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sunshine-jesse · 6 months

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The Incest End is Not The Bad End, Part 3: The Only End I Know For Real

Alt title: We're roleplaying the endings, not choosing them.

I've focused a lot before on how sickly sweet the chemistry between Ashley and Andrew is and how unproblematic their relationship would actually be under different circumstances, mostly societal ones. I mostly did so to counter the idea that the incest end was primarily a bad end and bring up the assertion that it was the one with the most hope. In doing so, I basically interpreted all of the text within the game in a very positive light, giving off the impression that I think it'll be all sunshine and roses. The reality couldn't be further from the truth? While I think it's the end with the most hope, I ALSO think it'll be incredibly difficult for everyone involved.

As a matter of fact, I think the Questionable end will be the most difficult one to navigate through for Ashley herself.

"But wait," you say, alarm bells ringing in your head, "doesn't she literally fucking die in the Decay ending?"

And I don't think it's that obvious.

First off, why do I think the Questionable end will be difficult to navigate through? After all, Andrew is calm, collected, and Ashley is just a little bit nervous about how he's changing. She also has that ultimate leverage over him, knowing that he's sexually attracted to her and she can use it to keep him by her side. There's little for anyone to worry about, right? Well, no. Not really. As another analyst has pointed out, in the Questionable ending, Ashley has no OTHER leverage over Andrew.

The trinket? Shown to be only situationally useful to them. The future visions don't always show danger, sometimes the demon can just troll them. Sleep? No, he no longer needs Ashley for that. A scapegoat? Not even that. In the Burial ending, he starts to take responsibility for the violence he inflicts on others and has no need to pin the blame on Ashley.

Outside of sex, Ashley is more or less useless to him now, at least in her own mind. Truthfully, Ashley is still the most important person in the world to Andrew and doesn't seem to need a reason to keep her around anymore, but Ashley doesn't realize that; it's part of why she's so confused and uncertain. Their dynamic is changing, and she doesn't like it. But in the Questionable ending, all Andrew has to do is not have sex with Ashley (easier said than done if the fanbase [myself] is any indication) and she'll have nothing left. She'll likely have no other choice but to look inward at this point, especially if Andrew doesn't give off any of the usual red flags that make her think he'd leave her.

There's a good chance at this point that their dynamic will flip entirely. Ashley will be the one who needs comfort, and Andrew shows every indication of being emotionally stable enough to provide it. We'll see some Real Mental Illness instead of Possible To Infer But Maybe Problematic To Do So Mental Illness. Whether or not she changes for the better or worse will likely determine the ending we'll get.

…

Except probably not.

Sane vs Questionable can't be THAT different, or we'd be getting 3A, 3B, 3C, and 3D instead of 3A and 3B. And, y'know what? Now I'm gonna start reaching really hard into theory territory rather than just analysis. So, hear me out here.

Both dreams are canon no matter the ending. The only difference is whether or not Andrew sleeps or not; if he does, the vision he gets is for HIM, and Ashley only incidentally sees it. It's much more important to him than to Ashley, because Ashley doesn't get a clear vision like she did in the motel. If them fucking was actually relevant to Ashley, she likely would've seen it no matter the ending. Her reactions reflect this; at first, she appears weirded out, maybe uncomfortable. Then she finds it hilarious. She considers it as a means of manipulation, sure, but the writing is on the wall: She won't NEED to do so no matter what.

Unfortunately, due to her not being able to open both doors, she won't be able to realize this. Oops!

At this point in time it's basically impossible to ascertain what her own personal vision means. I've given my interpretation before, but I ultimately have my doubts that the specific sequence of events is all to relevant. Most weird dream metaphors are clear parallels to past events, but the dream seems to be a metaphor for what the future will hold. The most relevant part is not the ghosts, but instead how Ashley reacts to what is clearly Andrew's soul. She jokes about trapping it in the bottle, but it being as a joke more than anything is a far cry from how desperate her attempts to keep him normally seem. So what gives? What does this mean?

I think, funnily enough, the Decay ending holds the answer.

My most-distanced-from-a-literal-or-metaphorical-reading-of-the-text-but-is-relatively-easy-to-accept theory is that the choices we are given in the game aren't asking us what we want to see from them, but rather, how we see the characters and their relationship. People are distracted by the idea of choice, but the reality is that we're being asked to roleplay (this is an RPG after all) as the siblings and do what we expect them to do. This isn't about choice. This is about BEING them and DOING WHAT WE THINK THEY'D DO.

Here's what I mean.

If we interpret Ashley as having trust in Andrew and his judgment, then it makes perfect sense she'd trust him with her parents. She might be a little worried, but it's pretty clear that her overwhelming desire to keep Andrew by her side is underscored by genuine love and trust. From there, if we interpret Andrew as having genuine love for his sister and a desire to take care of her, then it becomes everyone else's problem that they can't be together; not his. In killing their parents, he comes to terms with this and self-actualizes. He's willing to take responsibility for the violence he inflicts on others and has no discomfort with dismembering them.

But if you interpret Andrew as viewing Ashley as a burden and a problem, he can't bring himself to save their parents and have a better life because he views himself as too far gone. He hates himself as much as Ashley hates herself for being unable to break free from her influence. He still feels like she's his responsibility, but the love that exists there is greatly muted and overshadowed by his sense of responsibility and a carnal, physical desire for her. Knowing this is likely part of the reason he hates himself; part of the reason he can't let go.

