging the man for a failed marriage just minutes ago in the kitchen.
It’s performative, too over the top to be sincere.
“S’good to see you too.” He steps back and laughs as he adjusts his glasses with one of his hands. He holds out the box to her with the other. “Picked up a pecan pie on the way over here. I would’a tried to make it myself, but the kitchen’s still all packed up in boxes.” He pauses, laughing again. “Then again, I ain’t really much of a baker. Store bought was for the best I reckon,” he admits, sheepishly. When he shrugs his shoulders, his shirt strains a bit over his frame and even your mother can’t help but stare a little.
Lightly clearing her throat, she takes the box from him and reminds him, “Didn’t I tell you that all you had to bring tonight was a nice, healthy appetite?”
Joel lightly pats his stomach. “Brought that too. In fact, I didn’t eat a thing all day long. I’m absolutely starvin’ right now. Could eat a whole horse.”
“Good! Dinner’s going to be served soon. William’s in the living room with the boys, watching football game after football game. Come with me, I’m sure you’re eager to see him.” Your mother spins on her heel and hands you the dessert. “Sweetie, will you be a gem and go put this in the kitchen for me?” It isn’t a request, it’s an order masked as a request—it’s the kindest she’s been to you all day. She takes Joel’s arm and leads him down the hallway, calling out over her shoulder, “And please set the table!”
You do set the table, and when you do, you decide to sit yourself right next to Joel Miller.
Your mother lightly clinks her knife against the rim of her wine glass and clears her throat. “Everyone! It’s time to join hands and say grace before we dig into our meal,” she announces, her voice breaking through the loud, buzzing chatter at the table. She waits until there’s complete silence and then takes her seat, the chair adjacent to your father’s. You’re on his opposite side and Joel’s right beside you. “I think you should do the honor, William. You are the man of the house, after all.”
Nodding, your father begins the prayer.
“Heavenly Father, bless this food we are about—”
You’re not listening. You’re distracted by the jolt of electricity that zips through your entire body when you put your hand in Joel’s. His hand dwarfs yours and it’s rough and calloused, but somehow it’s the most gentle, soothing touch. Heat prickles at your face and neck when you feel him sweep his thumb across the back of your hand—you open your eyes and glance over at him, wondering if that had just been an accident. You’re convinced it was, until he does it again, running his finger over each knuckle one at a time. Slowly, like he’s savoring the touch.
Biting your lip, you give his hand a gentle squeeze.
His head is bowed and his eyes are still closed, but a faint smile tugs lightly at the corner of his mouth and he firmly squeezes your hand back. There’s an unmistakable desire that’s already burning deep in your lower belly, a flame you can’t extinguish even when the angel on your shoulder reminds you that not only is Joel Miller twice your fucking age, he is also your father’s best friend. His best friend.
“…through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
“Amen,” your relatives chime together in unison.
You force out the declaration. “Amen.”
“Amen,” Joel murmurs, opening his eyes. He turns to you and his gaze flits to your hand in his and for a moment, it almost seems like he doesn’t want to let it go. It feels like Joel doesn’t want to let it go—and he doesn’t. He doesn’t let it go until the sound of your father’s loud, booming voice announcing it is time for him to carve the bird startles the two of you apart. Clearing his throat lightly, Joel turns his attention forward and reaches for his cabernet. He gulps down half his glass in one easy swallow.
Dinner’s fairly uneventful.
You eat in complete silence, as does Joel.
Part of you wonders if it’s because you’re sitting in between him and your father, the only person that he’s most comfortable conversing with. Assuming this is the case, you’re just about to ask him if he’d like to trade places when he turns to you and says, “Your dad told me you went to school in Chicago.”
He’s just being friendly, you remind yourself when your heart starts to flutter wildly at the notion that he wants to talk to you. He’s friendly. That’s all. It doesn’t mean anything.
“Yeah. I did.” You pick up your glass of wine, taking a sip hoping it’ll ease the nerves. “I graduated over the summer and took a teaching job out there.”
“You became a teacher?”
“Yeah. I teach kindergarten.” You smile proudly.
“Can you believe that, Joel?” Your father lets out a scoff and shakes his head. “I spent thousands and thousands of dollars to send her to school. All that money and for what? For her to learn how to teach little ankle biters how to color inside the lines?” He rolls his eyes and gestures to your two brothers on the opposite side of the table. “Now my boys, they are smart. Chose good careers to pursue. Brandon starts applying to medical school in the spring. Oh and Matthew? He got early acceptance to Yale. He plans on studying law.” He shifts his attention over to you once more and shrugs. “Not too sure where I went wrong with this one.”
You stare at him in complete and utter disbelief.
“Dad.”
Chortling, he waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, come on, honey. I’m just kidding around. You know that I don’t mean it.” He then reaches out, pinching your cheek roughly. “Don’t be so sensitive,” he tells you before turning his attention back to his plate.
But he does mean it.
His comments hurt, and you hate that they hurt.
Joel nudges your arm with his. “Y’know somethin’, it takes someone real special to become a teacher, ‘specially to kids that age,” he states in a matter of fact tone. “Someone who’s real sweet and patient, someone real smart too. Someone just like you.”
Warmth radiates through your entire body. It’s not just his words, but it’s the sincerity behind them.
You shoot him a small, grateful smile.
The two of you wind up talking to one another.
Joel’s moving his contracting business, bringing it back to Austin from Phoenix to run it with Tommy, his younger brother who you vaguely remembered meeting a time or two in the past. He mentions his daughter here and there, but doesn’t bring Connie up once—perhaps it’s too painful for him? It’s hard to tell. He seems to be in good spirits and truth be told, it doesn’t appear he’s mourning his marriage; but it’s difficult to believe he’s not missing her, the woman he’d spent three decades of his life with. It shouldn’t even matter to you whether he’s missing his ex-wife or not, if there are residual feelings still lingering around. But it does matter and you don’t know why. Or maybe you do know why, but you’re too ashamed to admit it.
“Do you like Chicago?” Joel questions, curiously.
Shrugging, you respond, “Yeah. It’s a cool city.”
“You plan on stayin’ out there permanently?”
“I’m not too sure,” you admit. “It’s too expensive. I don’t want to live with a roommate forever. Unless teachers start getting paid more, I don’t think that I’ll ever be able to afford to live alone in Chicago.”
Joel seems hesitant about his next query. “Do you ever think ‘bout comin’ back to Austin at all?”
Suddenly, you’re not too sure about that either.
