#its so damn toxic its actually disgusting

[blissfali]

skifufd

[thelastofhyde]

i. the likeability paradox.

pairing. joel miller x fem!reader

synopsis. joel miller is not a man who strives to be liked, with a chip on his shoulder and a scowl on his face, until his world is flipped on its axis when the pretty young thing living under bill and frank's roof, with an irritatingly unwavering smile and the literal sun shinning out her ass, says those five damned words: i don't like you, joel.

warnings. no use of y/n, enemies to lovers, slow burn ( i have several oneshots planned for this couple ), unrequited love ( except you will never catch joel miller admitting he feels anything beyond grief, hunger and exhaustion ), pining, poor communication no communication, no seriously joel is down bad it's actually disgusting and highkey 🚩toxic🚩 but luckily red is your favourite colour, sunshine!reader, grumpy!joel aka canon joel, kinda perv!joel ( if you squint ), implied queer!tess, undefined age gap ( reader implied late-20s ), descriptions of canon-typical violence, smut ( oral- f receiving, fingering, degradation, panty stealing, hair pulling, dirty talk, dubcon due to intoxication, joel kinda gives her a wedgie at some point and honestly i don’t know what i was hoping to achieve with that, discussions of a lacklustre sex-life pre-apocalypse ). reader is a) hinted at being shorter than joel but it’s not central to the plot and b) described as lithe but the meaning intended is graceful, not thin!

word count. 12.9k

hyde’s input. half-way through, the regret of choosing to write this from joel's pov started to settle in but lmao i was too far in to not commit to the bit. don't come at me for the fact the timeline or events may not seem plausible with canon, i just wanna write this silly little depraved fic about joel in peace :( anyway, enjoy my first attempt at writing for tlou, forming a prayer circle rn in hopes that this doesn't flop because i will cry and you will hear about it

taglist. @kayleezra​​ @newavenger + add yourself to the taglist here !​

read on ao3 ! ( capitalization available )

distaste is not new in the life of joel miller.

in particular, one that is loaded, aimed and fired directly at him. he is not a likeable guy, often by choice and rarely by accident. the years of pain from a bleeding wound have now scarred over into nothing but an empty shell of the man that once was, from a world that no longer is, and he’s tried little to fill himself back up.

if anything, he’s made himself more empty.

rid himself of feelings, that which saves him the weakness of appearing sympathetic. discarded the need for luxuries, for which he’d scarcely cared for prior to his world ending. lay to rest what was left of the optimist inside him, leaving behind the danger of hope for it to rot with the rest of the infected.

an apocalyptic world brings out all sides of man that one would never dare to engage with in normal civilisation. joel learned swiftly that he was built to endure, quick to evolve and adapt to the new world order. the man who once worked his hardest to keep the peace among his neighbours, smiling that little bit wider on days he’d catch them scowling to themselves in hopes of brightening one part of their day for even a simple moment, would be at odds with the man who wears a heavy layer of enjoyment when met with the scowling glances and the hushed voices, all the watch out for that miller guys passed between cowardly members of fedra and the keep away from mr. miller's lawns spoken harshly from mother to child becoming music to his failing ears.

this plague of fear-driven dislike keeps him alone, how he likes to be, no one to lose and nothing to be taken. somewhere along the years the idea of safety in numbers has morphed into an illusion, something people say and never truly mean, to distract themselves from a reality more bitter than a snowstorm: in times of survival, people become dead-weight.

“so that’s all i am to ya, huh? dead-fucking-weight?” his brother’s voice still echoes in that damned space he calls a home, weeks or months or years since the day he’d departed for something else, somewhere else, leaving joel to do what joel does best: endure.

somehow, silence was easier than telling the man he’d taught to tie a shoelace, to shave his beard, to tune a guitar that he was the dead-weight, doomed to drag all those who remained too close down into his pit of despair.

she was an exception, his tess, buried 5-feet-under in her own swell of darkness, nothing but the tips of her fingers stretched out above her head to feel the sun upon her skin and keep her from going that last foot deeper. they’d made a home for themselves in one another, one where he keeps them fed, and she keeps them safe, and neither of them keeps the place clean.

she never asks for more, and he never offers it, both content to survive without the weight of affection smothering them. contrary to the belief of any misfortunate soul who’s encountered the pair within the quarantine zone, she is the one who holds the leash, tugging joel along close by her heel and keeping him from wandering off into the wild to surrender himself to a feral lifestyle.

which lands him here, sat at a table playing happy family, each time he dares to snark out a few words being met with the sharp kick of tess’ foot against his shin.