He, crucially, also squanders Ashley's genuine display of trust. It's HIS fault that things break apart, which is why the skull appears over his head when you accept the mom's offer. Ashley genuinely, seriously loves Andrew and wants what's best for him. She's posessive, but her care is a lot less selfish than Andrew thinks, and he can't see that because he's too blinded by his hatred and (partially sexual) frustration to see who she really is.

On the other side of things, if you view Ashley as being a primarily toxic influence that views Andrew as more of an object than anything, she doesn't trust Andrew to deal with their parents and it's HER fault that things break apart, as the skull appears over her head. She sees him as an object, as a child or toy. She sees him as Andy, not Andrew, and can't process the fact that he can change. It's very overbearingly maternalistic, and I believe this specific choice is the only one where Ashley is actually more like their mother than Andrew, eye colors be damned.

In Burial, she wants to share the vision with Andrew, and he wants to share it with her, because their feelings are genuine and mutual and they want to share the experience (because they might get two visions from it, sure, but the principle isn't that much different) But in Decay, she keeps it to herself. She doesn't trust him or his input, either because she doesn't view his feelings as important or because he either almost squandered her trust (if she was listening in), or because he was generally hostile and disincentivized her from wanting to share.

There are other examples too, like when we're allowed to control Andrew to kill the hitman. If we view him as unprepared or unwilling to kill, we empty the whole clip because he's nervous and doesn't want to do this. If we view him as prepared, calm, and in control, he kills in one clean shot without much of an issue. Washing the [REDACTED] out of the shower drain? We basically get to see if Ashley is actually all that competent at housework or not, and if we don't know the right order, neither does she.

This comes to a head in both of the endings.

In the Questionable ending, we're shown that Andrew slept through the dream. We see what he really wants and the depths of his true feelings. He has very obvious romantic feelings for Ashley, and it's not just physical desire. Ashley's very obviously obsessed with Andrew still, but the fact that he can be present in every painting shows that she ACTUALLY views him that way. She's not just seeking validation; her feelings are real, and she knows it.

Remember, this dream is SHARED. We are seeing how BOTH of them feel.

In the Sane ending, Andrew isn't present, and Ashley is never given a chance to view their relationship as anything other than platonic. We don't know how Andrew feels, and we're arguably never given a view into Ashley's true feelings either, because that would-be revelation is cut off by a vision (indicated by eyes). We're just shown what she should do, needs to do, or will do.

Because we don't view their relationship as romantic, light is never shone on the reality of their dynamic. We never see how obsessed Ashley really is (if anything, we're being misdirected by being shown the opposite), and we never see that Andrew has romantic- if buried- feelings for Ashley that can't just be passed off as carnal physical desire. But since it's still the Burial ending, the dynamic still clearly exists; the endings would be too different otherwise. We CHOSE how we see their dynamic in the basement scene.

In other words…

Without love, the truth cannot be seen.

Reader who is in the know: "…hey wait a fuckin' minute" Me: "MOVING ON"

At some point- probably early on- the Sane and Questionable endings have to converge. Andrew and Ashley will have to have the nature of their dynamic laid out for them in a way they can't deny, and the likely only difference between Sane and Questionable will be whether or not Andrew is surprised/embarrassed, or just goes "I guess that dickhead demon wasn't just tricking us after all" and then the route will proceed as normal. Whether or not they have sex will likely be determined by your choices in Chapter 3 itself rather than Chapter 2 with this in mind. Either way, I think Ashley will go through most of the chapter confused and uncertain and will be forced to develop as a person, for better or worse.

In the Decay ending, as said, we're shown that Ashley doesn't even attempt to share a vision with Andrew, so we get to see a vision where Ashley's frame of mind isn't one driven by mutual affection. In this route, we see Ashley constantly running from -something,- and given dreams are metaphors, I think it's reasonable to assume that it's showing us that Ashley is primarily motivated by a fear of Andrew. Fear of what, exactly, isn't really clear; we know for a fact that she's afraid of losing him, but she's also afraid of the violence he can inflict upon her. Either way, she runs away, we can see the demon say "hmmm how interesting," and then we get a vision of the future.

But it's important to note, that vision is a metaphor, not a literal vision of the future. It takes place in the dream world- unlike any other vision, which takes place in the real world- and there are no out-of-frame eyes in the CGs like there are in the Questionable route. Also, (albeit less convincingly), all the eyes are in the background rather than on the map themselves, like they are when we see the hitman vision. The eyes only exist in the background in the Sane vision too, further adding to the idea that they're a metaphor.

So. If it's not a literal depiction of what will happen, then what exactly is it a metaphor for? Okay. Hear me out. This is my wildest fucking theory yet.

It's a metaphor for the Burial route. Or rather, the kind of event that happened in the Burial route.

What we are being shown in the metaphor is a reconciliation of their relationship, where their true feelings are laid bare. We are put in a situation where they are forced to decide how they feel for each other once and for all. If Andrew holds all the power in the relationship but has no control or awareness of his feelings- represented by whether he was composed enough or not to unload his entire clip-, he unceremoniously kills Ashley. Without that awareness, Ashley cannot even defend herself. She has no control because she isn't dealing with someone who has any either.

(Whether he actually kills Ashley or just some abstract representation of Leyley isn't clear, but it doesn't matter much for the purpose of analysis.)