You’ve been itching to go back and get as far from Austin, Texas as possible, but now, it means being far from Joel Miller. There’s a deep, sinking feeling inside of your chest at the thought.
Realizing he’s still waiting for a response, you have no choice but to tell him the truth. “I don’t think I’ll ever come back here, to be honest. Not to stay.”
“Oh. I see.” He sounds disappointed. “Are you—do you plan on visitin’ home again for Christmas?”
“I do. I’ll be here for Christmas and New Year’s.”
He’s being friendly. He’s being friendly. He’s—
“It’d be real nice to see you again then.” Flushing a deep shade of red, subtle regret flashes across his features, as if he’d said it without thinking. Picking up his glass, he drains the rest of his wine and you can swear he’s nervous. About what he’d just said, and about whether or not your parents, who are in such close proximity, had overheard him. Because what business did he have in telling their daughter it would be nice to see her again?
They’re both much too preoccupied. Your father is attempting to be slick checking his text messages underneath the table and you can tell by the smirk on his face that it’s one of his secretaries. He’s got a penchant for perky blondes in tight pencil skirts. Your mother is well aware of this. She is also aware he’s on his phone, but she turns a blind eye just as she always does and distracts herself by being the perfect hostess.
Feeling foolishly courageous, you turn back to him and nod, heart pounding against your sternum. “It would. It’d be very nice, actually.”
Relieved, he nods and murmurs quietly, “We’ll talk ‘bout it later, then. That okay, darlin’?”
Not wanting to seem too eager, you nod again and turn away from him, teeth sinking into your lip in a futile attempt to hide the giddiness in your smile—but the soft chuckle Joel elicits under his breath is a clear indication that it’s useless.
He knows how he’s making you feel. He likes it.
Your mother returns from the kitchen carrying two baskets of fresh crescent rolls, one for each end of the table. She sets one of them down right in front of you and you reach out to take one when a voice, one that sounds as awful as nails scraping down a chalkboard, remarks loudly, “Should you be eating so much bread, dear?” Ines, who’s sitting a couple chairs down, next to your grandmother, looks over at you and raises an eyebrow. There’s a smug little smile on her face, almost as if she were daring you to run your mouth like you’d done last year.
For as much as it pains you, you make your choice and decide not to take the bait. You pull your hand out of the basket of rolls and pick up your glass of wine instead, chugging it down like it’s water.
Frowning, Joel picks up the basket and takes a roll that you assume is for himself, but it’s not. Putting it on your plate, he shoots her a frigid glare. “Don’t you listen to her.” He says it loud enough for her to hear him. “You just enjoy yourself, alright?”
Your aunt bats her eyes, innocently. “Well, I’m just saying. If my skirt was that tight on me, I would be thinking twice about what goes into my mouth.”
Hushed laughter sweeps across the entire table.
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” You slam your empty glass down so hard onto the table that the entire dining room goes completely silent. The little ones at the children’s table stare with big and wide eyes, mouths full of food hung open because a grown up had just used a naughty word.
Your mother says your name warningly. “Don’t you start,” she hisses, shaking her head. “Be quiet.”
Angrily, you round on her. “Seriously? You’re going to let her say that to me? You don’t care that she’s making comments about my weight?” You almost laugh. Of course doesn’t care, she has never cared and she never will. “I’m your daughter! Would it kill you to defend me for once in your fucking life?”
“Shut your mouth!” Your father stands up, shoving a threatening finger into your face, so close the tip of it almost touches the tip of your nose. He hasn’t put his hands on you since you were nine, but he’s as drunk as he is angry, and you find yourself back in the shoes of the little girl who would curl up into a ball in the corner of her room as she begged and pleaded for him not to hurt her. “You hear me?”
Joel stands and walks around your chair. Placing a hand on your father’s chest, he mutters, “Hey now let’s take a step back from her, alright?” He guides him back down into his chair. “Ain’t gotta be in her face like that, Will.”
“I’m sick and tired of her ruining everything—can’t get through one dinner without her screwing it up! Always has to run that fucking mouth of hers! She still acts like a goddamn fucking child—”
You can’t bear to sit there and hear another insult.
Fighting back the hot tears that are threatening to spill over, you quickly stand up and rush out of the dining room. You make a beeline for the front door and step outside onto the porch. It’s about sixty or so degrees in Austin and the cold nips at your bare legs, but that’s the least of your worries. Without a place to go, you descend the porch steps and find yourself walking towards the swing that’s hanging from the old bur oak tree in the front yard. You had asked your father for a swing when you were three years old—it wasn’t until your brothers asked for a swing a couple years later that he’d hung one up.
You sit down, hands curling around the rope that’s so old and weathered it’s beginning to fray slightly but not so much so that you’re concerned about it snapping. You’re so busy trying to keep it together that you don’t notice the sound of crisp, autumnal leaves crunching under a pair of boots behind you. A hand gingerly touches your shoulder. You let out a startled gasp and glance over to see it’s Joel.
“Hey there, darlin’,” he says, gently.
You stare at him in surprise.
“What are you doing out here?”
“Needed to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine,” you grit the lie through your teeth.
Joel’s expression softens. “You ain’t gotta pretend with me, sweetheart.”
His concern is genuine. It’s real.
You don’t quite know how to handle it. Accept it.
“It got real ugly in there, ‘specially with your dad.”
Tears prickle at your eyes all over again. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Joel. I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry?” Baffled, Joel walks around the swing and a minor labored grunt escapes him as he squats in front of you. “There’s a few people who need to be apologizin’ for what happened, but darlin’ you sure as fuckin’ hell ain’t one of them.”
It’s odd. Feels foreign, even.
You’re not used to someone being on your side—it prompts more tears to spring forward and despite your best efforts to fight them off, it’s useless. You manage to whisper his name. It’s a feeble warning, one that’s telling him to go back inside before he’s caught in the torrential downpour of emotions you are mere seconds away from unleashing on him.
But he doesn’t budge. He waits. Joel knows you’re about to break and he’s ready to catch the pieces.
Finally, a tear slips and rolls down your cheek, only to be followed by another and then another. You’re holding onto the swing for dear life now, emotions that you’ve been holding in for your whole life now coming to the surface. The rope digs painfully into the palms of your hands. He reaches out and curls his fingers lightly around your wrists.
“S’okay to let go,” Joel encourages you and you’re certain he’s not just referring to the swing. “Listen to me, darlin’ girl. I ain’t gonna let you fall, alright? I’m right here to catch you. You can let go. I’ve got you, okay?”
