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thatlittlered · 1 day

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would've, could've, should've | aaron hotchner

warning(s): one whole curse word, smoking, stunning amount of fluff and a little bit of action

GIF by @littlecarmine

part one

part two

author's note: Sorry for the delay, hope it was worth it! I also want to thank the sweet anon for the ask with the Robert Siken poem, which I included here. Next part will be straight-up filthy smut, so stay tuned, fellow sluts.

Follow me @MadeofLilies on Ao3 and let me know if you want to be tagged here.

-.-.-

You don’t see much of each other for the next couple of days. Aaron is on autopilot, avoiding any chance to be alone with you. The rest of the team unknowingly act as a buffer and all he has to do is not look at you during work hours, keep the door to his office shut to not hear your laughter.

It’s a relief when you and Morgan are called to testify in court for a case. You’re somewhere far away for the day, where he knows you’re safe and he can go back to pretending nothing has changed.

The problems start when he’s not being kept busy.

How much paperwork can one person do?

The stars align oddly in his favor and he’s into calls or meetings until long after everyone else has gone home. When ten pm rolls around, he finally calls it quits but sees no point in leaving in a hurry. It’s past Jack’s bed time, it’d be cruel to wake him up now and carry him back home when tomorrow’s Sunday. If all goes well, he can pick him in the morning and they’ll get to spend the day together.

His finger is hovering over Jessica’s number when he spots your name in his call logs. It’s silly and childish, but he hasn’t thought of you in a couple of hours and God.

Deep down, he knows he’s been incredibly unfair to you. He had to. Had to tell himself it was something outside of him causing him torment. An obstacle to overcome, a distraction to ignore. He had to act as if you were forcing your way into his life in order to be able to put up walls, but what have you really done except exist near him? He is the one to blame for allowing it to grow beneath his skin; succumbing to his need for some sort of intimacy when he could have -should have- nipped this at the bud a very long time ago. He recognized it within himself the other day, when he realized he could have -should have- kissed you.

But nothing is healed with a kiss. Only new grievances arise.

It’s where you go from there that matters and he finds himself unable to guide or be guided.

Where do you go from here?

When he decides to feed his insomnia with a cup of late-night coffee, he is yet again reminded of you. So, he calls, but you don’t answer and he pours another, completely indifferent to the idea of sleep.

It’s getting too late to be here, even by his standards. He tries calling again, but, no answer. He gathers his stuff to leave and there is a horrible feeling at the pit of his stomach when he settles inside the car. It’s only eleven and you always say you never sleep this early.

Another call, this time to Emily, who miraculously, picks up.

“Hello? Hotch?”

There is a deafening buzz in the background; loud voices and music blasting.

Aaron apologizes for the late hour and tries to be discreet when he asks about you. Says he needs to go over something about a case file but you won’t answer his calls and he got worried.

“Yeah, she’s fine, she’s right here with me, but it’s a little hard to get her right now. Is it urgent?”

“Uh, no, don’t bother her. Is everyone else there too?”

“Not everyone, just the two of us, Garcia and Morgan. Do you need them as well?”

You didn’t invite him, why would you? He would have never said yes.

“No, it’s okay. I’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

“Sorry, sir, I can’t make out much with all this noise. We’re at the ‘Matter’ if you need us. I’ll tell the guys to call you as soon as they can, okay? Have a good night.”

So, he drives two miles a little before midnight to come sit outside ‘Matter’, which is apparently a very busy nightclub downtown, half a mile away from the nearest parking spot he could find.

He doesn’t really know why he came.

He can’t come in and join you. Can’t ask for you.

They probably wouldn’t even let him in while dressed like this.

It’s very unclear what the next step is.

He knows it’s pointless to call you again when you’re probably too busy dancing and drinking with a great many people who are not him. Morgan has some trouble keeping his hands to himself when he drinks.

He sits on the curb of the street, cracks open the pack of cigarettes he snack out of the car’s glove compartment, always hidden below the insurance papers. Astoundingly loud music plays every time the doors to the club open and people come out stumbling, kissing sloppily and dragging each other away.

He just wants to see you and put this horrible feeling inside him to rest.

“No fucking way.”

He jolts at the sound of your voice and throws away the cigarette, putting it out with his shoe before he turns to see you standing outside the club. You approach timidly until you can be sure it’s him and when you step closer to the streetlight, he can really see you. The clothes you could never wear to work, the shoes you apparently spend all your money on. You’re beautiful.

He can’t possibly move until you’re sat beside him. For the first time in what seems like forever, now that he’s grown so used to it, you keep a very respectable distance between your bodies.

“You didn’t have to throw it away; I already saw you and,” you pick up the abandoned carton from the sidewalk and almost laugh at how immaculate it looks just having been opened, “I have so many questions. Since when do you smoke?”

His voice is quiet, unamused.

“Almost never.”

You look at him curiously and he thinks you would make a great interrogator simply by the way you make everyone around you spill their souls out if it will satisfy you.

“Sometimes when I’m very stressed.”

You hum, “I never would have guessed that.”

He laughs to himself and looks at his hands.

“Yeah, I’ve been doing a lot of things that are not typical of me lately.”

You help yourself to a cigarette and he cups his hand over yours when the breeze makes it too hard to light up.

“Is that because of me? Am I a bad influence?”

“No. It’s me, I’m the common denominator.”

You hum again and smile at him teasingly in an attempt to lighten the mood, “Breakthrough.”

“So, this is what therapy is like?”

He wants to thank you, for always trying to make things as easy as possible for him. You open the door and difficult as it may seem, all he really has to do is walk through it.

“No, of course not. I wouldn’t smoke in session.”

“Oh good.”

You’re sitting closer again and Aaron doesn’t know how. He doesn’t think either of you moved. He keeps his eyes on the road in front of him, glances at you only from the corner of his eye. Your perfume mingles with the smoke of the cigarette and it’s all a haze to him.

“Why are you not inside?”

“I needed a breath; it was very loud and packed in there… and I finally saw your calls.”

He hums, unable to find anything else to say.

“Why are you here?

“I don’t know.”

He knows that is not a good enough of an answer.

“I always have this terrible feeling that something is going to happen to you.”

Your shoulder touches his and he can admire the smoothness of it, focus on each mark there to avoid the dreaded eye contact.

“Do you think that fear is reasonable, or is it rooted in something else?’

His eyes shut tightly, “Don’t do that, please. Don’t talk to me like I’m a subject.”

“You use your ‘agent tone’ all the time outside of work.”

His voice deepens, “I am aware.”

Heavy breathing.

“I’m sorry I did all that and then backed out at the last minute.”

“It’s alright. I think I knew you would.”

“See, that’s even worse.”

You look at his suit, the wrinkles that have formed in the shirt underneath from the hours of wear.

“Did you come here straight from the office?”

A sigh, “Yeah.”

You nod your head in understanding and move to put out what’s left of the cigarette.

“I’m alright. I’ve got the others too; they’ll take me home. You can relax now.”

“I don’t think I ever can.”

You don’t know what to say really. If what he needs is time, you can give it, but he seems undecided as well when he picks up your hand.

“I think I’m scared of what will happen once the line is crossed.”

A confession.

That, you did not expect.

“Aside from the complications at work, I just,” his hand rubs gently on the spot your watch has left its mark, “I have proved time and time again that I can’t handle any relationship beyond professionalism and once we stop being just colleagues, I will lose you completely from my life.”

“Do you think that line has not been crossed already?”

He laughs quietly.

You can both feel the bouncer looking at you and Aaron is suddenly aware of how vulnerable he is right now.

“I guess it has.”

You’re both quiet for a little while.

“I have to go back inside now, or they’ll start getting worried.”

He looks like he’s about to say something, but no words leave his mouth.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell them you were here.”

That hurt. You know it, but what else was there to say?

“Maybe tomorrow you’ll know.”

You give his hand a reassuring squeeze before you leave and he’s left staring while you go back inside.

-.-.-

A little past two, the girls drop you off in a shared cub before going their separate ways and you rush to your apartment building, only to find Aaron waiting there.

“Well, you certainly have a thing for sitting on curbs.”