“... and then,” frank struggles over a cough, so excited in his story-telling that he fails to separate taking a breath from taking a sip of his wine. with a roll of eyes and a disapproving grunt, bill’s no more than two seconds away from clapping down on his back, urging the other man’s wind-pipes to unblock and welcome back airflow. “otis dragged his muddied self over the whole house. we were finding paw-prints for days!”

joel’s unamused, too keen to think of what a nuisance that would be. as if incapable of feeling the buzzing energy of disinterest, the german shepherd drops its head further up his lap, begging for a morsel of anything that sits atop the table.

“which means i was cleaning paw-prints for days.” bill, the only one at the table besides himself who wears the looks of a cynic, grumbles out before shovelling what remains on his plate into his mouth.

frank is quick to shush him.

“i’m sorry, again, bill,” he doesn’t mean to break eye-contact from the mutt at his thigh, but the voice calls to him like a siren calls to a ship in the night, like a flame dances and seduces a moth into its brightly burning touch of death, a spotlight in the dark which promises- or threatens- more light to come. “i’d no clue there was a storm coming till we were already a good few miles away, and there was nowhere to take cover to wait it out.”

there you sit, parallel to him.

the sun rests lower in the sky as time carries you all into the late noon, its rays a beacon of light bursting out just behind your head, painting you in the glow of the golden hour and staining a mockery of a halo above you. it hurts his eyes, this brightness that you so easily bask in, forcing him to squint and deepen the frown on his face.

you catch him with his sights on you, at some point, and the smile you meet his scowl with has him cursing at the sun, and the moon, and every star that sits between.

the threat of a great war looms in the air as you rush to rise up and help clear the table of the remnants left behind- none of which joel can account for, mouth to keen and body too starved to skip out on enjoying the mundane luxury of a fresh, home-cooked meal. the battle ends swiftly as you surrender to bill’s hardened stare, and frank’s disapproving head-shakes, and tess’ own plan of action to simply force you down back into the seat you’d been sat in- the one you always sit in.

“you, sit. no one should have to clean up the food they made.”

they get no fight out of him when they insist he’d done enough catching the so-called food.

silence casts its shadow over the table, dampening the light and painting you both in a mockery of greyed tones- truthfully, it is the disappearance of the sun hind a large cloud that causes such a thing.

being alone, with you, is something joel’s never mastered. the affliction of your presence is so much greater when there’s no one else to balance out your natural shine- the kind that has his head spinning and his cock aching-, no one but him.

were he not a sick bastard, he’d try harder to not make you sad.

something bumps his hands, ripping him out of his moral self-condemnation. the dog meets his gaze, eyes a widened mess of puppy-dog pleading that punctuates its existence with an impatient whine.

just like your owner, he finds himself thinking and not saying- never saying-, yet to find your bark.

the ball’s a sticky mess of slobber and dirt, and joel touches it all the same, throwing it up in the air once, then twice, before tossing it across the yard. he’s slumped back in his chair by the time he registers the dog’s departure, a ball of dark fluff bouncing its way across the garden, and all the man can think is fuck, he’ll be feeling the effect of that throw on his shoulder come the morning.

the pain is not enough to stop him from tossing the ball again, and once more, and then yet again, sending the dog in a never ending loop of chase, grab, retrieve- a parallel to his life of wake, survive, sleep.

“he likes you,” you never leave things the way he wishes them to be, bursting his bubble with the vocal reminder of your presence.

as if on queue, prompted by your addressing of it, the dog drops its interest in joel, and the ball, and the chasing, tail wagging uncontrollably by the time it reaches your side. standing on its hind legs, it collapses the front of itself into your waiting lap, and joel watches how you wrap your arms so easily around something that could cause you harm.

to envy a creature that licks it own shit off its ass is a new low for joel.

“thinkin’ he might like ya more, sol.” the nickname rolls off his tongue with ease, the safer option than uttering your name, a vice and virtue he’s only permitted himself in idealistic fantasies that play out in his own troubled thoughts.