But if Andrew does have that awareness of his feelings- represented by only shooting one bullet- they can negotiate. Because Andrew is in control, Ashley is also in control, and she can make one of two choices:

She can choose to save herself (and either maintain the status quo or just fucking kill Andrew depending on how literal the vision is). With this choice, she lets her fear overtake her and discards Andrew- the cause of her fear- like trash. He is an object that only exists for her sake, after all, and she can discard him just as easily as he seemed like her could discard her during the strangulation scene.

She can choose to trust and accept Andrew. And given a heart appears over her head, she can choose to love him, and overcome her fear, even at the cost of either her life or their prior dynamic (once more, depending on how literal it is).

Decay is asking us if we think Ashley is primarily motivated by selfish fear or genuine selfless love. But both exist either way, and their relationship must be understood and reconciled at some point; this route might honestly be their only hope for a platonic good ending, but it's going to be dismal and painful either way.

So with that in mind, why is the gun not relevant to the Burial route (yet) if it's such a strong metaphor?

Because the reconciling event WAS the basement scene.

We had to make that same choice there. Was Ashley too afraid of Andrew's interaction with her parents to let him handle it? Or did she love and trust him enough to make that choice? In choosing yes, the ball in Andrew's court. If he chooses to care for her needs, their relationship evolves. If he or Ashley refuse make that choice, that can is kicked down the road, and their relationship continues to deteriorate.

Or decay, as it may.

But in Burial, with that reconciling event having happened, the ball is in Ashley's court. With Andrew having come to terms with many of his feelings (minus his sexual desire), most of his arc is finished. There's probably still a lot of him to unpack on the Burial route, but in the Decay ending, as long as Ashley shows love for him, the final choice always falls on his shoulders. And with his final choice having been made in Burial, all that's left is Ashley's.

And what final choice will she have to make?

I don't know, I'm not a prophet.

But either way, she'll still have to make the choice of whether or not to be ruled by her fear of losing him, and desperately try to grasp for control she no longer needs, or cast aside that fear and allow for genuine, mutual love to flourish. Think about it this way: When you see a corpse, how do you react? If you don't care for the corpse or fear it, you stay away and let it decay. If the corpse belongs to someone you love, you tend to it and bury it.

And what do I think the best case scenario is? Well, I've made my opinion obvious, but I think there's one final thing I need to emphasize:

You don't claw at someone's back like a wild fucking animal if you're not really into it.

#andrew graves #ashley graves #the coffin of andy and leyley #gravecest #tcoaal #tcoaal essay

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a-yellow-van · 1 month

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Wish You Were Here | Part 1

We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year. Running over the same old ground, what have we found? The same old fears. Wish you were here.

20 years after the outbreak, you’re a stable, well established member in the community of Jackson, Wyoming. You have been for a long time now, the horrors, the brutality of survival buried deep inside, leaving place to the safe simplicity of routine. You didn’t think there’s anything that could disturb that, after all you’ve been through. That is, until you meet Joel Miller, and a drunken choice leads to…much more. Set in between Part I and Part II. Canon compliant (I'm breaking my own heart)

Series masterlist

Pairing: Joel x f!reader

Fanfic tags : canon compliant, slow burn, romance, eventual smut, angst, hurt/comfort, joel and the reader are terrible at feelings, female reader, no use of y/n, reader is in early 30s, past relationships, trauma/PTSD, grief, loss, post-apocalypse, joel is a good parent to ellie, major character death, original characters, queer characters, bisexual main character, age difference, canon-typical violence

WC for Part 1 : 4.5 k

Warnings for Part 1 : drinking, swearing, implied sexual content

New Year’s Eve 2034. Jackson’s tavern is packed to the brim, people in every corner of the room, almost shoulder to shoulder. It’s hot and humid inside; layers have been shed, revealing patches of sticky skin. A musky, sickly sweet smell assaults your nose : a mix of sweat, booze and dust, making you nostalgic for a time you never knew, before the world fell apart. The windows are fogged up, blocking out the view of snow falling peacefully, coating the street. You’ve rarely seen anything like it. Nearly every adult survivor in the community has seemingly decided to come out tonight, and the fact that Eugene has finally dipped into his batch of mead, home brewed by the barrel, is most certainly to blame. Maria, Jackson’s leader, doesn’t exactly approve, but she’s making an exception. Just for the holiday. You spot her at the back; she’s holding hands with Tommy, her husband, protectively watching over the crowd. Eugene’s feeling particularly generous this evening; he offers a hefty bottle to whoever asks, reminding each lucky recipient to “savour ‘cause she’s been fermenting since July!” You must have heard that sentence a good twenty five times since you got your own bottle, the words getting progressively less intelligible as Eugene indulges in his creation. You’re still not certain why he refers to his mead like it is a woman, and frankly, you’re afraid to find out. One thing’s for sure, the beverage is incredibly strong, has a horrid taste, burning your throat like acid with every drop. It’s questionably safe for consumption, but the occasions to get shitfaced in the midst of an apocalypse are quite limited, so you endure. Even Jackson’s most reclusive members agree with that notion. Including him. Joel Miller. He’s nursing a drink at a table near the bar, opposite to the one you’re sharing with your usual group. You wouldn’t exactly call them friends, but they’re fellow patrollers, close to you in age, so, naturally, you’ve grown familiar.