He looks tired, so tired, and alone in the empty street. It’s very hard to maintain your position when he always looks this beaten down in his most tender moments. You wish to care for him, love him back into happiness but that wouldn’t be fair.

Still, you can’t help but go to him and he is relieved that you sit closer this time.

“Have you been waiting here this whole time?”

“It hasn’t been that long.”

You softly take his right hand to look at his watch. His body relaxes at the touch.

“Huh.”

“Did you have a good time?”

“Yeah, but I’m a little more drunk than the last time you saw me.”

Your skin glows under the soft moonlight and he notices.

It is technically tomorrow now.

“How drunk?”

His face moves closer and you can’t help but shiver at the sudden change. His breath is warm on your face. The words come out in a whisper.

“Not that much.”

That’s all it takes.

His lips press against yours once… then twice and then… he doesn’t stop.

You always thought he’d be one to kiss carefully and with absolute purpose, just like he does everything else, but he kisses like a man on fire. He seeks to quench something deep inside of him and you provide happily. The remnants of your lip gloss tingle on his mouth, as if kissing you alone is not enough of an awakening.

It’s becoming increasingly hard to keep up with breathing when he envelops you so, and cages you in the pleasant whirl of his scent. When you break away for breath, he’s quick to capture you once more. His hands come to your face to keep you there until he’s had enough, but how he can he ever have enough of you?

He only lets you go because he has to. You’re both practically panting and he can’t decide what to do. He wants to kiss you, look at you, touch you, but it cannot all be done at once. When your own hand comes to his face just below his jawline, he melts under the touch. His eyes are sunken, his body is begging for rest, but it would not come without you.

“Do you want to stay with me tonight?”

His voice is low and breathy when he nods.

“Yeah…”

-.-.-

You walk upstairs, hand in hand, and Aaron can see your own exhaustion is taking over. Something started with that first touch. Your bodies wish only to find comfort near each other.

His breath is warm on your neck while you open the door, his hands softly placed on your waist with the excuse of keeping you steady. When you move to take off your shoes, he is behind you again, as if tied to you with invisible thread, and holds you gently by the elbow when he sees you struggling.

You’re suddenly very aware he is in your house again. Touching you.

“Can I get you anything?”

He shakes his head no, but you’re too focused on the way his hand moves languidly up your arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake, before tucking your hair behind your ear.

“Do you need me to get you anything?”

He is so caring. So soft below the austere guise.

“I just need to take a shower,” you almost stumble backward and he thinks it’s the alcohol, but it might just be the feeling of his hands on your face, “I must have fifty different people’s sweat on me right now.”

“That’s okay. I’ll wait.”

His voice is soft – tired.

You turn on the lights for him in the living room and he gives a half-smile when you check on him again.

“I won’t be long.”

Once left alone, he gets to look around your house. He sees your carefully assorted nick-knacks and smiles at the framed pictures all over your bookshelves. He can’t help but notice you’ve chosen one, if not the only, photo of the team that he’s also part of.

He is important to you too.

He can see you in every corner of the room, in the books you buy and the realistic-looking-but-admittedly-fake plants sprinkled here and there for a lack of time to take care of any real ones. He can even see you in the soft material of the couch when he sits and lets his cheek touch the fabric. He has been here before in a dream, with your head in his lap.

The room is awfully quiet save for the gentle ticking of the clock on the wall and the sound of running water in the background. For a man that’s usually so good at sitting alone with his thoughts, he suddenly can’t stand it.

He knocks gently on the bathroom door and opens it slowly, only to be hit with the dizzying cloud of warm steam. Your head peeks behind the shower curtain and he can tell you got tired of standing and sat in the tub instead.

“Is it okay if I sit in here with you?”

You thought he’d sit on the toilet seat, but he crawls to the edge of the tub and sits on the bathmat with his back to you.

How close is close enough?

Now that he’s ventured, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be satisfied.

So, he closes his eyes and rests his head back on the, now warm, porcelain.

“Aaron.”

He doesn’t know if he actually fell asleep, but the water is now turned off and you’re looking at him. He realizes now, for the first time, that you’re naked behind him. Your hair and eyelashes are angelically wet, the sheen of water on your flushed skin is divine. He knows that you’d be warm if he touched you now.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes.”

You smile at him -siren- and your hand grabs a handful of his shirt, staining it with water that reaches his body underneath and makes him shiver. You kiss him with plump wet lips and he reaches for you. His hand entangles in your hair until you’re both practically pulling at each other.

A less enamored man would have broken away just to sneak a peek at your bare skin, but he won’t. He is respectful even now, even like this.

“I should have kissed you the other day. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

It’s a whisper when his mouth leaves yours, but you catch it.

You hum, eyes glossy, “Would've, could've, should’ve.”

What matters is now.

He kisses you again – just one more time. You both feel like giddy, lovesick children.

“Can you hand me my bathrobe?”

The bathrobe is also impossibly soft to the touch and when you emerge clad in it, he thinks he’d like to hold you. The spell of the warm steam is broken outside, however, and being so close to your naked body suddenly becomes very serious.

You let him sit in your bed, still fully clothed, save for his suit jacket, and he closes his eyes again. The comforter underneath is lovely.

Is everything in this house soft?

Is this what it feels like to be loved by you?

You disappear inside the walk-in closet and reappear, now properly dressed in your pajamas. The bed dips when you sit next to him and he turns to you completely.

“I have a T-shirt you can sleep in, don’t know about pants though.”

Please. Just be here, with him.

He watches you leave, but it’s not long before you return with the aforementioned shirt. You laugh when he finally realizes he’ll have to sleep in his boxers.

“Don’t worry, I won’t take advantage of you.”

He throws a teasing look, but can’t possibly come up with a clever answer right now.

“I’ll go dry my hair and you can get dressed, alright?”

You are so gentle with your guidance that it makes him feel like a helpless child, but there’s a hidden relief at that. It’s nice; being cared for like this and there is something to be said about parallels, with you going now to do as you had done a week and a half ago in a Florida hotel and him waiting for you – on your bed.

It’s the same, but it’s different.

He hangs his work clothes carefully on the chair in the corner of your room and goes to sit on the bed, but feels too uncomfortable to climb under the covers. He knows you’d find his duality funny; how he goes from hungrily kissing you to being too embarrassed to join you in bed, even if it’s only for sleep.

You notice his stiffness when you come back in the room, but don’t say anything. It’s not exactly easy for you either, you’re just better at hiding it than he is. You choose to lead by example instead and turn off the lights before reaching for the one on your nightstand and climbing inside your bedding.

He only speaks to deflect attention from him again, “You have a TV in your room.”

“Jealous?”

He turns to look at you and you’re perched up on the plump pillows, smiling at him. Your hand reaches for his own over the comfort and you gently pull him to you.

He comes, of course.

“I don’t watch a lot of TV.”

“Of course you don’t.”

He joins you with his back on the pillows and his shoulder touching yours, but he’s still too stiff.

“What do you watch?”

“Mostly reruns of sitcoms-,” he laughs at that, “-Seinfeld.”

“Isn’t that show a thousand years old?

“You would know.”

He laughs again and you can almost make out a wounded pout on his face, but a kiss is enough of a cure. His shoulders relax and he gives in to the warmth and softness; be it the bed or you next to him. You can tell he’s barely managing to stay awake, but he still can’t let go completely. His head slumps backward again.

“Can we turn it on?”

You find the courage to caress his hair, admiring the softness of it and the discreet sprinkle of grey that you can only see up close.

“If you want.”

The quiet humming of the television and your breath in his ear, putting his mind to ease, are enough for him to finally sleep and you’re not long behind. His head is turned to the side where you are, hand tightly holding yours.

Later in the night, when you stir in your sleep, he pulls you further into him – wraps his arm around you completely and doesn’t let go.