You allow Joel to take your hands off the rope and he guides them around his shoulders as you begin to crumble. Leaning forward slightly off the swing, you wrap you arms around him and bury your face into his neck. “Joel,” you choke out his name as he wraps his own arms around your waist, pulling you closer into him.
He feels like stability.
He feels like security.
He feels like safety.
Your entire body shudders as you cry, cry, cry.
“S’alright, sweet girl. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
He repeats his reassurance over and over again.
He wants you to believe it.
And you do believe it.
Joel’s as patient as can be. It’s growing colder and his knees are begging for a change of positon, but couldn’t care less about the discomfort. He rubs a soothing circle into your back and waits until there is nothing left except little hiccups and sniffles.
“Shit,” you mumble when you pull back and notice you’d left behind a wet spot on his shirt along with light traces of mascara. You wipe at your eyes with the sleeve of your sweater. “I ruined your shirt.”
“S’okay. Nothin’ the dry cleaners can’t take care of for me.” Joel chuckles and lets go of you. “You feel a little better now, darlin’?”
“I do.” You glance over your shoulder at the house, then exhale a sigh and turn back to him, admitting quietly, “I don’t want to go back in there, though.”
He rises to his feet and pulls out a set of keys from the pocket of his black jeans. “Well, y’dont have to go back in there,” he states. “Is there somewhere I can take you? Friend’s house, maybe?”
“My best friend Megan went to Puerto Vallarta for Thanksgiving. Most of my other friends left Austin like I did,” you explain, sighing again. “Anyone who didn’t leave is spending their time with their family tonight and I don’t want to bother them.”
Joel hums, mulling it over in his mind. “Well, don’t know how comfortable you’ll be with the idea, but my place ain’t all too far from here. Ten minutes or so. Less if there’s no one out on the roads.”
“Joel, that’s so nice of you to offer, but I’ve already ruined your dinner tonight. The last thing I want to do is put you out even more,” you say, sheepishly.
“Sweetheart, you didn’t ruin a fuckin’ thing for me tonight. And you wouldn’t be puttin’ me out at all,” he promises. “S’gettin’ late and truth be told, I just wanna get you somewhere warm.” Holding out his free hand, he adds, “And comfortable.”
“But Joel—”
“I can be real stubborn too, y’know,” he teases you with a playful grin. “We’ll be out here all night long freezin’ our fuckin’ asses off.”
He isn’t going to take no for an answer.
“Okay,” you relent, accepting the offer.
You place your hand in his and he helps you off the swing. He doesn’t let it go as he leads the way to a sleek, black Dodge Ram that’s parked behind your grandfather’s silver Mercedes. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze before dropping it. “Sorry, sweet girl. It’s a bit of a trip up into the seat,” he remarks, chuckling as he opens the passenger side door for you. He gives you a boost into the truck; the scent of new leather is mixed with that of his cologne. It is all man and couldn’t be sexier. “Good up there?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
Joel closes the door and hurriedly walks around to the driver’s side of the pickup, climbing up into his seat with ease. “Seatbelt,” he tells you as he sticks the key into the ignition. The first thing he does as soon as the engine roars to life is turn on your seat warmer. He switches on the heater as well, waiting a minute before asking, “You warm enough?”
“I am. Thank you, Joel.”
“‘Course.” He nods and pulls away from the curb.
As Joel’s driving you further and further from your parents’ house, all you feel is sweet relief.
“M’sorry the place is such a mess.”
Joel leads you into his living room and touches his hand to the back of his neck, embarrassed.
Amused, you raise an eyebrow at him and say, “I’d hardly call cardboard boxes stacked neatly over on one side of the room a mess, Joel.” You take a look around his townhouse—most of his furniture’s still wrapped up in plastic, except for the black leather couch and the rustic, acacia wood coffee table. He has a flat screen mounted over the brick fireplace; he’s been sleeping on the couch, or at least, that’s what the pillow and Texas Longhorns fleece throw tells you. You turn to him. “If you want to see a real mess, you should see my apartment in Chicago.”
You watch him as he takes off his glasses and puts them down on the coffee table.
“S’it pretty bad?”
“My roommate’s a kindergarten teacher too. You’d be surprised at how many popsicle sticks two girls in their twenties can end up bringing home. Not to mention all the glitter.”
“If you’re tryin’ to make me feel better, it’s workin’ like a charm.” Joel picks up his blanket and drapes it over the armchair adjacent to the couch. “Go on and make yourself comfortable, darlin’. You thirsty at all? I’ve got water or I can make coffee. Also got a pack of beer in the fridge,” he adds, jokingly.
“What kind of beer?” you ask curiously as you sink down onto the couch.
He seems pleasantly surprised by your interest.
“Lone Star.”
“I’ll have one. If it’s not too much trouble.”
“‘Course it’s not too much trouble. Not at all.”
It’s hard not to stare as he walks away towards the kitchen. Your thighs clench together—his back, his shoulders, those unkempt salt and pepper curls of his that tuft at the nape of his neck right above his collar—this man is the epitome of utter perfection. Your mind wanders and you can’t help imagine the way your legs would look thrown over those broad shoulders. How his large hands would feel on your plush skin as they wrap around your thighs to hold them in place against his chest while he fucks y—
“Here you go, darlin’.”
Joel’s deep voice shatters your train of thought.
He’s standing beside you, holding out the bottle of beer, which he’d uncapped along with his own.
Blood rushes to your cheeks. “Thank you,” you say as you accept the beer from him, trying not to lose the sliver of composure that you’re holding onto—it wavers when your fingers accidentally brush his.
“S’it too cold in here for you?” he asks. “I normally keep the thermostat pretty low.”
“It’s a little cold,” you admit. “But it’s not a prob—”
It’s too late. Joel walks over to the fireplace and he manages to strike a match and light it with just his free hand. After tossing in a couple logs, he makes his way back over to the couch and he takes a seat beside you. “That a bit better, sweetheart?”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
He shrugs. “You said it was cold.”
He takes a long, generous swig of the golden lager before setting the bottle down on one of the green ceramic coasters on the coffee table. He sits back; an arm stretches out over the back of the couch in a casual manner and his legs spread open causing your thighs to clench together once more.
“You feelin’ alright?”
“Huh?” You then realize he is referring to what had happened at dinner. “Oh. Um. Yeah, I’m alright.”
Joel peers at you, his concern evident, clear in the depths of his dark brown eyes. “You sure?”
“No. Not really,” you confess, tracing the mouth of your bottle with your index finger. “But I’ll get over it. I don’t have a choice but to get over it.” Another lump starts forming in the back of your throat and you swallow it, quickly chasing it down with a gulp of beer.