“most people do,” whether you mean to make it seem like you’re degrading his very existence or not, he’s unsure, but it rouses a chuckle out of him.

he takes note of how you don’t protest the name he’s branded you with, not like how you’d fought tooth and nail against it every other visit he and tess have made.

“you’ve got a whole load in common, you know? i think that’s got something to do with his fascination-”

“how the hell’s a man like me got somethin’ in common with a four-legged mutt?” there he goes again, making that smile slip down your cheeks with a simple use of his voice. it helps as much as it hurts, frown loosening up and eyes no longer strained beneath the bright shine of your visceral optimism.

“well, you’re both... hairy,” he restrains himself from reacting, washing down a laugh with the help of the dregs of wine that lay collecting at the bottom of his glass. he’s let his appearance grow more rugged over the past few months and your noticing of this brings an unwanted warmth to his aching bones. “and have the most kickass women in your lives to stop you from dying.”

he’s interested to know what life would be like under your protection.

discovering the answer brings the threat of pain, and loss, and an openness to vulnerability he can not afford himself, so he takes the safer option: “‘s easy stayin’ safe when you live in this fantasy land. doubt your mutt’d last any longer than a day out in reality.”

with you as its protector.

he doesn’t say it and, still, it somehow hovers in the space between you both, a heavy, syrupy implication that slips down your throats and threatens to suffocate you. he watches you choke on it, coughing on his cruelty and feigning it to be a simple clearing of your throat. your eyes glue themselves on the dog, delicate fingers smoothing over the well-groomed hairs down its back.

survival has turned him into a man who knows when to seize an opportunity, and this is one he takes with both hands, basking in the simplicity of staring, watching, observing you without the crime of being caught.

but i could keep you safe.

he toys with the danger of uttering such a thing aloud. it’s not the first time he’s thought it. truthfully, he’s unsure when it first nestled its way into his mind.

his memory, which ails him more than it aids him these past years, would have him believe it was way before the dog had even appeared, back when it was just bill, frank and you. a few whiskeys in and a campfire lit for you all to gather for warmth around- why you’d all chosen to sit out in the gardens on a winter’s night joel remains unsure of to this day-, it was frank who’d prompted the question. “where were you all when... this started?” tess went first, braver than most people he knows, sharing stories of a version of herself he’ll never meet. 

he never imagined her working in a bank.

bill, with reluctance, took the next step, keeping his account factual and to the point. “was shit-faced drunk and getting my stomach pumped.” he’d been quick to skim over the story of the young nurse who’d guided him to safety out the hospital, losing her own life in exchange for his survival. she was barely out of school. “i knew her dad, bit of an asshole, but boy, was he proud of his baby for graduating.” frank couldn’t let him swim too deep in his thoughts, afraid a current of guilt would trap him and drown him in the depths of it, and so he raised his own voice and began his tale.

joel had always been a good listener. being a single parent to a teenage girl required him to be, or so... she would have had him believe, nights at the table set for two spent listening to the playground he-said-she-said gossip. years later and he at last prefers things this way, a rare gem of safety found in the act of saying nothing and hearing everything- that his hearing will allow. all this to say, he’d tried his best to pay attention to frank’s impassioned retelling of his heroic misadventures that had lead him to the unintentional arms of bill.

but you weren’t smiling.

he watched you, you watched the dancing flames, face stoic and drained of that natural shine his eyes had only just started to be able to gaze upon without the threat of being blinded by such light.

the desire crept up on him like a tiger to it’s prey, hiding in the far off bushes until the opportunity to strike presented itself and the feeling lunged for joel’s back, gripping him in its claws and piercing his ribcage with its gnashing teeth. with each bite, it plagued him with the delusions of a wandering mind, imagination left free to run laps around his head with visions of you from another life, another time, another set of people gathered round a dining table. he’d wanted to hear about the ones you’d lost, and comfort you with all the things he hated hearing (“you’ll keep ‘em alive, in spirit and memory!” “those we remember never truly die!”). he’d needed to bend a knee and swear a vow to be the one to stand between you and death, to fight for your survival on your behalf. ‘could keep you safe. there, then, the thought did cross his mind.

he’d washed it down with a swig of lukewarm, flat beer.