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner imagine #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #thomas gibson

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izelascendant · 2 days

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Sportsmanlike

Chapter 5 - Stanford, Part 2

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Rating | Mature Summary | Things begin to spiral between them. Lots of drama in this chapter. And smut. Pairing | f!Original Character x Art Donaldson x Tashi Duncan x Patrick Zweig Tags | Tennis, Competition, Love Triangles (Squares?), Jealousy, Plot, Emotional Infidelity, Eventual smut, Eventual Romance, Eventual Relationships Word Count | 4.2K Author's note | Important note! This is the last chapter of the FIRST part of this series. Don't worry there's more drama to come in the second part. SMUT warning.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Sportsmanlike on AO3 | Chapter 1 - US Open 2006, Chapter 2 - Finalist Fusion, Chapter 3 - Aftermath and Accolades, Chapter 4 - Stanford, Chapter 5 - Stanford, Part 2 | Sportsmanlike PART 2 - soon

Art

Acting normal around Tashi proves to be more of a challenge than they had expected. After that night, Art finds himself exchanging secret glances with her, his gaze filled with a hidden hunger that only she can understand whenever they’re around Tashi. And when they’re alone, they fight to keep their hands to themselves.

Not even a week has passed, and she finds herself unable to resist Art. Tashi joins her to watch one of Art’s matches, and she finds herself unamused by his distraction.

Tashi leans back in her seat, a hint of annoyance in her voice as she observes Art on the court below. "He seems distracted," she notes, her eyes fixated on his movements. "I can tell his mind is elsewhere." Her observation rings true, his focus clearly divided between the game and the thoughts that occupy his mind.

“Yeah, it's weird.” She fakes her agreement, a small, secret smile playing on her lips as she observes Art’s athletic body. Her eyes are glued to his every move—she takes in his focused expression, the way his muscles ripple with each swift movement—and the determination on his face.

After the match, she finds herself knocking at the door to his dorm room. Very few words are exchanged between the moment he opens the door and the moment she's lifted onto his desk, her legs wrapping around him as their lips collide in an impatient, desperate kiss.

“Take off your pants.” Her words come out in a rush as she reaches for the band of his sweatpants, hardly giving him a chance to catch his breath.

Art stops her for a moment, his mouth moving along her neck, kissing his way down her delicate skin as he mumbles a soft protest against her flesh. "Not yet." With a swift motion, he pulls off her shirt, tossing it aside, leaving her exposed to his touch. "I still haven't finished what I started at the party."

The sight of him settling down on his knees before her, nestling between her legs, provokes a delicious shiver of anticipation within her. She watches him intently, her breathing growing shallow at the knowledge that he has waited patiently, eager to please her. The thought only fuels her desire.

As she leans against his desk, he strips her from her shorts and gently lifts her legs onto his shoulders, his firm yet tender grip securing her in place.

He’s sloppy with it—practically making out with the soft spot between her thighs—shamelessly lapping his tongue over and over. Her grip on the desk tightens instinctively, her body arching involuntarily against him. Her fingers tangle through his curls, tugging gently as a mix of cries and moans escape her lips.

Art occasionally pauses for a moment to gaze up at her, his eyes locked with hers, a thin strand of saliva still hangs from his lips as he takes a moment to catch his breath.

It probably should’ve stopped there but there's no going back now as their desire for each other takes over. They don't even bother to move to the bed, instead finding themselves right where they are, with her leaning back against the desk—her legs wrapped tightly around Art's hips—his face pressed into the crook of her neck, his breath hot against her skin.

And there goes the rest of their afternoon.

Tashi

About a week later, things start to take a turn.

Late afternoon, just as the sun is setting, Tashi joins her on the court—the golden hue of the setting sun bathes the court in a warm glow. To her surprise, Tashi takes things easy, each swing of her racket is unusually unhurried. The atmosphere is laid back, and the sounds of their racquets striking the ball and their soft laughter fill the air.

"You going easy on me today?" She asks, a hint of amusement in her voice.

Tashi's eyes narrow as she speaks, a note of accusation in her voice. Her words hang in the air, breaking the casual atmosphere between them. “Art told me about you two.”

The atmosphere on the court takes a serious turn as she stops playing and looks at Tashi with a stern expression. "What?" The tension between them is palpable.

Tashi adopts a nonchalant, even slightly apologetic, tone—trying to play to her sympathies—her nonchalant demeanor betraying her manipulative intentions. "Listen," she starts, her tone laced with false sympathy. "I didn't ask about anything, he just came to me and told me everything." She shrugs her shoulders, "I don't know if he was trying to brag or what," she says, the subtext clear in her deliberate ambiguity.

Her confusion and disappointment wash over her, leading her to let out a frustrated sigh. She pinches the bridge of her nose, trying to make sense of the situation.

Tashi approaches her with an almost babying tone, her voice laced with a facade of sweetness. "Baby, I'm sorry."

She can't help but lean into Tashi, seeking comfort in the midst of her disappointment. Her voice is hushed as she whispers, "I can't believe him." The depth of her frustration is palpable—yet—she finds herself caught in the web of Tashi's manipulation.

Tashi's tone is soothing as she comforts her, wrapping her in a hug. "He's just a boy," she says, "Boys are stupid like that."

Turns out, she seeks comfort in the familiar warmth of Tashi's arms just as much as Tashi too needs comfort, her own hidden emotional turmoil creating her need to hold onto her just as tightly. In that moment, she allows herself to find peace in their closeness, unaware of the hidden desperation within Tashi.

“Speaking of, I think Patrick’s cheating on me.” A sudden shift in conversation occurs when Tashi shares her worry, her words carrying a hint of uncertainty and unease

She leans back, her eyes widening in genuine astonishment. "Are you serious?"

Tashi's manipulation runs deep, her desire for control over her clear. She sees no happiness in her own relationship with Patrick—and in a twisted way—she wants to prevent her from finding happiness with Art. Tashi knows how to play the game, to control and maneuver the situation to her advantage.

"I mean, he's on tour. I don't know what I expected." Tashi says, her sigh tinged with sadness and disappointment.

“Fuck him.” She attempts to comfort Tashi, her protective instincts kicking in. "Seriously, what is wrong with those two?" she murmurs, her loyalty to Tashi shining through as she offers support.

Tashi's expression softens as she reaches out and takes her hand gently, her grip gentle but firm. "Hey, come sleep over at my dorm tonight," she says softly.

She finds herself agreeing eagerly to Tashi's suggestion, her desire to be there for her friend shining through. "I'll come over later," she confirms with a gentle smile, a touch of warmth in her eyes.

As the two girls part ways, there's an intimate moment where they share a look that holds a silent understanding—and perhaps a hint of something more.

As she rounds a corner on her way back to the building, she suddenly spots Art heading her direction. His presence catches her off guard, and she crosses her arms over her chest as if subconsciously bracing herself for the encounter. The timing couldn't be more comical.

The moment he sees her, he cluelessly makes his way up to her, a smile on his face as he greets her. “Hey, are you coming back from—“

"You told Tashi," she cuts him off, the disappointment evident in her voice. Her frown deepens as she looks at him, her frustration palpable."What part of 'this stays between us' did you not understand?"

Art's expression falters, and a mix of guilt and frustration washes over him. "No, listen," he says fervently, wanting to explain himself. "You know how Tashi is—she always manipulates her way into things," he tries to defend himself. "She coaxed it out of me."

Although Art is telling the truth about Tashi's manipulation, she remains unconvinced, choosing to side with Tashi.

Her arms remain crossed over her chest, her expression hard. "That's not what I heard from her," she retorts, her voice firm. "I just wanted some damn privacy, and you messed up."

"Well, Tashi's lying—that's such bullshit," Art's frustration and desperation to defend himself grows as he tries to make his case. "What reason would I have to go tell Tashi about all this?" he reasons, his voice tinged with a mix of defensiveness and disbelief.

“I don't know, but maybe you should get your priorities straight.” Her cold tone leaves Art feeling stung, the accusation hanging heavy in the air between them.

The sight of her leaving, her words echoing in the silence, leaves him feeling both hurt and frustrated. A small part of him breaks from the unexpected rejection, questioning the situation and their connection.

The calm ambiance within Tashi's dorm brings a sense of comfort. The room is bathed in a soft, warm glow cast by the faint orange light, creating a cozy atmosphere. The familiar melody of their favorite music echoes softly from the old stereo stationed atop the shelf, adding a touch of familiarity and nostalgia to the scene.