“M’guessin’ your family’s got somethin’ to do with why you decided to leave Austin?”
“Bingo,” you deadpan. “I was so sick and tired of it all. How I was talked to, how I was treated. Like I’m such a fucking disappointment.”
He frowns. “You’re not a disappointment, though.”
“My parents think I’m a disappointment. My dad’s never told me he’s proud of me, Joel. Nothing I do, nothing I have ever done is good enough for either of them, but especially not for him.” There is a dull ache that settles in your heart and all you can do is silently will yourself not to breakdown again, not in front of him, at least. You sigh. “Do you know what it’s like, not feeling good enough for someone that is supposed to love you no matter what? Someone who’s supposed to love you unconditionally?”
Joel knows it’s a rhetorical question, he knows it’s not something you’re expecting him to answer.
But he does answer, because he does know.
“I do, actually. I know all too well what it feels like.”
He looks down at his left hand, which is resting on his thigh and you do too. Your eyes flicker over the fading tanline on his finger—where he once wore a wedding band. You don’t even think twice about it and reach over, sweeping your own finger over the patch of pale skin. Without missing a beat, you tell him, “You’re good enough, Joel.”
He can’t help but laugh a little. “She’d disagree.”
“She’s wrong.”
“You don’t know what happened.”
“I don’t have to know what happened.”
“That ain’t how it works, sweetheart.”
Stubbornly, you lift your chin. “I don’t care.”
Joel laughs. “Y’think you know me, darlin’? Y’think you know what kinda man I am? Hm?”
“I do know.” You place your hand on top of his and his jaw clenches. “You’re a good man, Joel Miller. I know that you’re a good man.”
“You couldn’t be more wrong ‘bout that.” There’s a brief pause and he hesitates before confessing, “A good man wouldn’t be sittin’ here just fuckin’ dyin’ to kiss his best friend’s daughter.”
You freeze and grip your bottle so tight, you would not be the slightest bit surprised if it shatters right in your hand. “You—you want to kiss me?”
“Since the moment you opened up that front door and said hello to me.” Joel shakes his head. “S’not right.” He’s riddled with guilt, with shame. He pulls his hand out from under yours. “I ain’t a good man at all. You’re half my fuckin’ age and I shouldn’t—”
You cut him off, softly uttering his name. “Joel?”
“Yeah?” His voice sounds hoarse. Strained.
“Can you—will you kiss me? Please?”
You need more than just his kiss, so much more.
You need him to unravel you in every way possible, but beggars can’t be choosers and if one kiss was all you’ll get tonight, then you’ll fucking take it.
Joel swallows dryly. “That really what you want?”
His eyes flicker down to your lips and then back to meet your sweet, innocent gaze.
“Yes,” you breathe in reply. “Please. Kiss me.”
He leans in, and there’s brief hesitation on his part and he stops mere centimeters from your face, his nose lightly brushing against yours. “We shouldn’t be doin’ this.” His warm breath fans over your lips; they’re parted, eager to meet his own. “I shouldn’t let this happen. I—I should take you back home to your family before I do somethin’ real stupid.”
Your heart sinks. “That really what you want?” you parrot his own question back to him and hold your breath, knowing there’s a chance his answer could be the answer that you don’t want to hear, the one that could end up crushing you.
Joel lifts his hand, cupping the side of your face in his palm. “‘Course it’s not what I want.” His thumb strokes your cheek, his dark eyes taking in each of your features. He’s studying, memorizing them, as if he’ll never get another chance to be this close to you again. With the line he’s about to cross, you’re both about to cross, that just might be the case.
The tension seeps through your skin and into your bones.
You exhale shakily. “Then just kiss me already.”
He moves his hand and gently curls it around your chin, holding you steady as he leans further in and closes the gap of space in between you. He moves slowly and he’s gentle—too gentle. You want to tell him you’re not made of porcelain, but you’re much too preoccupied with how Joel’s mouth feels, how perfectly it molds against yours. He delicately nips your bottom lip with his teeth. It’s a silent request.
He wants more, more, more. Your lips part for him, granting him the access he’s seeking. Joel doesn’t waste a single moment and he explores every inch of your mouth with his tongue, eliciting a whimper from you. Without breaking contact, he takes your beer and somehow he manages to lean over to set it down on the coffee table without dropping it. He then pushes you back into the couch and the next thing you know, you’re lying on your back and he’s settled in between your legs, using one of his arms to keep himself propped up, while the other wraps itself in your hair. Your own hands clutch at fistfuls of his shirt, fingers gripping the fabric so tight, the skin over your knuckles stretches painfully thin.
You whimper out again, the noise prompting a low growl to rumble through his chest—suddenly, he’s not being so gentle. He isn’t being rough. But he is hungry, he’s possessive, and he’s letting it show in the way he’s swelling your lips with his kisses, how his fingers are gripping the hair at the base of your neck as he firmly tilts your head backwards to give himself better access to your mouth.
Your mind is racing, and yet, you can’t think at all.
It’s not until his hips buck into you and you feel his bulge through his jeans against you that you break away from him. “Joel,” you gasp his out name. You grip his shirt even harder, chest heaving as you try to catch a much needed breath of air. You can feel the arousal pooling between your legs. The flames burning in the fireplace are nothing in comparison to the ones that are burning deep in your belly.
“Fuck,” he curses, pulling back. “M’sorry—”
The last thing you want is for him to be sorry.
“No! Please don’t be sorry,” you rasp, gazing up at him. Your eyes are glazed over with a lust you have never felt for another man before. “I want this, you know I want this—don’t you?”
Joel sighs, brushing a soft kiss to your temple. You wish he could take a peek into your mind, see how badly you want to be wrapped up in his arms—you want to get lost in his embrace, feel him all around you, inside you. You want him to write his name on your bare skin with his tongue, whisper his secrets into the spot where you’re aching for him most.
He sighs again and lightly shakes his head.
“Baby, y’need to think real hard ‘bout this—”
“I want this,” you repeat yourself. “I want you.”
Relaxing the death grip you have on his shirt, your hands release the fabric and move to the buttons. Your fingers tremble slightly as you undo each one of them; after an embarrassing fumble or two, you manage to get them all and push Joel’s shirt off of his shoulders. He sucks in a quick, sharp breath as your greedy hands begin roaming, exploring every inch of smooth, tan skin on his upper body.
Your touch erases all the uncertainty he’s feeling.