“What are you looking at?” Max, the one you’ve known the longest, nudges you with their elbow.

Your gaze quickly snaps back to meet theirs. You realise you’ve been staring at the older man. Noticeably. You don’t quite know why. Maybe he intrigues you, all quiet and pensive in the middle of a rowdy celebration. His expression is hard to read, but there’s a hint of…sadness? You get a hold of yourself and brush off the thought.

“Nothing,” you lie. Max cocks an eyebrow, a little grin forms on their lips, freckled cheeks dimple.

“Uh-huh.” There’s a glint of malice in their green eyes. “You sure? No one particular caught your attention?”

You don’t let their teasing get to you. “Nah. Just checking at Seth trying to hit on Leanne,” you reply without missing a beat, “for the millionth time.” This one isn’t a lie, as the scene really is unfolding a few metres away. You blink at Max, feigning innocence. They narrow their eyes, not buying it.

“Man, when is he gonna get the hint?” Fred chips in, breaking the unspoken exchange between you and Max. She quickly peeks in the direction of the duo, a muscly arm propped on the back of her chair, long cornrows draped across the other shoulder. She scoffs, and takes a swig of her drink. “She looks like she’s seconds away from kicking him in the balls.”

“Don’t know how she hasn’t done that, like, years ago.” It’s Astrid’s turn to talk. She sighs, shaking her head, her wavy golden blonde hair rustling with the movement.

“Maybe you should go beat him up for her, A,” Fred jokingly suggests. “Bet she’d like that.”

“Don’t give me ideas,” Astrid responds, seriously. “I’d have him in a wheelchair for the rest of his days.”

“Oh, yeah. And then you and Leanne would run off into the sunset,” Max adds, taking their attention off you, finally. They start screeching in a horrible, high-pitched voice. “Oh, Astrid! Oh, thank you! You saved me from the big, bad man! I lo-”

“Shut the fuck up.” Astrid cuts them off, cheeks reddening.

“Hmm. I think they hit a little nerve there, A,” Fred continues, laughing, moving her arm to playfully put it around a flustered Astrid. She’s too easy, you think. It’s pretty endearing.

“Who are you kidding,” you join in Astrid’s torment. “You can’t even say hi to Leanne without stuttering.” The woman gets even redder, the angry tint reaching her pale neck. Fred and Max giggle. “You’re such a teenager,” Max strikes.

“Just fucking drink.” Astrid commands the three of you, pouring the group another round.

“Fair enough,” Max says, before clinking glasses with Fred in front of them. Astrid finishes hers in one gulp, which makes her cough, while you sip slowly. The buzz is setting in. It’s nice. It eases the burden on your aching shoulders.

You let your companions carry the conversation as the night progresses, occasionally humming or laughing at a remark. You’re not exactly concentrating. You keep getting drawn back to Joel Miller, for some reason. He arrived in Jackson last summer, about six months ago. Him and a kid, a girl, around fourteen or fifteen. You assumed that was his daughter, but soon learned that you were wrong. People talk, especially in such a small community. Something about Joel smuggling her across the country for the fireflies? A failed operation, clearly. You heard the organisation disbanded since then. It was about time. You’re surprised they lasted that long in the first place. He’s Tommy’s older brother. There’s history there, you know some of it; Joel already had a bit of a reputation before ever passing through Jackson’s gates. He hasn’t done much to help it since then; he barely interacts with anyone besides Tommy and Ellie, the girl. He keeps to himself, brooding, silently observing, tough, cold, detached. That’s how Joel’s treated you on the few patrols you’ve had to go on together these past months. He usually works with Tommy, you usually work with Max, but Maria likes to switch around the schedule occasionally to test out different pairings. You and Joel have done a very efficient job, only speaking when absolutely necessary, technical terms only, mumbling salutations. However, on the last patrol, in early December, you made a great shot at a stalker, and you could have sworn Joel’s mouth twitched in approval. It was so short it might have been a product of your imagination, but then, after coming back to Jackson and bringing your horses to the stable, he mumbled your last name instead of his usual grunt goodbye. It’s fair to assume there’s mutual respect for each other’s skill there. Nothing else. So then, why does your gaze keep returning to his tousled, greying curls, scruffy beard, piercing brown eyes, and the scar on his left temple? Maybe it’s the alcohol. Yeah, that must be it-

Joel’s eyes suddenly lock with yours. Your heart skips a beat, making you choke on your drink. Shit. What the hell was that? Fred immediately interrupts the story she’s telling and you feel three pairs of eyes on you. You clear your throat, looking down at the table.

“Sorry. Went down the wrong pipe,” you mutter. They keep staring. “Uh, Fred, what were you-”

And then, as if the universe takes pity on you, Mike, Jackson’s butcher, jovial fellow in his early sixties (but barely a wrinkle creasing his dark skin) claps loudly and calls out over the incessant chatter.

“How about some music, huh?” A few supporters acclaim him. He pushes through the crowd, reaching the old console piano standing at the south wall, underneath a window. Around, some tables have been stored away, allowing some space for dancing. The instrument is in poor shape, the keys are yellowed, a pedal has fallen off. Mike sits on the worn piano bench. Most survivors in the tavern have momentarily lowered their volume, following the man’s moves. He tries a little riff. Not as bad as was expected, just slightly off tune. You know he’ll make it work. “Alright. Get ready to groove, everyone!” He plays the intro to Johnny B. Goode by Chuck Berry perfectly, earning cheers and applause. Chair legs scrape on the ground, glasses and bottles are snatched up as the crowd converge around Mike.