♬ I never was in love

You know that you were never good enough

Fall asleep right next to me

You know that you were never good enough … ♬

Tashi's laughter fills the air as she holds her face still, carefully attending to her eyebrows with a pair of tweezers. "Sit still," she chuckles, her tone filled with a hint of playfulness.

"Don't make my eyebrows disappear." She warns jokingly, a glint in her eyes as she peers up at Tashi.

“Done.” Tashi's thumb brushes against her eyebrows and she leans back to examine her work. A soft smile playing on her lips. Tashi’s compliment "beautiful" hangs in the air, and she can't help but let out a small huff of appreciation.

The warm lighting and soft atmosphere of the room add to the intimate moment, casting a gentle glow over the two girls as they sit together.

"You know, I missed this." She murmurs, feeling a similar sentiment reflected in Tashi's expression. Just as Tashi is about to stand up, she stops her, taking her hand gently. “Why did you really invite me over?” She asks, feeling there might be something underlying to Tashi’s intentions. “Need me because your boyfriend isn’t around?” The question lingers in the air, its playful tone laced with genuine curiosity.

Tashi smirks and with a firm yank, she draws her closer, her words carrying meaning. "You're here because nobody understands me like you do," she admits, her tone surprisingly sincere.

The room falls silent as their eyes lock, a charged intensity passing between them. The warmth of their joined hands contrasts with the electric air, creating a palpable tension that fills the intimate space.

As their faces draw closer, she can't help but let a smirk tug at her mouth. "What are you doing?" she asks in a tone tinged with playfulness. Tashi leans in further, their lips just millimeters apart, their breaths meeting in the charged space between them.

Tashi's response is direct and without hesitation. "You know exactly what I'm doing," she retorts.

"You sure you want this?" Her heart races with the implications of their actions. Tashi's reply is swift and decisive as she smirks. "I want it even more now that there aren't two losers watching us."

At that moment, any traces of mixed feelings she harbored towards Tashi go out the window.

The passion between them burns even more intensely than the first time, though this time it doesn’t feel rushed. They get to take their time and appreciate each other, the two girls naked and scrambling around in Tashi’s sheets. Their limbs seem to mingle around randomly—kissing each other’s neck, shoulders, back, collarbone, breasts.

Tashi’s eyes flicker down to a spot a little below her hip, her fingers gently tracing the contour of the small tattoo—a lily. With a soft surprise, she speaks up. "How come I've never noticed this before?"

"Oh, it's stupid." She chuckles softly, looking down at her own tattoo. "I got it done when I was sixteen. It’s pretty much hidden all the time," she adds, explaining the discreet placement of the tattoo.

Tashi's fingers glide gently along the pattern of her tattoo, the touch sending tingles down her spine. "Why a lily?"

"Because I like lilies." Her answer is simple, her voice carrying a hint of amusement. "And because it symbolizes a fresh start," she adds, a note of deeper meaning in her words.

The room fills with the sounds of their labored breaths and the soft rustle of bedsheets as their bodies press closer together. The intensity of their kiss deepens, a silent language of desire and connection passing between them.

A hint of playfulness dances in her eyes as she gives Tashi an instruction. "Sit," she says—her voice is firm but the corner of her mouth curls up into an adorable smirk. She pats her own shoulders, signaling for Tashi to obey the command.

"Sit? You want me to sit on your face?" Tashi repeats, a note of surprise in her tone.

"Don't make me beg." She teases, the tone of her voice laced with a hint of desire. She stares directly into Tashi's eyes, conveying that she's absolutely certain of her request.

With Tashi hovering over her, their eyes locked in a silent exchange of desire, the atmosphere between them thick with anticipation. Her eyes gleam with excitement as she gently grabs onto Tashi's thighs, securing her position and drawing her closer to her, bringing her down comfortably.

Tashi's slender body moves gracefully, her hips rolling back and forth in a way that's both captivating and sensual. Soft breaths of pleasure escape her, her desire growing with each lap of the redhead’s tongue against her core.

In return, she relishes the sensation of being beneath Tashi, embracing her submissive role in all aspects of her relationship with Tashi—on the court, and in bed. Being the one to bring Tashi this type of pleasure is a rush—a drug she's helpless to resist.

But, what brings her the most pleasure is waking up in Tashi's arms the next morning. The feeling of their bodies pressed against each other, skin-to-skin, it feels like she's won something precious—Tashi, and Tashi is all hers, even if only for that night. No matter how much she endures throughout their relationship—the tennis, Art, Patrick—what truly matters is this moment, where she holds Tashi close and feels in love.

But as she lies there in Tashi's arms, there's a small nagging voice in the back of her mind. She's aware of Tashi's manipulative tendencies, but she chooses to turn a blind eye, if it means she can have moments like this—moments where she feels loved and adored. It's a calculated decision, a compromise she's made, but the question remains—is it truly love, or merely a prize she's won at a cost?

Her thoughts are interrupted as Tashi’s phone's ringer breaks the peaceful silence. Tashi groans and pulls away from her, reaching for her bedside table to grab the phone, leaving her with Tashi's back facing her as she answers the call.

"Oh, it's you. How’ve you been, baby?" Hearing the nickname ‘baby’ coming out of Tashi's mouth sends a wave of annoyance through her, Patrick's presence looming over like a dark shadow.

She pulls the sheets over her head to muffle the sound of Tashi's voice, desperately seeking to drown out the painful reality confronting her.

"I miss you too." Tashi chuckles into the phone.

She slowly climbs out from the bed, the sheets falling away from her naked body as she begins to search the floor for her clothes.

“Hold on, I’ll call you right back.” Tashi hangs up and looks over at her. "You heading back?" she asks, her tone showing no hint of remorse or guilt.

Her voice carries a subtle sigh as she responds, her tone somewhat dry. "Yeah," she says flatly, pulling her t-shirt back over her bare skin.

"Don't be late. I told Art we’d start training at 9:30." Tashi instructs, moving with purpose as she begins to get dressed.

She blinks, accepting her fate—the reality of the situation. She doesn't regret their night together, but she wishes it had ended differently. Ultimately she feels like she fucked up, big time.

She begins to spiral towards the second week.

She offers Art a heartfelt apology, acknowledging her mistake in not believing his side of the story. She knows it unfortunately doesn’t fix the situation or completely mend the rift between them—things can’t return to the way they were beforehand.

She tries to avoid both Art and Tashi, pouring her energy into her studies in a desperate attempt to salvage her academic performance—her grades are slowly declining along with her mental state.

She notices as Tashi takes on a more prominent role in training Art, and perhaps intentionally, Art seems to be going along with it as a form of retribution against her. She suspects that—out of spite or as a form of punishment—he is willingly going along with this change to increase her downfall.

As she contemplates the situation, it dawns on her that Art may be just as in love with Tashi as she is.

She can’t help but think about how everything went downhill so quickly. She feels trapped at Stanford, surrounded by people she isn't sure she can trust, and compelled to participate in a sport she never even wanted to pursue in the first place.

"Seriously?" Tashi's gaze burns into her as she misses yet again, her voice filled with annoyance and disappointment.

Art stands on one side of the court, observing the situation at Tashi’s side, while she stands on the opposite side, racket in hand, her hair pinned up and her body sweaty.

"Your game is fucking horrible," Tashi states bluntly. With each of Tashi’s digs, she feels her frustration mounting, bordering on the edge of a breakdown.

She takes a breath and returns to her position. Art serves and the emotional dam within her begins to crack as she misses the return once again, slamming her racket to the ground with a loud clatter. "Fuck!" she curses loudly, her voice filled with frustration and tears beginning to form in her eyes. Uncharacteristic of her usually composed demeanor, she paces around the court, her clenched fists trembling with pent-up emotions.

Tashi stands with her hands planted on her hips, her voice carrying a hint of annoyance as she taunts her. "C’mon, stop being a pussy," she says, her words cutting through the air.

She glances at Art, searching for some form of support or defense from his end, but instead—she's met with a guilt-laden expression as he looks away. Anger boils within her as she shoves her racket into her bag. "Fuck the both of you," she mumbles as she storms off the court.