“Wanna feel you too, baby.” Joel takes the hem of your sweater and gestures for you to sit up slightly so he can pull it over your head. Carelessly tossing it somewhere behind him, he glances down, blood rushing to his cock as he takes in the sight of your supple curves clad in sweet, delicate white lace. “Christ, you look so fuckin’ soft.”
He doesn’t even realize he’s saying it out loud, not until he catches the flirtatious little grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. You sit up slightly once again and reach behind you to unhook the lingerie and take it off, adding it to the ever growing pile of clothes on the hardwood floor. Licking his lips, he meets your gaze for just a moment before dipping his head down, wrapping them around one of your hardened nipples. “Joel,” you mewl his name as he flicks the pebbled flesh with his tongue.
Joel releases it with a lewd, wet pop and he tosses you a smirk before he moves to the other to give it the same attention. He’s a biter, you find out as he takes it between his teeth, nipping over and over.
Your throbbing center clenches around nothing.
“Joel, please. I need you—I fucking need you.”
He tears away from your nipple. “Where, baby?”
You open your mouth to answer him, but your own gasp cuts you off as he starts trailing his lips down the length of your body until he comes to a stop at the waistband of your skirt. One of his hands finds the zipper on the side and he looks up at you, as if asking for permission. Desperate, you nod. Pulling the zipper down, he slides the skirt, along with the pair of lace white panties you’re wearing off of you and discards them, leaving you completely naked.
Your insecurities begin to trickle in, but Joel’s able to halt them right in their tracks.
“You’re too fuckin’ beautiful, sweetheart,” he says, his reassurance calming your nerves instantly. “So beautiful. So beautiful and so fuckin’ perfect.”
You watch as he makes himself comfortable—well as comfortable as he can—in between your legs. He shoots you a sheepish look.
“Knew I should’a put the damn bed together. But I been puttin’ it off and puttin’ it off all week long.”
You giggle breathlessly. “Who needs a bed?”
Chuckling, Joel feathers a kiss on your inner thigh.
Your smile is all but slapped right off of your face.
“Joel.”
Any traces of humor vanish. You’re both reminded of the next wall that’s about to be broken, the next line that’s about to be crossed.
He looks down and groans. “Such a pretty, perfect little pussy,” he remarks, his voice low, husky. “Bet she’s nice and wet for me, ain’t she baby?” He lifts his hand and drags the tip of his finger up your slit slowly, your slick coating his digit. He smirks up at you. “Oh, she’s fuckin’ soakin’, sweet girl. S’this all for me?”
Foreplay wasn’t in the vocabulary of guys your age and while part of you wishes Joel would hurry, you also find yourself enjoying the fact that he’s taking his time, teasing you—making you really want it to the point where you’re willing to fucking plead him for it. Joel Miller’s the only man you’d ever beg for.
He skims your other thigh with his nose and kisses it just like he’d done with the other. “Tell me darlin’ s’this where you need me? Right here?”
Frantically, you nod your head.
“Words, honey. Gotta use your words for me.”
“Yes!” you choke out. “That’s where I need you. So bad. Need you so fucking bad. Please Daddy—”
You freeze and momentarily, he does too. Truth be told, you wouldn’t really blame him if he just stood up, gathered your clothes and tossed them at you, demanding you put them back on and leave.
Joel raises an eyebrow. “Daddy, huh?”
Your face is on fire. “I—it slipped,” you stammer. “I didn’t mean to call you—I’m so sorry, Joel. I’m not even sure where that came from. I’ve never—”
You’re on the verge of panicking, then notice there is a certain glimmer in his eyes and realize he liked it when you’d called him that. You’re taken aback.
He fucking likes being called Daddy.
“Sweetheart, there ain’t nothin’ to be sorry ‘bout. I promise. You can call me that. But on a condition.”
You stare at him, no idea what the condition could possibly be.
“Ain’t allowed to call anyone else that. Ever.” There is a possessiveness in his tone and it nearly makes you come on the spot. “That understood?”
You nod obediently. “Yes.”
“Yes what?” he prompts.
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Good. That’s a real good girl, honey.”
For a split second, you can’t breathe.
This man will surely be the death of you.
Joel plants one final kiss, this one on your mound.
“Please,” you whimper, the heat in your lower belly growing and fizzling out to the rest of your body at the feeling of his breath over your aching core.
“Please what?” he murmurs into the sensitive skin as his arms curl around your legs. “Tell Daddy—tell Daddy what you need baby, so he can take care of you.”
“Your mouth,” you beg him, desperation mounting with each passing second. Your hips buck upward; his biceps flex as he tightens his arms around your thighs, pinning you down in place. “Your mouth—I need your mouth. Please.”
Joel moves his head to the junction of your thighs, his mouth hovering right over where you needed it the most. He looks up at you with hunger, like he’s a ravenous, starved man who hasn’t had a thing to eat in days. “What a good girl,” he praises, dipping his head even lower. His mouth waters at the sight of your glistening folds. “Bet you taste as delicious as you fuckin’ look, don’t you, pretty girl?”
He flattens his tongue and glides it up your slit, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs as he gets his first taste. You gasp out when it grazes your swollen, aroused clit and your head falls back onto the couch. “Oh fuck,” you whine, reaching for his hair. You weave your hands through his graying locks and pull his face closer. Another swipe of his tongue causes your back to arch up off the leather and the edges of your vision to blur.
He pulls an arm from around your legs and drags a finger down your drenched entrance, lips securing themselves around your clit. His gaze stays locked on you as he pushes his long, thick digit into you—you feel him smirk as he curls it upwards, pressing the pad of his finger firmly against the soft spongy spot inside you, making you see stars. Joel slips in a second finger and curls it along with the other to double the pleasure. He begins thrusting his digits in and out of your warm cunt, eliciting what had to be the sweetest sounds that he’d ever heard in his entire life from you. He combines it with with slow, firm, and precise stokes of his tongue on your clit.
“Fuck, yes, just like that,” you encourage him, your loud, breathy moans bouncing off the bare, freshly painted walls of his house. “Yes Daddy, fuck—feels so fucking good, please don’t fucking stop—”
It’s not like you have to tell him what to do.
Joel knows exactly what he’s doing, and he knows it too. He listens to every single one of your moans and feels every single buck of your hips. He is sure to pay extra attention to when your hands pull and tug at his curls; he remembers what combinations of licking, sucking, and fucking make you squeeze your plush thighs tighter around his head; reminds himself of which technique brings your body off of the couch, what makes your toes curl. Joel’s quick to learn your body’s cues, each and every last one. He already knows when to give you more, when to give you less—when he needs speed up, when it is time to slow it all down.