“-could fix it, you know. i’m good with my hands.”

he almost chokes on his own breath.

i'm good with my hands, it swims in circles round his mind, replaying and echoing off the walls of his skull. and he knows- oh, how he knows- that he’ll be replaying it in those moments of solitude for the next few nights, weeks, months- however long it may take till he forgets the way such thought-provoking words sound on your lips.

“what?” the question leaves him harsher than he intends, drawing an enemy line between you both with the foul sound of it. in the corner of his eye, he swears he sees you flinch backwards, physically recoiling from the disdain-filled bullet he fires in your direction.

the mutt in your lap retreats, hackles rising as it turns to face joel once more.

he sees it, in the dog’s brutal protectiveness over you, this similarity you claim exists.

“your watch, it’s broken.”

“hadn’t noticed,” he’s retreating into his own space now, mentally and physically, scraping the legs of his chair against the ground as his mind works to strengthen those walls that threaten to crumble so often in your presence. “don’t need ya to fix it.”

you pull a face, brows furrowing and lips pouting. confusion.

“don’t you want to know the time?” you ask, as if time could ever be relevant in a rotten world where down is up, and up is down, and joel miller is not the overprotective father to the most delicate creature the god he’d stopped believing in had gifted him, just to force him to watch as life snatched her away.

“i don’t keep it for the time.”

you smile, and this one’s a killer, piercing straight through the cages of his ribs to carve itself into his withered heart.

the german shepherd relaxes with the rebrightening of your aura, shaking out the tension from its body before sauntering its way back over to joel, ball in mouth and tail wagging excitedly, as if it hadn’t just contemplated having its first taste of human flesh.

he’s throwing the toy in a matter of minutes, enjoying the repeated run and retrieve game, and the renewed silence that comes along with it. nature sings its tune with rustling leaves, cawing crows, and pounding paws. it’s almost so easy to leave your offer, your words, his broken watch in the rearview mirror of this otherwise pleasant afterno-

“ooh, so there’s a story to tell!” you’re blinding him with your excitement, lithe limbs leaning forward in your own chair in an attempt to reach closer, table between you be damned. “i’ve never heard any of the joel miller backstory, this should be-”

“i get that likin’ everyone is your thing, but would’ya give it a rest?”

nature falls silent.

skies grow dull.

you juggle sadness.

there’s a crash that comes from within the house, followed by the unmistakable sound of tess’ sailor mouth, cursing whichever delicate dish she’s broken into smithereens with the help of her accident prone hands. the dog’s lain itself down upon the grass, ball between it’s paws as it begins to bite, and chew, and break it under the pressure of its canines.

joel wonders what the mutt’s practicing for.

“sure,” then, with the return of your voice, all sounds resume, harmony upon planet earth once more. only, the gates have been shut in his face and joel finds himself forced to watch as everything unfolds from the outside, an unwelcome visitor forced out into exile with the fungal freaks and the inhumane. “but you’re wrong. i don’t like everyone.”

“‘s that so.” his eyes roll. the hole he’s dug for himself sinks deeper, casting you higher up on the pedestal joel will always be wiling to place you on.

“yeah,” you’ve risen out your chair, gifting him the view of how the fabric of your dress dances above your knee, a final twist of the knife in his heart that he lets you pierce his flesh with each time he surrenders himself to your existence. “i don’t like you, joel.”

the hours come and go, but your words linger like a bad tattoo, shamefully engraved into his skin and banning him to a life of noticing the horrendous thing each time he passes by his own reflection.

we’re staying, for tonight. tess had called the shots, and he’s been learning not to argue when she gives him one of her stern looks, biting down on the comments he’d wanted to make of the dangers of being out of the qz for too long, which would likely earn him nothing but a shrug and the reminder that they both were off duty the following day

the nights are beginning to grow darker as winter grows nearer, leading bill and frank- mostly frank- to excuse themselves to bed, bidding the two visitors with a final reminder to make themselves comfortable in whichever room they can find. if only joel could remember which door leads to yours.

the two women in his life remain awakened, passing a bottle of wine between each other as you both converse back and forth, catching each other up on one another’s life, satiating that craving for mundane gossip.

tess recounts the scandal of the poor boy who’d been caught sleeping with a fedra agent’s wife, you whisper that frank and bill had been fighting again recently. the memory of being ambushed by raiders- now dead raiders- comes to life once more with the help of tess’ voice, while the promise to uncover what exactly bill and frank were hiding from you as of late is sealed in your words.

at some point, he lays himself to rest atop the couch, legs stretched out and arms crossed over his chest, ignoring the squeeze of the fabric over his forearms as the too-small flannel struggles to contain the muscles forged by the need to survive. at another point, he’s lulled to sleep by the lullaby of your mingling voices, a safety blanket draping itself over his tired body and enveloping him in the comforts of having that which he struggles to care so little for, so near him once more.