Patrick

It doesn’t help that Patrick's return to Stanford coincides with that week, adding an extra layer of complexity to the already tense situation. He immediately notices the shifts in the dynamic.

He decides to address it—at the most inopportune moment—his timing, as usual, leaves much to be desired. It only adds an additional dose of stress as she prepares for her upcoming match against Tashi.

♬ I fucking hate you

But I love you

I'm bad at keeping my emotions bubbled

You're good at being perfect

We're good at being troubled

Yeah … ♬

As she stretches and warms up for the upcoming match, she glances up and notices Patrick making his way toward her, a serious expression on his face. She stops her stretching momentarily and looks at him. "Where's Tashi?"

Patrick's annoyance is evident, his words carrying a hint of irritation. "We got into an argument." His expression shows a mix of frustration and lingering tension. The air between them grows tense with unspoken words

"What?" She pauses her stretching as Patrick's words sink in, her attention fully on him now.

His intimidating presence looms over her, his expression growing cold and accusatory. "Don't play dumb," he says in irritation. "Art told me about you." His gaze is locked onto hers as he practically towers over her.

She narrows her eyes defiantly, her voice growing in defensiveness and sarcasm as she counters, "What about it? Aren't you happy Art got some action?

"About you and Tashi." he clarifies, his voice taking on a more serious tone.

Did Tashi tell Art herself, or is this another consequence of her manipulation? The realization sinks in, and she knows that Art must have passed the information to Patrick—panic begins to crawl up her spine as her heart skips a beat.

Patrick's voice pierces through the air, cold and filled with spite. “You've got some fucking nerve, sneaking into my girlfriend’s bed when I'm not around," he spits out, his words laced with anger and disgust.

"Jealous because you weren't there to watch?" She challenges, her eyes locked on Patrick’s. She continues, her words laced with sarcasm and mocking. “You sure liked it that night at the hotel, huh?"

“That’s different.” Patrick maintains a serious demeanor as he responds, his voice firm.

"How so?" She presses—her eyes boring into him—awaiting his explanation.

Patrick's words hit hard. "Because it meant something this time. You’re in love with her, for fuck’s sake—everyone can tell." The truth of his statement renders the space silent for a brief moment.

Her frustration reaches a boiling point as she struggles to find a response. "Fuck you." She hisses at him, her voice laced with a mix of anger and helplessness.

Patrick drops the final bombshell, his voice cold and calculated. "You wanna know what else? She doesn’t love you back. She knows you’re the one person who can beat her, and she just needs to have that control over you."

She angrily grabs her belongings, the weight of Patrick's revelation hanging heavy in the air. "Fuck you and fuck Tashi," she spits out.

He follows after her, determined to keep the discussion going. "It's 'fuck Tashi' until she chooses you, right? and what about Art? Do you feel good playing games with his feelings?" His tone is harsh, his words aimed to provoke and guilt her.

"Playing games with his feelings?" She scoffs, her voice filled with frustration and annoyance. "You haven’t even been around, and you try to act like the judge here?" Her accusations hang heavy in the air, adding fuel to the fire of their argument. "Why did you and Tashi really get into an argument? Was it because of me—or because you can’t keep your dick in your pants when you're on tour?"

Patrick shakes his head in disbelief, attempting to turn the tables with his response. "That’s rich coming from you," he retorts, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

She tries to distance herself from the heated exchange, but Patrick continues to pursue her. Just as she’s about to push him away, a voice cuts through their altercation, calling out to Patrick. “Let it go, Patrick.” Art’s familiar voice causes both of them to stop in their tracks.

With a scoff, Patrick steps back, his expression frustrated and defeated. "Enjoy your match." He mutters as he turns and walks off, leaving her and Art alone together.

"How long have you known about me and Tashi?" She asks, her question hanging in the air.

Art's demeanor is surprisingly calm though she can tell everything has taken its toll on him just as much. His soft gaze meets hers, conveying a mixture of understanding and exhaustion. "Just forget about it. There's no point in dragging this out."

She buries her face in her hands, sighing deeply as the weight of their situation settles heavily on her shoulders.

As she steps onto the court for her long-awaited match against Tashi, a surge of anger and determination washes over her. The moment brings her back to the first time she faced Tashi, in the finals, and how she succumbed to Tashi's dominance under the pressure—not this time.

Tashi locks eyes with her from across the court, her gaze sharp and almost calculating. It's as if she knows what's going on in her mind, the tension between them thick enough to cut with a knife. Meanwhile, Art blends in amongst the spectators—silently watching from the sidelines—there's no sign of Patrick anywhere.

The heat of the match is palpable as she and Tashi face off against each other. They match each other's intense energy and aggressive rhythm, each swing sending powerful blows across the net. Harsh grunts fill the air as they play with fierce determination, neither giving any ground to the other.

The match abruptly comes to a halt as the sickening sound of bone cracking pierces the air. Tashi falls to the ground, clutching her knee in agony. Panic fills the air, and she reacts immediately, leaping over the net to be by her side. She drops her racket and kneels beside Tashi, her heart pounding in her chest as she tries to comfort her injured rival.

Art quickly sprints over from the bleachers, his expression filled with worry as he rushes to be next to her and Tashi. Their eyes meet, mirroring each other's fear. Tashi lies on the ground beneath them, her knee twisted in a horrifying position as she cries out in pain. It's a gruesome sight, difficult for either of them to look at.

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skyfallscotland · 2 days

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@heartfeltletters-written asked me 💥 How do you feel about criticism? and it felt like something that needed its own post, so here goes: the hypocrisy of critics in modern fandoms, an essay.

Criticism. I don't like getting it or giving it when it comes to writing. I struggle to even gently give it to friends, even when they ask me what I think of their work. Writing is such a personal thing that we pour our heart and soul into and like you say, many criticisms aren't necessarily valid. By that I mean, there's a difference between "Amy you use em dashes a lot babe" (I do) and "This story would have been so much better if Remi were a virgin" (actual criticism I have received, lmao).

Unlike traditional authors, we will never make money from this, we do it for the love of it and it's time we will never get back. For some of us, it's time we could be working on our own original manuscripts too. I don't think people who give the second type of criticism are writers, generally. They don't understand the craft and what goes into it. Whenever I post and someone says a chapter was short or they immediately ask when the next one is, and that's all they say, I die inside a little. I try not to take it personally, but it's hard.

Personally, I think fandom behaviour is getting worse and that flows over into our comment sections and tumblr asks. I have a whole other dissertation on this that we’ll call ‘the slow death of fandom as we know it: an essay’, but that’s perhaps for another post. I don’t know how welcomed that commentary would be.

You said the word ‘entitled’ in your original ask and I think that’s spot on. People have become more entitled in general and downright rude (which is not restricted to online spaces, by the way). I write for ACOTAR, but you’ve never seen me discuss it here because no matter what you say in that regard, you can’t win. Someone will always attack you and I do mean attack. Even in regards to Fourth Wing, I don't talk about my opinions a lot outside of my own little bubble of friends and readers.

And that's the kicker to this whole conversation, really. If I were to criticise Iron Flame/RY everyone would jump down my throat (as has happened on other platforms), even though I'd never say it to her face. Do I stand by my opinions? Absolutely. But it would be rude to tell her them, unless asked. I’m not allowed to (validly) criticise certain elements of her story, a published novel, without being attacked for it, but those same people are fine criticising my work directly to me. Hypocrisy at its finest.

There’s a new influx of people to fandom spaces who are completely unwilling to integrate and completely unwilling to be kind. You mentioned those who criticised your work could have saved themselves the trouble and read the tags, but the thing is: they don’t want to. They can’t be bothered to take five seconds and figure out how they work, to curate their own experience, because that’s what half these people are like. They want an algorithm to do it for them, gods help us.

For me, personally, I'm my biggest critic. I also have raging generalised anxiety, so just posting on the internet is enough to send me spiralling (seriously, I feel sick just typing this out). It's very, very out of my comfort zone and I've been very, very lucky so far to have cultivated the readership I have, full of very like-minded people. Perhaps due to some of the darker content matter. But the second I get harshly worded comments, I get upset.