You sing his name over and over again, pressure of an orgasm already building between your hips. His tongue swirls around your sensitive little bundle of nerves as his fingers pump in and out of your cunt and you glance down. You almost choke when you catch a tiny glimpse of the muscles in his forearm, the way they flex underneath his skin with each of his movements as he’s fucking you. Your gaze flits to his face. His own eyes are fixed intently on you.
You’re milliseconds away from release.
“Joel, I’m so fucking close. I’m gonna come—”
His arm squeezes your thigh in encouragement.
One last, broad stroke of Joel’s tongue on your clit sends an overwhelming wave of pleasure crashing over you. Strangled cries tear themselves from the back of your throat as your velvet walls flutter and convulse, squeezing his fingers. Joel, who’s face is still half buried in your pussy, takes it upon himself to help you ride through the high. He peppers soft, delicate kisses onto your swollen clit as his fingers continue to slide in and out of you slowly. He waits patiently until your loud cries dissolve into nothing but breathless little whimpers before he crawls up, positioning himself on top of you, a hand on either side of your head. His beard and mustache glisten with a mixture of saliva and slick—and somehow it it ignites another fire and you’re ready for more, so much more.
“Sweet girl,” Joel murmurs. Leaning down, his lips meet yours and you taste yourself on his tongue
You place a hand on his chest, right over his heart, which beats strong and steady against your palm.
You start dragging your hand down his chest, your fingernails raking over his skin. It travels lower and lower, gliding over the softness of his stomach. He tenses when you brush the waistband of his jeans.
Tearing away from you, he grits out, “Baby. No.”
You immediately snatch your hand away from him.
“You changed your mind?” you question, stomach sinking at the thought of it being over already.
You’re just so fucking greedy for this man.
He offers reassurance—and an explanation.
“No, that ain’t it at all. S’just—” Joel pauses briefly and flushes a shade of red. “S’just that, well, I ain’t got condoms on me, darlin’.”
Relieved, you assure him, “It’s okay. I’m clean.”
“Me too. But that ain’t what I’m worried about,” he admits, his face going from red to maroon.
You smile, finding his embarrassment endearing.
“I’m on birth control.”
Joel clenches his hands into fists. His cock strains against his zipper at the thought of it—taking your cunt bare. “Y’sure you want this?” He rasps out. “I need you to be a hundred percent sure ‘bout it.”
“I’m a thousand percent sure, Joel. I fucking need it. More than anything I’ve ever needed in my life.”
That’s all he needed to hear.
Joel stands up, his gaze never leaving your own as he kicks off his black leather boots. You sit up, and it takes every ounce of strength you have in you to remain composed as he unbuckles his belt, unzips his jeans and pushes them down his legs. You bite down on your bottom lip and try not to stare at his bulge like it’s your first time ever seeing a dick, but if he’s as big as he looks in his boxer briefs, maybe this would end up being a lot more than what your body could handle.
He hooks his thumbs underneath the elastic of his boxer briefs and slides them off, allowing his thick, hard cock to spring free from its confinement.
You swallow harshly. He’s fucking massive.
“Like what you see, sweetheart?” Joel chuckles at the expression on your face as he kicks aside all of his clothes. His length rests on his lower abdomen and precome smears the skin there. Wrapping one of his hands around it, he gives it a couple strokes, just a hint of relief until you come into play. “Hm?”
Licking your lips, you nod and stand up. You take a couple of wobbling step towards him—Joel’s cock hasn’t been anywhere near you and you’re already fucking walking side to side. “Come here,” you say to him, taking both his hands in your own. You pull him back to the couch and gently guide him down into a sitting position. Swinging your leg over both of his, you straddle his lap. You gingerly place your hands on his shoulders, nails digging into his flesh softly when you feel him brush against your pussy; the contact makes you both moan in unsion. “This okay?” you ask him, breathily. You can’t be sure as to why you’re suddenly feeling a bit shy, like you’re not planning to ride his fucking soul out of him.
“More than okay.” Joel brushes your hair over your shoulder and then drags his hand down the length of your body, committing to his memory every one of your curves. “Gonna be a real good girl and ride my cock, baby?”
You gift him with a cheeky grin. “Yes, Daddy.”
The shyness begins to dissipate and you dive your hand between your bodies, wrapping it around his cock, causing his breath to catch in his throat. You lift yourself slightly off his lap, teasingly gliding the head of his cock down your drenched slit, then up, letting it graze over your clit, which is still senstive to the touch thanks to his lips and tongue.
Joel’s hands find their way around you, running up the curve of your spine. “Wasn’t aware that my girl was such a little fuckin’ tease,” he remarks in a low tone. He slides his hands back down and his large, warm palms cup your ass, fingers kneading flesh.
“Your girl?” you repeat, your heart skipping a beat, stomach fluttering at the idea of being his. “Is that what I am to you, Joel? Your girl?”
“S’that what you want, honey?” Joel whispers, his eyes finding your own, two hopeful gazes meeting in the deepest, most intimate moment that you’ve shared all evening. “Y’wanna be my girl?”
Leaning forward, your reply is preceded by kiss, so soft and so sweet his heart swells inside his chest.
“I do,” you mumble against his lips. “I really do.”
Still gripping your ass, Joel eases you up and lines himself up at your entrance. He bucks his hips and slides the head of his cock past your folds and into your heat. “Breathe, baby,” he whispers, his hands moving to your hips, thumbs grazing your skin. He slowly guides you further down his shaft, grunting as you sink down, taking him inch by inch. “Christ, you’re so goddamn fuckin’ tight—”
The initial stretch is almost too much for you. Your nails sink deeper into his shoulders as he pulls you down further down onto him. “Joel,” you whimper, biting back a loud cry. You’re fully seated, his cock completely sheathed inside you, his head pressing against your cervix. You’re so full of him.
One of his hands abandons your hip and slips over your lower belly.
“This where you’re feelin’ me, pretty girl?” he coos gently. “This where you feel Daddy’s cock? In your belly?”
“Yes,” you sigh out contentedly. “Feels so good.”
You lift yourself off of him, then slide back down in a slow, languid motion.
Joel’s head falls back onto the couch. “Christ.” He mutters the word, his chest heaving. Staring up at the ceiling, he takes a moment to catch his breath and silently wills himself not to explode. Once he’s managed to somewhat compose himself, he looks at you again, pupils blown so wide you can’t find a single trace of brown. “Go on, then,” he rasps. “Go on, sweetheart.”