-n’t tell me you’re a virgin.

the words are muffled as the man slips back into consciousness, a frown coming to rest on his forehead as he battles against the demons urging him awake, the nightmarish memories of car crashes, and soldiers, and so much red chasing him away from the sleep he longs for so badly.

a protest rings true in his head and his ears.

was gonna say. knew you were young, but not that young.

it’s the sound of your laughter that awakens him fully, saving him from the tortures of his own mind.

“god, no! me and my ex, we... a few times. it was alright, i guess. i just, yeah, there’s not much to miss.”

he’s unwilling, unable to reopen his eyes, curling in on himself as he rolls over onto his side. a groan slips past his lips, one he’s hoping tess and you will dismiss as nothing more than the sleep-filled rambles of a dreaming man.

neither of you make any acknowledgement of him.

“not much to miss?! sweet christ, you’re breaking my fuckin’ heart.” he’s learnt over time the common traits of a drunken tess. each word becoming an exclamation, curses becoming more frequent, and that irritating habit she’s picked up of imitating his own accent. there’s no need to bother opening his eyes, joel’s already sure he’ll find his companion with flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. “i’d give up a hand for some head!”

you must do something, pull a face or shake your head, for the sound of tess’ renewed shock fills the room. he wonders, as the sound bounces off the walls, how late into the night it’s grown.

late enough that the cicadas singing outside the window are now accompanied by the hoots of an owl.

“you’ve got to be shittin’ me.”

“it bores me!”

“it bores you!?”

the couch beneath joel creaks as he shifts once more, turning his back on you both as the ability to contain his laughter grows harder with each word you exchange and each gasp tess gives. the last thing he needs is to be caught eavesdropping on your sex life like some dirty old pervert.

the crueler part of his mind replays your voice, i don’t like you, and the knife twists in his guts this time.

you like tess. love her, even. it’s been that way since the first time you’d met the duo, eyes giving one look over the woman before the smile on your face grew even wider, voice as sweet as honey sighing out finally someone with a pair of boobs, i’m bored of the sight of my own. joel’d gotten caught up in the thought of how he’d never tire of such a sight that he’d failed to acknowledge your greeting towards him, catching just the moment you drew your outstretched hand back to your side and offered him an understanding smile.

maybe that was the moment you decided you didn’t like him.

“must not have been doin’ ya right,” the bottle of southern comfort is working its wonders on the older woman, accent growing further and further from its true nature with each glass she nurses. joel hears the faint sound of ice smacking against glass and knows it must be yours. you’ve always struggled with liquors, slipping as many ice cubes as you can manage into a glass in hopes that they’ll eventually melt and water the alcohol down. it’s oddly endearing, you think no one has noticed. “this fella of yours.”

joel has no right to despise the idea of you and some fella.

he does so, regardless.

“well,” he imagines the shape of your meek smile and the way you shrug your shoulders. “we were each others firsts.”

“that’s no excuse! trust i left mine cryin’ into her pillow the first time i went down.” tess and he have a silent agreement to never speak of the nights joel would take refuge on their beaten-up couch while tess indulges herself between someone’s thighs in the bedroom. no discussing the sounds she pulls from her concubines, no addressing the wet patches left behind to stain their shared sheets, and definitely no speaking on how his hand winds up stained in his own cum.

you scoff and follow it up with a saccharine laced giggle, so sweet its bound to rot your teeth if you even attempt to hold it in. “what, are you offering your services?”

this he likes less than the image of you with some fella, the thought of having to lay upon a mattress on which tess had raised you to heaven while he once again remained locked out in the dark leaving his skin crawling with unwarranted rage.