I don't say that to elicit sympathy, it's just a fact. I get upset about it the same way I would if you were standing in front of me saying it to my face, and for someone with depression and anxiety, that lingers. I'm getting better at laughing at them, but it's like when someone tells you they don't like you and your mum says "just ignore them"—not that easy, right?

So yeah, I don't mind if you want to tell me I use a lot of em dashes, or that I've used a word incorrectly in context, but I don't need to hear how much you hate original character fic when you could just use your last remaining braincell the back button and continue on with your day. Just be kind, is all I'm saying.

#hurricane's writer asks #amy chose violence 🔥#basgiath (remi's version)

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dancingtotuyo · 3 hours

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13. with grace in your heart and flowers in your hair

Woman | Joel Miller X Female Reader

Rating: Mature/Explicit

Chapter Summary: you adjust to life with a newborn. Joel finally gets to tell you something

Tags: Joel Miller X Female Reader. Age Gap (13/14 years). HBO Characters. Mostly cannon compliant for show & game. Timeline is changed. Spoilerish for TLOU 2

Chapter Warnings: tooth rotting fluff, smidges of angst

Notes: And thus we enter the third and final part of this beloved story. This chapter starts to play with some of the canon of TLOU II as will the rest of Part III

As always, a huge shout out to@janaispunk for beta reading.

If you have checked out Before, I would encourage you to do so for more backstory on our dear reader!

Words: 3642

Series Masterlist | Author Masterlist | Playlist

Three Years Later

Willa sits at the kitchen table, chin resting in her palms as she stares out the window. It’s cracked open, allowing the chilly fall breeze in as it plays with the dark curls on her head. She’s been there since breakfast, kicking her legs in thoughtful silence with a stack of untouched art supplies at her side.

You’ve never seen her so still or quiet, keeping an eye on her as you bustle around the house, cleaning and preparing for Joel’s birthday dinner. This is the first year he’s really allowed you to celebrate it. You’ve done small things in the past. A cake after dinner. A small wrapped gift. It’s a hard day for everyone. It’s the day that life as everyone knew it ended, but you have reason to celebrate. He’s growing older, an accomplishment in its own right, the gray in his hair beginning to take over the brown. You like it. It means he’s still here.

Willa is still kicking her feet at the table when your stomach growls. The clock on the wall reads just after twelve. Carter is at school. Joel has assignments until dinner time. You fix two sandwiches and slice some veggies. You set a plate in front of Willa and then slide into the chair across from her.

She lets out a deep sigh that seems too big for her small frame to hold. A smile edges at your lips. “What’s wrong, Sweetpea?”

“I don’t know what to make daddy.”

“For his birthday?”

She nods.

“That’s what you’ve been thinking about all day?”

“Yeah.”

You smile assuringly at her. “You should eat. It always helps me when I can’t think.”

She lets out another sigh, but picks up the jelly sandwich you made her. Her lips smack as the jelly oozes out of the sides, sticking to her fingers and leaving pink smudges along her cheeks. Willa appears unbothered by it, head nodding back and forth as she eats.

You manage through most of the meal without intervening until she goes to push back her hair with a jelly soaked hand. “Whoah Whoah Whoah!” You’re out of your seat, grabbing her wrist in the nick of time. She looks almost startled. “Your hand is covered in jelly. I don’t want it to get into your hair.”

“Oops,” she smiles. “Sorry, Mommy.”

“It’s okay,” You sigh, reaching for the dish cloth in the kitchen sink. The last thing you need to do is work jelly out of a three year old’s hair. “What kind of cake should I bake for Daddy’s birthday?”

“Chocolate,” Willa grins as you wipe down her hands and mouth.

“That’s your favorite,” you chuckle.

“Daddy likes it too.”

“Chocolate it is then.” You kiss her cheek.

She beams up at you and then a light bulb goes off in her eyes and she quickly digs into the meager art supplies you’ve collected over the last several years. You watch her for a few short moments as she bustles forth with clear determination. Then, you bake a birthday cake.

Midway through, you exit to the living room, only to set the needle on the record player. When you return, Willa’s head bounces back and forth in time as she hums the words she’s already memorized.

As she finishes her project, Willa jumps down, scurrying out of the room in a flash. You smile to yourself.

Carter bustles in, throwing his backpack onto the floor with a thud. “Are you denting the walls again?”

His face appears around the corner with a lopsided grin you’d seen on Gabe a thousand times. The ache is dull in comparison to the joy it brings you. “That only happened once.”

You wink at him, tossing him an apple. He catches it with ease, the product of countless hours he and Joel spent outside with a baseball and tattered gloves.

“How was school?” You smile.

“Good.” He bites into the apple with a satisfying crunch, before standing on his tiptoes to kiss your cheek. You lean over to close the gap, but it’s admittedly not as large of a gap as it used to be. He’s growing faster than you like.

“Just good?”

He nods, mouth full of apple, but chooses to speak anyway. “I saw Ellie. I invited her tonight.”

You keep your face neutral, far experienced now in keeping the war between Ellie and Joel from your younger children. “What did she say?”

“Maybe.”

Your eyebrow raises. You can’t keep the hints of surprise from your face, but you’re saved from having to make a response.

“Carter!” Willa rushes in, out of breath and in a flutter like the world might stop at any second. She pushes her hair out of her face. You really wish she’d keep the hair ties in, but she says it pulls her head. Your daughter meets her brother’s eyes with a serious weight in her eyes. “I need your help.”

“With what?”

She glances at you, like she's not sure you can keep the secret swirling in her little mind. “Daddy’s birthday present.”

“Okay,” Carter shrugs. Willa rushes out in the same flurry with Carter following.

“Don’t leave the apple core in your sister’s room!” You call after them with only the slam of Willa’s door in response.

As far as baking cakes, well, it wasn’t your strong suit before the world ended, but you manage. You’ve never received a complaint from the kids, but you know they prefer Maria’s cake to yours. You should have asked her. You slide the iced cake into the fridge just as Joel arrives home.

“There’s the birthday boy.”

There’s a deep chuckle in response. “The house is suspiciously quiet.”

“Your children are up to no good. I’m sure.”

“My children, you say?” His sturdy arms wrap around your middle and you lean back. “What they do?” His lips play behind your ear.

“Not sure. They’ve been shut up in Willa’s room for over an hour.”

Joel chuckles. “Perhaps they’re forming a mutiny.”

“I hope not. We’re getting too old for that.”

“Might just let them take over. Then we could live out our days in peace. Prop our feet up while they get to work.”

You hum softly. “Doesn’t sound half bad.”

“That’s what happens when you get old,” he kisses your cheek.

“Are you calling me old, Joel Miller?”

“You’re almost 50, Sweetheart. You’re about to join the ranks. I’m just preparing you.”

“I’ve already got the achy back and creaking knees.”

Joel chuckles. “Guess I got to throw you a birthday party too.”

“I think we can just skip that.”

Joel clicks his tongue. “No, we’re gonna celebrate. We’re gonna start doing alot more celebratin.”

“We haven’t even had your birthday party and you want more?” you can’t contain the laughter rising in your chest.

There’s a deep sense of rightness in this moment. The fears you harbored for so long, melting away with each year that is passed. It’s not completely gone by any means, but it doesn’t keep you from living anymore, embracing what you have.

He nuzzles into your neck, his scruff scratching softly against your skin. You’ve both aged these past couple of years, be it biology or the two young kids you’re raising, but you see it in yourself now too when you look in the mirror, the way the wrinkles cut deeper into your forehead and around your eyes. And maybe, you’d had a harder time accepting the gray hairs that seemed to multiply each day than you wanted to admit, but you embrace it now. You embrace all signs of aging. Aging is a good thing.

“I think we should start celebrating everything.”

“Are you having a midlife crisis?”

“Think it’s a little late for midlife… What’s after that?”

You shift a bit in his arms, trying not to dwell on the first thought that that pops into your mind. “I think midlife works.”

“Doesn’t matter anyway,” Joel grins. “It’s not a midlife crisis.”

You hum, a look on your face that says, yeah, sure, okay.