“Woo! Come on!” Fred exclaims. She stands and takes Astrid’s arm, forcing her patrol partner up. Astrid resists, but just for the principle, a beaming smile on her face. The pair leaves, already bobbing their heads to the rhythm. Max takes another shot before shuffling away from the table on legs rendered wobbly by the booze. They hold their hand out to you, but you don’t take it yet. You dare look over at a certain someone again, who is grounded in his seat, indifferent to the change of mood. Max wiggles their fingers impatiently.

“I’ll, uh- I’ll join you later,” you say, averting their eyes.

“Ugh. Fine. You suck,” they reply.

You raise your middle finger in response. They turn away abruptly, flashing the back of their frayed jean vest, the sleeves cut off by hand. Max catches up with Astrid and Joey, and you watch as they start dancing, snorting at how uncoordinated the three are. You’ve downed a good five drinks now. One more won’t do any harm, right? You fill up your glass with the last drops of mead from the current bottle. Warmth spreads through your veins, making your head throb in a pleasant way. Your eyelids are heavy, your surroundings blurred. Something is clear, though. You and Joel are amongst the very few survivors that aren’t taking part in the fun. Hell, even Maria’s letting her husband spin her around.

And then it happens again. Joel meets your gaze. But this time, he holds it for a couple of seconds, before looking to the side and rubbing his chin. Almost like he’s doing it on purpose. You must be drunker than you thought, because that makes no fucking sense. And what your clouded brain makes you do next is even less logical. Slowly, you rise, and walk unsteadily to the now deserted bar, heading towards Joel. Your heart picks up its pace. This is so stupid . You sit down at one of the stools, just a few feet away from him. You lean over the counter, resting your head in your hand, staring straight ahead at the row of vintage bottles aligned on a shelf behind the bar. On the piano, Mike has moved on to I’m Still Standing by Elton John, his voice strong, smooth. You catch a glimpse of Joel in your peripheral. He’s tensed up ever so slightly, his back straightened. He’s aware of your presence. This is so stupid.

“Hey, Miller,” you hear yourself speak, still looking ahead, but loud enough he can hear you.

He sighs. That’s something. He hasn’t gotten up and walked away, he hasn’t told you to get lost. He’s acknowledged you. It’s full of irritation, sure, but it gives you enough motivation to keep going.

“Not a fan of the music?” You attempt a sultry tone and make yourself cringe. Great start. Joel grunts, takes a swig of mead and crosses a leg over the other, nonchalant.

“Yeah, I didn’t exactly peg this as your scene,” you continue, gesturing vaguely at the crowd. The booze has taken the reins, and you can’t hold your tongue.

A full minute passes in silence. You’re about to give up. And then Joel talks, gruff, sarcastic, the inebriation accentuating the southern drawl in his voice. “Right. And like you’d know, of all people.”

A sentence. Joel Miller just spoke a full sentence to you. You’re stunned.

“Fair point,” you recover after a few seconds. “You just, uh, don’t really seem like the social type.” A pause. You feel Joel’s gaze burning the back of your neck. “No offence,” you add.

“None taken.” Joel downs the rest of his drink, exhales. “You’re not dancin’ either,” he observes.

“Perceptive,” you retort. You spin on your stool, now facing him. A corner of his mouth curves upwards almost imperceptibly. It goes back down immediately, but you caught it. And it gives you a boost of confidence. You’ve made the grumpy bastard smile, or, well, the closest to it he can probably manage.

“Why not?” he questions. “Your friends looks like they’re havin’ fun.” He nods his chin over at Max, who’s gone up to the piano and is belting the lyrics to the song, stomping their feet, while Mike plays the melody. Two things : first, Joel knows who you hang out with, which means he’s not completely oblivious to who you are, and second, he’s making conversation with you. Astonishing.

“Guess I’d rather be bothering you.” You shrug, trying to suppress a smile. “Thought you’d have cursed me out by now, if I’m honest.”

Joel scratches his forehead. “Dunno why I haven’t,” he mumbles.

“Maybe you should.” Did you really just say that? Did you just try to flirt with him? And why did his gaze flicker to your lips?

He looks back up and narrows his eyes at you. “Nah. You don’t want that.”

You don’t miss a beat. “Hey, I could take it.” You’re maintaining eye contact from your seat at the bar. “I’m tough.” Well, this is happening. Damn Eugene and his mead .

The ever-so-subtle smirk passes over Joel’s face for the second time. He shakes his head. “Don��t wanna make you cry.”

“Hm. How considerate,” you reply, unable to fight a little smile. Joel emits a short, low, rumbling sound.

“Was that a laugh?” You ask, the smile growing larger.

“Hm. No.” He goes right back to irritation. But still, he’s not pushing you away. So, in your drunken state, you decide to test the limits. You slip off the stool and take a step towards Joel. He furrows his brows, but doesn’t say anything. You take another step, and then another, until you reach his table. There’s no going back now.

“Uhm, mind- mind if I sit?”