“‘as sure as i am that you’re sweet all over, ‘fraid to tell you i like my women a little older than you.”

he knows he should do the same, should lust after those women his own age who shoot him carnal looks in the streets of the qz. it should be skin his own age that he longs to taste, and eyes who’ve seen as much as his own he wants to stare into, and lips as cruel as the ones he owns that he fights off the urges to kiss. but he can’t, and he won’t.

and you’re the one to blame.

you, with the glow of a thousand suns. you, with the hands that tend to flowers instead of corpses. you, with the gentle nature he’d have to spend the rest of his days fighting off every other living thing just to protect.

his own self being the first he’d need fight.

joel wonders what he’d missed in his hours- if it had even been so long- of rest, how the playground gossiping dissipated into reminiscing the pleasures of supple flesh and the sins of unfulfilling lovers. sleep steals him away once more before he can find the answers.

the next time he awakens, he’s drowning in a plight of cruel memories, a cold and brutal ocean of faces, places, and traces of the ephemeral sentiment of happiness he’d possessed once upon a time, back when the price of letting one’s guard down was not so high.

he’s learnt, with time, that losing her comes in waves. some small, meaningless little things, that ripple joel’s surface and coast gently over his dirt ridden skin. others, tsunamis. big, angry, all imposing. they’re born in ground-shaking explosions of grief, building speed, and height, and weight the closer they grow to crashing over him.

amidst the passing of time, he’s tried to keep himself busy in his awakened hours, to keep his mind occupied and avoid thinking about her too much. but the waves always come back, no matter how hard he tries to fight them or swim away from them. they catch him off guard, crashing over him when he least expects it. in the middle of a raid, lost in thought and standing ten inches deep in grime, blood, infected, and suddenly the weight of her absence will hit him like a ton of bricks.

the currents grow more violent whenever he closes his eyes.

this evening, it had been a minuscule wave, yet it’s damage still leaves him with sweat slicked skin. he reenters the land of the living choking on his own fear and shooting up-right, hardly registering his surroundings till his feet hit solid ground. the gentle, barely-there croon of a sinatra record punctuates the room alongside the dim glow of a lightbulb which flickers with the threat of expiring and leaving naught but the moonlight to wash over the dark of the night. across from him is tess, nursing a half-emptied cup against her chest and wearing tired eyes. snoring comes from below him, where joel finds he’s a mere foot away from having stepped upon the sleeping dog, curled in on itself and laying soundly by his side.

you take up no space of this room.

neither the dog nor the drunk pay him any mind as he pushes up onto his creaking knees, stretching out his limbs in a fight to undo the tension in his aching bod. languid steps carry him out into the hall, where he freezes under the self-questioning of where he’s going.

there are three answer to this: where he should, where he could, and where he would.

he should find himself a bedroom, perhaps be ostentatious enough to rid himself of those stale clothes and let the warmth of running water wash away the sins he’d committed throughout the day. a good night’s sleep, atop a mattress where springs do not dig into his back and the sheets are clean as could be, it would do him good.

he could head towards the kitchen, quench that thirst that he’s awoken with, cottonmouth and a headache to go with it too. perhaps he’ll find himself something to eat, indulge in the luxury of readily available food just this once, he’s sure frank wouldn’t mind. bill definitely would, but that’s not something he’ll need care about when he’s miles out and heading back to the qz.

he would try find you, open whichever door it is that leads into the haven that must be your bedroom. he imagines its clean, and organised, and smells of some syrupy lavender that is bound to nauseate him as he smothers his face into your bedsheets, eyes shut, and mind relaxed, the threat of those violent waves no concern to him as he anchors himself with an arm around your warm skin. skin he’s never felt, yet he stands firm in his belief it must be the most soothing thing to touch, as gentle and inviting as the heart it keeps safe within it.

i don’t like you, joel.

those words stop him from trying.

he tells himself it’s for the best.

with a mind of their own, his legs have made the choice for him and deliver him outside the opening to the kitchen. he swallows down a gulp of his own saliva at the prospect of a glass of water. the door’s already half-opened, and joel nearly thanks christ for it as the fear of waking anyone with the squeaking of the handle is eliminated. the darkness of the night encompasses the room, even with the moon’s shine reflecting off every surface it touches: the counters, the knife stand, the metal drawer handles, the refrigerator.