He laughs in response. “I’m gonna go shower. Doesn’t sound like the kids will let me in to say hi.”

“The door is probably barricaded.”

“Shower it is,” Joel smiles, giving you one last kiss before the stairs creak with his weight.

Dinner is all but ready, and the kids are still locked in Willa’s room when Joel comes down the stairs. His hair hangs in damp ringlets, longer than he’s let it get before. You have to admit that you’re liking the extra length.

“Can you go tell the kids they need to come set the table?”

“Time to bring down the barricades, got it.” Joel winks at you.

You can hear the commotion down the hall, Willa yelling that Joel is not to come in. The back and forth of getting the kids to agree on coming out. Joel’s grunt as Willa inevitably jumps into his arms with zero warning. It’s all familiar and warming. It fills your home with love.

The kids scurry out. Joel aids Willa in fishing out the silverware while Carter grabs out the plates. Another well rehearsed dance. A slice of normalcy Joel never imagined he’d get again in this lifetime.

He’s pulling glasses out of the cabinet Carter can’t reach yet when there’s a knock on the door. Joel looks at you questioningly. Tommy and Maria never knock. You shrug.

Ellie’s nervous face and Dina’s smile greet him when he opens the first door. Joel’s heart leaps in his chest as his jaw drops slightly. “Ellie… hi.”

“Hi.”

“Happy Birthday, Joel,” Dina smiles.

“Thanks, Dina.” Joel nods but quickly returns his eyes to Ellie. “Thanks for coming.”

She forces her lips into a tight line. “Carter invited me.”

“Still glad you came.” Joel still seems a little bit stunned. “Why don’t the two of you come on in?” He steps aside. Ellie refuses to meet his eyes. Dina pulls her inside.

He stays by the door, overhearing the surprise in your voice when you spot Ellie. Carter and Willa’s joy at having her here. His heart aches. It always does when he thinks about the distance between them, but she came. That has to be a good sign.

“I see we got the welcoming committee tonight,” Tommy says as he walks into view, hand in hand with Maria. Elias darts forward, narrowly brushing past Joel.

“Happy birthday, Uncle Joel!” He says without stopping, more focused on finding his cousins than bothering with his uncle.

Joel chuckles, accepting Tommy’s hug as he approaches. “I see where I fall on his list of priorities.”

“You’d think he didn’t just see Carter at school.” Maria laughs, offering her own greeting to Joel.

“Thank you for coming.”

“When do we not show up?” Tommy grins as the three of them make their way inside.

Carter and Willa have already added the extra place settings for Ellie and Dina. Carter slides right next to Ellie, making conversation about the moon and constellations. Joel slides into his chair at the end of the table. You catch the way he looks at Ellie. The way she expertly avoids him. You’re not sure how she does it, seemingly present but expertly able to avoid any and all conversation with Joel. Tommy and Maria’s presence seems to make it easier.

You knew what he did hurt, you just never expected the two of them to go this long in limbo, orbiting each other round in round, never coming to a resolution. As much as Joel looks like someone totaled his pickup and shot his dog when he glances her way, he still manages to enjoy the night. Ellie being here, whether she talks to him or not, is the greatest gift he could have asked for.

You take his hand, squeezing it gently. He presses it to his lips, winking at you playfully. The balancing act can be tiring, but he’s simply happy tonight.

You’re not offended when the cake on the plate of the adults remains mostly uneaten. The cake is dense and dried out. The kids don’t seem to mind.

“Can we do presents now?” Willa asks, frosting sticking to her face in multiple places. You can only imagine how sticky her fingers are.

“Wash your hands first,” you say.

Willa nods, sliding out of her seat and rushing out of the room.

“Can I get anyone anything to drink? Water? Tea?”

“Coffee?” Joel grins. You have been able to rangle up beans each year for his birthday, except for this year.

You shake your head. “Unfortunately, not this year.”

“No coffee? That’s it, party’s over folks.” He playfully hits the table with his palms, winking at you.

He receives a smack to the back of the head, and a deep chuckle greets your ears. You smile, setting the kettle on the stove. He’s happy and relaxed, bubbling over with a calm joy, pure and untarnished. You like this side of him. It’s like a piece of the first version of Joel you knew. The same laughter and smile Sarah pulled from him long before the world dug its ugly claws into either of you. It’s only become more common in your home over the years.

Maria joins you as you start to wash up a few dishes while you wait for the kettle to boil. Both of you watch the table with keen eyes as your family sits around it, complete for once. Joel and Tommy chat about their patrols. There’s been an uptick in infected. They’re worried about a colony coming in. Dina and Ellie engage with the boys at the other end of the table, some debate about what happened at kickball last week.

“You better not be washing dishes, Sweetheart. That’s my job,” Joel says.

“It’s your birthday.”

Joel raises an eyebrow at you. “You cooked, and baked a cake.”

“More like attempted,” Tommy teases. You stick your tongue out at him like the mature 49 year old woman you are.

Once the team is ready, you set a mug in front of Joel. He thanks you before his brow furrows. “That’s not my mug.”

You know he’s talking about the owl mug, the one you push to the back of the cabinet because you think it looks at you funny. “No, it’s your new mug,” You smile. “Happy birthday.”

Joel picks it up, inspecting it closer. It’s slightly faded but otherwise in pristine condition. Two fawns frolic against the picturesque forest that’s delicately painted along the outside. His eyes narrow slightly at you, a playful volley of looks and unspoken words passing between you.

Joel chuckles, stealing a chaste kiss from your lips. “Thank you.”

“You can use the owl one when I’m not around.”

“So never then?”

“I mean, ideally, yes.”

“As sweet as this is,” Tommy says, interrupting the two of you. “I’m afraid we came empty handed.”

Joel rolls his eyes. “Wouldn’t expect anything less. Besides, I’ve got everything I need right here.” He looks around the table that includes everyone in the world he loves, aside from Willa who is still busy cleaning herself up.

“You’re going soft in your old age,” Tommy smacks his brother on the back.

Joel shrugs. “Happens to the best of us I guess.”

“Daddy! I’m ready!” Willa calls, bursting into the room, small package clutched in her hands as she rushes to his side.

Joel picks her up with a slight groan, setting her on his lap. “I’m ready, Wildflower.”

She laughs, handing him the box as she pushes her curls from her face. “Carter helped too.”

“I’m excited to see what it is,” Joel smiles, attention solely split between his children as he carefully opens the box.

He’s confused at first, pulling the delicate construction from its box, some combination of paper and old cardboard carefully put together. It takes a second, but then he registers the small arrows fastened into a minute and hour hand against the background. Carter’s oversized numbers unevenly circled around in one to twelve.

“It’s a new watch,” Willa grins brightly. “Cause yours is broken.” She lifts his wrist as if to show him the broken watch for the first time.

You catch the shine in Joel’s eyes and the bobble of his throat. “Thank you. It’s a very nice watch.”

“It latches too,” Carter chimes. “So you can actually wear it.”

Joel inspects it further, seeing where the kids had carefully cut holes in the band and managed to create a fasten.

“Mommy can help you,” Willa says.

You smile, leaning forward to fasten it to Joel’s wrist, right above his first watch, the one Sarah fixed for him. You’re careful not to break it. It’s not the most secure thing in the world, but Joel beams with pride as he shows it to Tommy and Maria.

“Do you like it?” Willa asks.

“I love it.” Joel smiles, squeezing his daughter tight.

Joel falls beside you on the couch with a content sigh, letting his head fall back and his arm across your shoulders as he does. You smile, leaning into him. “You enjoy your birthday?”

“I’m getting too old. Reading that book about put me to sleep.”

You laugh, pulling a blanket around your shoulders to stave off the cool air that drifts in through the cracked window behind you. “It’s a good thing I like you old.”

Joel hums, kissing your forehead softly. “Thank you for doing so much today.”

“It’s not like I don’t cook dinner most nights.”

“You baked a cake.”

You snort. “Attempted to make a cake.”

“Wouldn’t be the first birthday where you messed up the cake.”

You groan, images of the cake you and Sarah attempted to bake for Joel’s 30th birthday flashing in your memory. It had looked nice enough, but tasted like baking soda. Joel chuckles.