“Are you really gonna leave if I say no?” He asks, rhetorically. He’s challenging you. You feel your cheeks heat up and your stomach drop. You pull the chair out and settle on it. You’re suddenly very conscious of your near proximity to Joel. The courage you had mere minutes ago is disappearing; you have to fuel it up. You grab an empty, upside-down glass sitting near two bottles of mead, one empty, one half full. Joel is acting quite coherent for a man who’s had that much. You tilt your head in request.

Joel scoffs. “Go ahead.”

You pour yourself a seventh drink, knowing perfectly well that it is an absolutely terrible idea. You down most of it in one gulp, wincing, before putting the glass back down with a thud.

“Something wrong, sweetheart?” Joel asks, the nickname dripping with irony. Still, your stomach does another flip. “Can’t hold your liquor?” He mocks. He leans back in his chair, legs open, right hand on his knee, left hand palm down on the table. Your gaze travels from his face, down his neck, to his broad chest where the small unbuttoned portion of his flannel reveals a few dark hairs. What the hell are you doing? Your eyes snap back up

“Fuck off,” you mutter under your breath. Joel looks pleased with himself. You finish your drink, looking straight at him, taunting.

“What was that?” he asks, even though he heard you perfectly. His smug smirk is assured now. You don’t answer. Joel fills up his glass. You take it as a sign that he intends to see this interaction through. Fine by you. You search the depths of your sluggish brain to find something witty to say.

“So, Miller. What’s with the accent?” This is the best you can come up with. The words are slurred.

He scoffs again. “Don’t know what you’re talking ‘bout,” he says, pointedly adding your last name. He’s playing you.

“Ah, come on, cowboy ” you continue, impressed by your own audacity, “Where you from?”

Tommy has mentioned this to you before. Definitely somewhere south, but you can’t recall in your current state. And you want to hear Joel say it.

He rolls his eyes at the nickname, but he doesn’t stop smirking. “Texas. Austin.” He takes a sip. “You?”

Texas. Right. Makes sense. In a way, you feel proud to have gotten this minimal piece of information out of him. You didn’t think you’d ever witness Joel Miller opening up to you, not even a tiny crack. But here you are.

“Washington. Seattle.” You copy the structure of his answer; Joel nods, casual. “Uh, you’re a long way from home,” you add.

“Yup.” He doesn’t elaborate. Takes yet another sip. “Seattle, huh?” His gaze pierces through you, eyebrows knitted in reflection. “Born and raised?”

“Yeah…” You’re not certain what he’s getting at.

“There’s a QZ, right?” A pause. “D’you end up in it?” he questions.

The words are like a slap in the face, sobering you up a little. You don’t want to think of that right now. Not at all. You look down, fidgeting with your empty glass.

“Hmm,” you confirm.

“Damn. Heard things got pretty bad up there,” Joel says. You wish he’d just shut up. You don’t like this turn the conversation took.

“Yeah, well, I left, so.” The sentence comes out harsher than you had planned. Joel understands the message; he raises his hands up in defence.

“Got it. Sorry I asked.” The guy doesn’t look one bit apologetic. It frustrates you, and yet…You’re enjoying this little game.

“Yeah, watch it, Miller,” you warn, but your tone has gone back to being playful. Joel relaxes in his seat. He rests an elbow on his denim-encased thigh, shifting his weight.

You proceed. “So what’d you do? In Texas?”

“Hm. Contractor.” He really is a man of few words. His past occupation suits him like a glove.

“Fitting.” You give him an unimpressed pout; he stays unbothered.

“Yeah, yeah. What’d you do, then?” He asks.

It makes you chuckle. “Uh, middle school student. 6th grade sucked ass.”

Joel takes a second to register. Something quickly washes over his face, an emotion you can’t quite discern, before vanishing. You’re too drunk to analyse it.

“Huh. I would have guessed elementary,” he states.

“Aw. Don’t flatter me,” you reply, dryly.

“I’m not. Just sayin’ you don’t seem like you’ve learned much past fourth grade,” Joel says with a shit-eating grin.

Wow. You’re speechless. And then you burst out laughing. And, miraculously, Joel starts chuckling with you, the corner of his eyes crinkling. The sound is hearty, surprisingly warm. It’s the kind of laughter that you would try your hardest to hear as often as possible. That could make you all fuzzy inside, if you’d let it. And just like that, the tension that had been building between the two of you breaks. It’s comfortable, you’re at ease. The moment stretches out; you feel a strange connection with Joel, and you wonder if it’s mutual, or if you’re going completely insane. It’s probably the second option. You manage to utter a few profanities, between two breaths. Joel watches, amused, waiting for you to calm down.

“Alright, you’ve got me there,” you concede, a smile lingering on your lips.

Joel’s expression has softened. He looks younger, somehow, like a few years of constant stress have been erased just by talking with you.

“I may not be the brightest, but at least I can take a joke.”

“You’re not wrong there.” Joel fills your glass with the remnants of the mead, while you push a strand of hair behind your ear, trying to conceal a blush. “You deserve it,” he explains, “if you can take another round.”

“You keep underestimating me.” You raise your glass up in the air.

Joel imitates you. “No hard feelings?” He suggests.

“Deal.” You clink Joel’s glass with your own, and tilt your head back to swallow the foul liquid as quickly as you can, your gut churning in protest. You groan.

“Think my estimation was correct, actually,” Joel quips. You look over at him. Besides a slight glaze over his eyes, he appears unaffected by the alcohol.

“How are you doing this?” You ask, baffled.