The living room fills with the sounds of low moans and panting breaths as you move, alternating your maneuvers between rocking and bouncing on him in a frenzied, fast paced rhythm. The friction of his pelvis each time you grind into it winds up the coil between your hips and suddenly you’re desperate, so pathetically desperate for another release.
“Yeah, that’s it baby,” Joel encourages, feeling the beginning of his own climax building quick—much too quick for his liking. “Jus’ like that, honey. What a good girl you are for me, so fuckin’ good for me. Just like I fuckin’ knew you would be.”
“Fuck,” you whine. “You feel so good, Daddy. Feel so fucking good inside me—”
Leaning back, you firmly plant both your hands on his thighs and arch your body, head falling back as you pick up the pace. The burning fire casts a soft, orange glow around you and his jaw falls slack. His eyes drink in every single fucking thing about you, watch you with an adoration that, for the first time in your whole life, makes you feel wanted. Actually wanted.
“Joel,” you whisper his name over and over. You’re both beginning to lose track of where you end and he begins. You can hardly hear the praises that are spilling from his plush lips over the squelching wet sounds of your cunt sliding up and down his cock. There’s no chance to warn him—your mouth parts in a silent scream as you come undone on him.
“M’so fuckin’ close,” Joel grunts. He feels his cock twitch as your pussy grips him like a vice. “Where? Where do you want it, pretty girl?”
“Inside me. Please, I need you to come inside me,” you plead him, the innocent tone of your voice the last thing to push him over the edge he’s teetering on. “Fill me up, Daddy—please, want every drop of you inside me—”
Joel reaches for your arms and yanks you forward, into him. Throwing them around his neck, his own arms wrap around you and roughly slam you down onto him, holding you firmly in place. He bucks his hips upwards, balls tightening, his cock pulsing as he comes. Strings of hissed curse words and deep gutteral groans muffle when he drops his face into your collarbone. Still holding you in place, he spills his load into you, his seed filling you to the brim.
He sags back against the couch and pulls you with him. Wrapping his arms tighter around you, he lets himself stay buried inside of you, the primal in him relishing the heavenly feeling of his come dripping messily out of your pussy and all over his thighs.
“You alright, sweetheart?” he asks after a minute.
“M’perfect,” you mumble against his chest. You’re not sure if it’s because you’re coming down from a high or if it’s because he’s tracing patterns on your shoulder blade with his finger, but you shiver in his arms.
“Let me get the blanket—”
Joel starts to move to get up, but you stop him.
“No, please don’t,” you say, pushing him back. You put all of your weight onto him, as if he can’t move you off to the side if he really wanted to. “I—I want you inside me for a little while longer. Please.”
“But baby, you’re cold—”
You don’t bother explaining to him that you’re not.
“Just hold me. Please.”
And that’s exactly what he does.
Snuggling into him, you close your eyes and Joel’s hand strokes at your hair. Between that, the thrum of his heartbeat against your cheek and the sound of the fireplace crackling behind you, you’re nearly soothed into sleep.
“Joel?”
“Yeah, darlin’?”
“I hate Thanksgiving,” you admit, smiling tiredly to yourself when you feel a laugh rumble in his chest.
“Do you, now?”
You nod. “I do. But I’m really thankful for you.”
Giving you a gentle squeeze, Joel kisses the top of your head and murmurs, “Well, m’thankful for you too, sweet girl.” He pauses momentarily. “I ain’t all too sure how I’m s’pposed to just let you go home. I know I have to but—”
Lifting your head off of his chest, you take the side of his face and cradle it in your palm. You meet his gaze, heart sinking when you see the sadness that has replaced the lust from earlier.
He doesn’t mean home to your parents’ house. He means Chicago.
You graze his beard with your thumb. “I’m coming back in a few weeks,” you remind him, gently. “I’ve only planned to spend a week out here just for the holidays, but I can visit sooner. As soon as the kids go on winter break, I can come back to Austin.”
“You’d do that for me?”
“Of course I would, Joel. I’m not sure how it would work what with my parents and all, though. I don’t want them catching onto us.”
“C’mere.” Joel brushes your lips with his before he makes his promise. “I’ll figure it out, baby. Leave it all to me and I’ll figure it out.”
divider credit to @saradika-graphics 🤎
#asdfghjkl BYE#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller#joel miller x reader#dbf!joel#joel miller x f!reader#joel miller x female reader#joel miller x you#joel tlou#joel miller smut#joel miller fic#joel miller x y/n#joel miller au#dbf joel miller#dbf joel x reader#fic: someone to be thankful for
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Should you worry about your dog throwing up?
Common causes and treatment of vomiting
Your canine companions may have minor stomach ailments from time to time, and while some get healed on their own, others could be due to serious infections and may need a veterinary expert's advice. The content, frequency or colour of the puke can offer crucial insights into any underlying health of your ‘pawsome’ friend. While green or yellow vomit can indicate towards digestive issues or acid reflux, spotting blood in it can signal a serious issues requiring a vet's opinion. Persistent vomiting that lasts for more than 24 hours must be addressed urgently.
#PetCare #PetHealth #PetParent #PetParenting
Common causes of vomiting in dogs:
Sensitive stomachs: Watch out for bile 🟡 Usually a distinct yellow or greenish in color, bile is relatively easy to spot upon inspection. While bile in vomit can stem from temporary factors like eating too quickly or on an empty stomach, it is also often linked to conditions like acid reflux or a sensitive stomach. Fortunately, bile is not usually a serious condition by itself and can effectively be managed by including easily digestible meals in your dog's diet like boiled chicken, pumpkin, oatmeal, and rice.
Spotting blood: A red flag for problems 🩸 If you notice fresh blood or coffee ground-like vomit in your dog's vomit, it could indicate a more serious problem, demanding immediate veterinary attention. Do not be overly alarmed. It is worth noting that in many cases, a small amount of blood in vomit is entirely harmless. However, it is advisable not to overlook the situation and instead seek medical evaluation.
Symptoms like lethargy, drooling, anxiety 😔 If there are accompanying symptoms like lethargy, drooling, and unusual vomit colors, the underlying cause is likely to be much more serious. Pay attention to their daily behavior—is it business as usual, or are there signs of distress? If bile spotting in your dog's vomit coincides with lethargy, loss of appetite, or abdominal pain, it could signal serious underlying issues like gastrointestinal disorders or infections that demand prompt veterinary consultation for evaluation and treatment.