“Well,” You let out a soft sigh, holding back the smile that bites at your lips. “Guess it’s a good thing I have a back up plan.”

Joel’s brow creases. “Back up plan?”

“You are getting old,” you tease, your own mouth watering at the subtle cinnamon tinged air. “I thought you would have smelled it by now.”

Joel stops a second, paying extra attention to his senses. His lips tip up almost immediately as he clocks it. “Is that…”

“My mom’s peach pie.” You grin. Her peach pie filling had been legendary on the block and she’d passed along the recipe early on in your life. You made it each year as the peaches ripened, but you had taken care to freeze extra filling for Joel’s birthday this year. “You really expect me to bake a cake without a back up plan?”

Joel laughs again. “I love you.”

“Only for the peach pie.”

“Well duh.” He pulls you closer, leaving a sweet kiss on your lips.

You laugh, returning the kiss. “It’ll be ready in about 20 minutes.”

“Perfect… enough time for me to give you something.” Joel reaches down, grabbing a flat package, wrapping in a cloth from under the couch.

“But it’s your birthday.”

“And I like seeing you happy.”

You roll your eyes as he places the thin, square gift in your hands. Your brow knits together as you pull the wrap from it. White corners catch your eye and with two men standing in a doorway. Fleetwood Mac reads centered above them. A small gasp leaves your mouth. You haven’t heard this album in years. Your grandma’s copy had been badly scratched and warped before the outbreak and no one in Jackson seemed to own a copy.

“Finally found that the other day. I haven’t played it yet, so I’m not sure about the condition- but it looked like it hadn’t warped too badly.”

“Turn it on.” You grin brightly, eagerly putting it back into Joel’s hands. Your body thrums with excitement. The songs you haven't heard in so long play in the back of your mind as Joel pulls the vinyl record from the sleeve and places it on the old record player in the corner of your living room.

Static fills the speakers at the needle drops. You both wait with baited breath for the music to start. Monday Morning plays starts without warning, causing you to both jump slightly. A laugh tumbles from your mouth, eyes sparkling with joy as they meet Joel’s. He’s got a similiar joyful expression.

“It’s much more lively than your version,” you say. You haven’t heard the recorded version in over two decades though Joel’s rendition is still a constant in your home. Willa calls it her song.

Joel laughs, walking back over to you. “I doubt Willa will even recognize it.” He holds out his hand. “Come on.”

Your brow knits together as you take his hand. He tugs you to your feet. You secure the blanket around your shoulders as Joel leads you toward the front door and onto the porch. The cool September air greets you. The music filters through the open windows as the opening track fades into the smooth opening of Warm Ways.

“What are you doing?”

”Dancin.” He grins wrapping his arms around you as he begins to sway.

You lean into his embrace, warm between the blanket on your shoulders and his torso against yours, head resting on his shoulder. You sway to the music, eyes closed. Joel’s head rests against yours, his chest rumbles gently as he hums along to the melody, lulling you as close to bliss as you think you’ve ever been.

You nuzzle further into his neck. “I love you, Joel.”

He smiles, kissing your cheek. Both your eyes stay shut, relishing in the touch of the other. “Don’t think I’ll ever get tired of hearing you say that, Sweetheart.”

“Good.”

Taglist: @pedrotonin @amyispxnk @joeldjarin @ilovepedro @justagalwhowrites

@missladym1981 @jessthebaker @annieispunk @ashleyfilm @moel-jiller

@eloquentdreamer @lizzie-cakes @hiroikegawa @tobethlehem

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #the last of us #tlou #woman (joel miller)#joel miller fanfiction #ppcu fanfiction #pedro stories #pedrostories #tlou fanfiction #pedro pascal

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goomyloid · 16 hours

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PLEASE explain your thoughts on kriselle in full detail

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THIS 100% UNPROMPTED ASK! I SHALL EXPLAIN

i hate toby fox. why did he do this to us. he really put it better than anyone else. not really romantic not really platonic but…. something else… some secret more sinister more heartfelt more absurd third thing

i wonder at what point should i clarify that i dont even really seek out kriselle in a romantic context… DONT GET ME WRONG i have zero issues with the ship whatsoever and all of the krisellers out there are living their best (most painful) lives and i SEE THE APPEAL. BUT when i rotate them in my brain i dont need them to kiss or anything like that i just need them to sit down and sadly hold hands and stay like that forever and ever. in case you couldnt gauge that from my art so far

tldr i dont think i ship them in the traditional sense at least …. the things that i usually fixate on for any romantic ship are not there with these two. there are no romantic feelings there In my mind. and all at the same time i start screaming and throwing up and killing myself (all positive) whenever i see them even in the same image together. hngh

ive tried explaining this to people before and they usually suggest something along the lines of a QPR and even that doesnt feel right to me. truly the best way i can put it is… that red string of fate man… which i almost hesitate on saying too because i dont actually know if noelle is Quite an important enough character to the story to warrant a connection like that. WHICH IS A CRAZY THING TO SAY. I KNOW. DO NOT EVEN THINK ABOUT GETTING ME WRONG i think dess and her connections to gaster and her usage as a stepping stone into the weird route are all VERY important… but in my brain its just not kris/knight/asriel/every other mysterious main focus of the story Important. i didnt mean to get into deltarune theorizing here i hope nobody’s blood is boiling rn

so yeah in the end. toby fox once again put it best. they are friends, but they are also something else.

back to the actual pairing though… sometimes i think im going overboard and overestimating how close kris and noelle were as children because noelle will go and say things like “i wonder if we were ever really friends at all.” which is kind of a fair statement considering the circumstances. sure they played together and all and tagged along with their siblings to do stuff together but when dess went missing… it all kind of stopped. kris is just a kid, they dont know what to do or even how to process it, much like noelle. asriel is probably dealing with his own feelings, he just lost his friend and likely old enough to understand the weight of what happened. while noelle and kris cant say much to each other at all.

im always back and forth on speaking headcanons for kris but the one that i always seem to come back to is selective mutism… to me kris had a lot of trouble communicating well as a child and could only grow comfortable around certain people, asriel and noelle being clear examples because they’re both so patient with them. maybe because of this noelle felt like they could understand each other without really needing words, and just physical interaction was enough to achieve some form of closeness… or maybe that was all just on her end, she thinks when kris goes to play the piano. but if that’s the case, why does it feel like a concert just for her…?

jesus dont even get me start on them as teenagers either. noelle has lost her sister, and now kris has lost their brother… but not in the same way. they look at each other and wonder if they’re the same now. or, maybe thats too cruel. maybe its not the same thing at all. asriel’s coming back soon, after all. it will all be over soon, kris won’t have to feel this way for much longer, right? so then, why does kris look so miserable, sitting in the corner over there? all noelle feels like she can do is sit next to them quietly. to be there, and to somehow, vaguely, messily help each other. the misfit kids that dont really know how to talk to each other and yet understand each other regardless

thats why the dark world feels like such a dream to her. these crazy city lights, fantastical creatures, susie’s there, and she actually might have the means to defend herself and stand her ground, whether it be verbally or… otherwise

and most of all, much like with kris offering an adventurous haven to susie in ch1, the same is extended to noelle. by kris’s side, no less. it feels like theyre doing things together again, and its fun, and nostalgic… she wants to bring dess. and i think its okay to assume kris wants to bring asriel, too. recreating the make-believe world they lost so long ago… is it really possible?

no… how can it really be possible, when this isnt kris? something is wrong. its almost perfect, except kris… it’s them, but it’s not. she sees their face, their expressions, their laughs, their worries. and yet the voice that comes from them… isnt them. and it scares her! even if nothing particularly bad happened as a result. and if something bad DID happen, well…

she just wants what they had before back. is it really so impossible? can they reconcile after all these years? does kris want to? is kris capable of doing so? maybe they just need to hug again. will it feel like a real hug? the person she thought she understood is acting in ways she doesnt understand. they’re telling her to do weird things. they cycle through actions as if they just want to know what happens. and they cant even play piano anymore.

#mailbox #im gonna kill myself #kriselle #long post

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