He shrugs. “You’ll get there eventually.”

“And by there, you mean kidney disease?” You naively bat your eyelashes at him.

“I’ve survived worse,” he remarks. It’s lighthearted, but it hides a bleak truth you know all too well. You ignore it.

“Yeah. It shows.” You tease, giving him a scrutinising up-and-down.

“Hm. Funny. You didn’t seem to mind it that much when you were starin’ earlier.”

Jesus Christ.

Game over. Joel wins, one million to zero. You want to bash your head against the table, or run very far away, preferably out of Wyoming. And get torn apart by clickers. Instead, you stay right where you are, mouth agape, cartoonish. Fucking idiot. Are you twelve?

“That’s not- I- I- wasn’t-”

Joel is delighted by your reaction.

You wisely decide to shut up and quit stuttering. As if on cue, Mike hits the iconic intro to Don’t Stop Me Now. Max starts singing dramatically, in an offensively bad Freddie Mercury impression. Some survivors join in, not a single one on key, resulting in a cacophony. You take it as an opportunity to get out of the situation. You scramble off the chair and start walking away, stumbling and catching yourself on a nearby table.

“Where you goin’? We weren’t done.” Joel calls after you. You turn around.

“Me? Oh just stretching my legs.” You start stepping side to side and swaying your shoulders, following the rhythm. “Showing some love to the artists.” You shoot two fingers at him, moving your arms to the music. Joel shakes his head, chuckling. “You’re terrible.”

“Well then why don’t come here and try to do better!” You shout back, doing a ridiculous twirl as the sheer quantity of mead you ingested finally hits you. The room spins, transforming into blobs of colour. So, you close your eyes, and you flail around carelessly, your mind too foggy to worry. The tempo of the song increases.

I'm burning through the sky, yeah! Two hundred degrees, that's why they call me Mister Fahrenheit-

Suddenly, there’s a presence next to you. You crack your eyes open, checking on who’s intruding. Joel is standing about three feet away from you, hands awkwardly shoved in his pockets. His left heel is tapping the beat.

“S’a good song,” he mumbles.

Joel Miller, nervous to dance with you? Anything truly is possible tonight. You approach him, not interrupting your dance. He stays put. You two are away from the crowd, and it feels like you’re alone in the tavern with him, like no one can see you.

I'm travelling at the speed of light, I wanna make a supersonic man outta you!

As Max puts all of his might into the chorus, you get closer to Joel, because he lets you, close enough that you could reach out and take his hands if you wanted to. And you do, but they’re hidden in his pockets. So you keep dancing, wiggling your hips, jumping up and down. Joel still isn’t budging, but you feel his gaze on you, eyeing your bare arms, the tattoo right under your left clavicle, and going lower down your chest…You take a step towards the man.

“Who’s staring now?” You hadn’t planned to say that out loud, but it’s too late. You take another step, now inches from Joel’s chest, which is rising and falling faster than before. His lips are parted, his eyes intense. It’s now or never. Fuck it.

Your right hand moves up to rest on Joel’s shoulder, causing him to tense up. His expression goes stern, serious, like he’s fighting an internal conflict, debating whether he should pull away. Yet, he remains still. So your left hand goes to his other shoulder, looking up at him through your lashes. He holds your gaze, then inhales like he’s about to say something.

A clunking noise interrupts him, shattering the moment. Your arms fall back to your sides and you glance over Joel’s shoulder, searching for the source of the disturbance. You find it easily. Astrid is standing near the table your group had claimed before, her hair thrown in a ponytail, face glistening with sweat, the sleeves of her sweater pushed up. Her water gourd lays on the ground, its content spilled. Her eyes are wide with surprise, jumping between you and Joel. Her mouth contorts in a silent, one worded question.

That’s bad. That is very bad.

Joel notices the shift in your attitude and whips his head around, as a snickering Astrid jogs up to the crowd, merging into it again, certainly to tell Fred about what she just stumbled upon. Joel turns back and leans in, his lips brushing your ear as he whispers:

“Outside. Now.”

His breath tickles your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. Something stirs in your lower abdomen; a longing, a desire that demands to be dealt with, urgently.

Joel snatches his coat from the back of the chair he sat in, before striding towards the exit. You follow behind, docile, not bothering to retrieve your own jacket. Once you’re out of the tavern, the freezing wind barely even pinches your skin. You’re too preoccupied with another feeling that’s dangerously rising up inside. You need his touch. And you get what you want. Joel grabs your forearm, and drags you to the alleyway at the side of the building, lit up by a single, flickering street lamp. In a second, your back is pressed against the logs, Joel’s face taking up your entire field of vision. He’s seething with anger. His pointed finger digs into your sternum.

“You- you- ” he growls. You look back at him like a deer in headlights.

And then he kisses you. Hard. His lips crash onto yours and you let out a startled yelp, jerking your head to the side. Joel stares, anticipating your reaction. You don’t let him wait for long before you kiss back. His hands glide down to your waist, gripping it, while yours go to the nape of his neck. You pull each other in and a burning heat spreads between your bodies. Time seems to slow down as you part your lips to deepen the kiss, letting his tongue in. He tastes bittersweet like the mead. Your heart races. An ache forms where your thighs meet.

Just as suddenly as he came in, Joel shoves you away roughly. Your head bounces on the tavern’s facade. He storms out of the alley without another word, leaving you alone in the cold, panting, riled up, confused.