Recognizing the risk of dehydration 💧 When vomiting is severe, dogs can lose significant amounts of fluid and electrolytes, increasing the risk of dehydration. Watch out for lethargy, sunken eyes, dry mouth and nose, and loss of skin elasticity, along with reduced urination, panting, and weakness. A simple pinch test can help assess hydration levels: gently pinch a fold of skin on your dog's neck or between their shoulder blades. If the skin snaps back immediately, your dog is likely well-hydrated. However, if the skin remains tented or takes longer to return to normal, it could indicate dehydration - this test isn’t perfect though so don’t rely on it entirely.
Chronic vomiting, a critical concern 🚨 Chronic vomiting in dogs, especially if episodes occur more than once in a day or persist for more than 24 hours, should be examined and then diagnostic tests undertaken. It can be an early indicator of a life-threatening situation.
Article Credits/Inputs: HT
#dimension 20#genshin impact#fallout#sunrise#hades 2#israel#wellness#the sandman#taylor swift#cars#asoiaf#comics#lgbt#the sunshine court#doctor who#the magnus protocol#dungeon meshi#critical role#watcher#yuri on ice#transformers one
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Cool Girl
Ghoap x female reader / 18+ / previous
The sunrise stabs under your eyelids with malicious intent.
You don’t have much of a hangover, but your face is still puffy, under eyes swollen. You’ve been crying all night, and it’s painfully obvious.
Not to mention the lack of sleep. The vomit induced by your overwhelming anxiety, the bile still scorching your throat. You haven’t slept more than an hour. You look like the walking dead.
You tried to have a serious talk with yourself around two o’clock in the morning. You told- no you promised- yourself you’d leave well enough alone. You’d put them out of your mind. You’d move on.
They never wanted you. So why are you so insulted that they did exactly what they said they would? You weren’t theirs. You’d never be theirs.
Good enough to keep in bed. Good enough to keep out of sight. But not someone they’d consider theirs.
You’re no one’s. You’re just… yours.
Which is fine. It’s more than fine. You’re cool. You don’t need them, or anyone.
Your hand won’t stop shaking though. It shakes when you turn on the water for the shower, shakes as you try to shave. It shakes through your first cup of tea and then your second, shakes when you curl up the couch and huddle under your blankets, staring blankly at reruns of some laugh tracked sitcom. It’s because you haven’t slept or you’re hungover or something-
And it only stops when your doorbell rings.
You slam your eyes shut. You’re not expecting anyone, and that alone makes you feel like there’s probably someone on the other side of the door that you decidedly do not want to see.
The glance through your peephole confirms your suspicions.
It’s Johnny. He’s standing squarely in front of your door, bouquet of flowers in his hand.
Your head starts to pound, and he knocks on the door.
“I know ye’re home, bonnie. I saw yer car in the garage.” You’re frozen on the other side, separated by a piece of metal and wood that suddenly feels less substantial than it ever has before.
When the lock doesn’t click, he knocks again. “‘m not leavin’ until I see ye.” You groan.
“Stalking me now?” You spit when you open the door and he grins sheepishly.
“Naw...” He doesn’t elaborate and you stand in the frame of the door, trying to block him from peering over you- though it’s no use. You watch his critical gaze take inventory of what he can in your flat, and then he returns his attention to you, holding out the flowers.
They’re tulips. Maybe twenty, twenty five stems, all in a spectacle of color. They’re beautiful, and your favorite.
It surprises you. That they even know that about you. That they would remember a comment you must have made in passing.
It gives you pause. It’s confusing.
“Got these for ye.” He’s… such a boy. A grown man, a decorated military man, a strong man but still… such a boy. He’s never looked more like a boy than he does now, eyes wide and nervous, shifting his weight from leg to leg. He blinks, eyelashes feathery and dark, and you’re left to wonder if he gets it from his mom or his dad. Does he have sisters? Brothers? Nieces or nephews? You ached for those pieces of them, before.
Now, the lingering questions fill you with embarrassment.
He steps forward, and you shrink back. His gaze flickers, and then clears, holding the overflowing bundle of colors towards you.
“Thanks.” You say stiffly, careful to avoid his fingers when you pull it free.
“Can I come in?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He chews on his lip.
“Ye look tired, love. Did ye get any sleep?” You sniff, hand resting on your hip.
“I’m fine.”
“Ye dinnae look fine.”
“Why are you here?” You’re cracking with exasperation, legs going weak. You’re not strong enough to stand here and survive an onslaught.
“Need to talk with ye, like we said last night.”
“There’s nothing to talk about, like I said last night.” You parrot with a irritated exhale.
“Ye know that’s jus’ not true. We need to talk about what ye saw, what ye think ye saw-“
“What did I see? Since apparently you know what I’m thinking now.” You’re too tired for this. You don’t want to do this. You want to crawl back into bed and hide under your blankets.
“Ye think ye saw us with another woman, or on a date, but-“
“I saw your hands on another woman. I saw her smiling at you like-“ you shake your head. “It doesn’t matter what I saw,” he swallows, mouth pressing into an uncomfortable line, “I always knew this wasn’t real, that it didn’t mean anything but-“
“Ye agreed. Ye always said ye didnae want a relationship.” He reminds you sharply, and you nearly swallow your tongue.
“Yeah, I didn’t, so.” The lie is foul on your tongue, rancid and spoiled, but you give it life regardless. Fuck them. You’re fine.
“But yer mad ye saw us with another woman.” He raises an eyebrow, and you never wanted to punch someone so badly.
But instead of a rising tide of anger, you get an overwhelming wave of despair, and tears prick at the corner of your eyes.
“Ah, no, love. Please, please dinnae cry. ‘m sorry, this is such a mess. We never meant for any of this.” Your hand starts shaking again, trembling against the plastic wrapped around the stems, and Johnny’s expression changes from sad to worried. “What’s this?” He tries to reach, fingers grazing the back of your arm.
“N-nothing, I’m just tired.”
“Love-“
“Just… go away.” Your patience snaps, shatters, and his face falls. It almost makes your feel bad.
Almost.
#peaches writes#Ghoap x reader#simon riley#simon riley x reader#john mactavish#john mactavish x reader
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This roll was so clutch! This is TWELVE successes! That is just insane. I have never rolled so well in my life and will never roll so well again.
#the party was 20 minutes away from sunrise and had nowhere to stay#in comes this character for a naturalist roll#and like a gift from god she is able to craft a shelter that will protect these dumbass vampires from burning to death#vampire the masquerade#vtm#dice rolls#critical success
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