What the fuck just happened?

Next chapter

To read on AO3

#the last of us #tlou fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller x you #joel tlou

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kybercvnt · 1 month

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Pet Empathy

Pairing – Jonathan Archer x GN!Reader

Summary – Based on S2E5 “A Night In Sickbay”, as a crew member of the Enterprise, Captain Archer calls you–another pet-lover to console him in his time of need.

Word Count – 806

Jonathan Archer was sleepless and starting to get agitated with all of Doctor Phlox’s late-night antics. He could barely get an hour's worth of sleep before he was up and ripping the curtain open in sickbay to Phlox feeding another one of his chirping creatures. Not only Phlox, but it was also Captain Archer’s anxiety and concern towards his beloved dog–Porthos–that was chewing into his subconscious. He wasn’t sure how much more he could handle.

As soon as he brought up his quarrel with T’pol, Phlox decided to point out sexual tension–a common phenomenon going on between all crew before then, which is when Archer’s mind raced to think of you.

For once, his mind wasn’t preoccupied with his beagle, but instead with you–his loyal and devoted crew member. He remembered you were one of the few exceptions, like himself, to bring on board an Earth pet to look after in your quarters.

You always showed responsibility with your care to your animal, and Archer made sure to be friendly with someone like-minded when it came to animals, so it was no doubt he was familiar with you.

When it came time to his frustration he commed you, in the early hours of the night. When you came running into the sickbay in your sleepwear, you first caught sight of the sickly dog laying in his box, then second to your captain.

“Captain Archer, I’m so terribly sorry to hear what happened to Porthos,” you said.

“It’s… Definitely a tragedy, L/N, but I want to apologise for any disturbance I’ve caused this late at night, I just… don’t know who else to contact,” he grovelled.

“It’s alright, Captain, I completely understand if he were mine.”

“I knew you would,” he chuckled.

“How’s she doing?” You asked, walking up to the box, stroking the corner of the glass as if he could feel it.

“We should know within a couple of hours,” Archer repeated, as he continued to say to everyone.

Silence filled the air. Phlox was busy doing his duties with other species and medicine, still eavesdropping on your conversation with the captain. There wasn’t much to say to your captain without it possibly being deemed inappropriate, although, being summoned in your sleepwear in front of your superior was already inappropriate, you didn’t want to extend it any further by saying something unprofessional.

“As someone who loves their animals just as much as I do, what should I do in this situation, crewman?” He asked, head low, ashamed that he felt he must ask for support.

“I find it endearing that you stick by your companion’s side while he is sick, Captain…” As you say that, your eyes catch Phlox’s gaze, while he gives you a fascinated ‘hm,’ “...But I think that it might cause you more harm than good, might disrupt your sleep and therefore your mental health, affecting the crew, Captain. Why don’t we return to your quarters for a short while, take your mind off things,” you suggested.

He looked over to Phlox, “Oh, it’s quite alright, Captain, he is in a stable condition. I’ll let you know if anything dire happens.”

The captain’s quarters were quiet without Porthos, he couldn’t take his eyes off of the empty dog bed.

“If the Kreetassan even tried to look over the data, Porthos wouldn’t be in this mess,” he complained, pacing the room. The hot tea you retrieved for him was sitting on the table alone, losing steam with every second that passed.

“I’m sure there is always someone to blame, but on this mission, there is always the risk that we might lose our loved ones, especially those in our crew, and the ship,” you tried to explain.

“You’re right,” Archer said after a moment of thought, “I should’ve never risked Porthos on an alien planet.”

“No, Captain.” He stopped to look at you, who asserted their position as they stood up. “Your decisions come with consequences, but now is the time to be optimistic.”

He looked puzzled, so you walked up to him. Really close. Close enough so he could watch your lips while you talked.

“You trust your doctor, yes?”

“Yes, but I can’t he–”

“Then trust he has it under control. There is still a chance to redeem this ship of embarrassment with the Kreetassan,” you tell him. But you’re so close to him, he heard every word you said, but also ignored it all. He couldn’t stop looking at you.

“You’re right… L/N.” Then, he leaned down and kissed you. Without any self-control or professionalism, in the privacy of his quarters, he kissed you.

When he pulled back, you straightened yourself out. “I’m… sorry L/N. That was–”

“It’s okay, Captain. It was your decision. I guess us pet owners are highly empathetic.”

“I guess so,” he laughed.

#star trek x reader #star trek x you #star trek x y/n #star trek enterprise x reader #star trek enterprise x you #star trek enterprise x y/n #jonathan archer x reader #jonathan archer x you #jonathan archer x y/n #star trek fanfiction #star trek reader insert #my fics

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aiallardyce · 2 years

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𝐏𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐅𝐈𝐎𝐑𝐄 ! ⋆｡°✧

— . . . ❝ you know the penalty if you fail. ❞ . . .

「 the dormitory built on the beautiful queens’ spirit of tenacity. while normally concerned for their appearance and overly infatuated with high fashion, you should not ignore the hardworking nature of these students just because of their ego. the prettiest ones are always the deadliest… 」

NOIR CORBEAU.

⤷ a nervous wreck of an embalmer that’s extremely scared of vil schoenheit. actually, he’s scared of everyone except his brother. hiding behind walls, refusing contact but is always watching, the only thing of true comfort is the dead. twisted from: the raven.