the refrigerator.

it’s open, a blue light shining out of it and illuminating anything it its proximity. a subtle beeping noise rings from it, and suddenly joel’s back in his thirties, dead-beat yet well-intentioned brother stealing the food off his own plate as he beckons his pre-teen daughter back into the kitchen.

keep leavin’ this open and it’s a job you’ll be gettin’ this summer, not a dog.

she never lived long enough to get either.

he catches something move beneath the artificial light. cautious at first, it’s all the more startling to find the object of his ire and the embodiment of his desire stood leaning back against the countertop, a glass full of orange liquid pressed to a mouth that parts and welcomes in the sugary sweet delight.

“why aren’t ya sleepin’?” the words rasp out his throat, catching and scratching on the parts of him that still yearn for something to wet his tongue with.

beneath the light, you shrug, “could ask you the same thing, texas.”

he curses tess for teaching you such a nickname.

he curses himself more for the way you saying it twists up his insides.

you’re teasing him, smile a little looser and eyes less focused than he’s used to seeing. whether you’re tipsy or simply delirious with exhaustion, joel remains unaware.

he grunts, daring to take a few steps further into the kitchen. the door behind him closes over and give the illusion of the space becoming smaller, tighter, more compact.

“i asked first.” you laugh, at him. full on chest-rumbling, hand over your belly, head thrown back- so abruptly it nearly crashes against the corner of the opened cabinet door. the corner of his mouth is curling upwards before he can catch himself. he hopes the refrigerator light shows less of him than it shows of you, bare legs, and messed hair, and pointed nipples all on display for his undeserving eyes. “‘s so funny, huh?”

“nothing, nothing,” he successfully fights off the urge to follow the drop of orange juice that spills down the side of your mouth, over your chin, down your neck, disappearing beneath the collar of your dress. perhaps he is not as successful as he believes. “just never heard the joel miller say something so childish. you’ve usually got your panties all in a bunch if someone so much as looks at you for too long.”

you make way as he inches closer, sliding yourself over to rest against the island counter. a fragrance of things he can’t quite pinpoint, but enjoys nonetheless, wafts in his face as he travels down the path to the sink. uncouth and unbothered, joel opens the tap and cups his hands beneath the stream of water.

“you know there’s a cupboard full of glasses right next to you, right?” you call out behind him as the man brings water to his dry lips, splashing and just about guiding his head beneath the stream. the thirst does not budge. he hums an acknowledgement of you, yet continues with his method.

by the time he switches the water off, you’ve made yourself busy, back facing him while you work at something atop the counter, a consistent chop-chop-chop filling the silence that settles between you both.

“i’m making soup,” you state, like there’s nothing quite more logical you could be doing at whatever-o’clock in the morning it is. “make sure you take some with you when you leave. tess said she’s been fighting off a cold the past few days, need you to keep her warm and fed for me.”

would you do the same for him, if you knew he’d been the one to catch that damned cold in the first place? four days of just about coughing up his lungs, and not a single soul- not even his tess- had offered soup, nor warmth, nor sympathy. he’d not needed it, until now, when he hears you gifting it to someone else.

i don’t like you, joel.

of course you would do the same. not because you care, nor because doing otherwise would way heavy on your conscious, but because you’re nice. nice in a way he’ll never be, has never been. patient, welcoming, comforting, warm. all words that spring to mind when one thinks of you. they violently oppose the closed-off, angry, dark cloud that had rolled in years ago and casted it’s shadow over joel’s entire persona.

he straightens his back, weight shifting from one foot to another as he contemplates you from behind. the sway of your dress as you move has him in a trance, beckoning him closer before he can even realise he’s taken a step. his hands drip water onto the floor in a rhythm, and the record player sings in the distance as a reminder of tess, and your sweet out-of-tune humming fills the empty kitchen with a brightness greater than the moon, but that’s not what joel hears.

i don’t like you, joel.

i don’t like you, joel.

i don’t like you, joel.

i don’t like you, joel.

over and over, you taunt him without even trying, nailing the words into his head and heart, impaling him with your sweet condemnation. you’re not the first to say it, to his face or otherwise, yet you’re the first to evoke such a reaction out of him, to leave a lasting impression hours after you’d declared such a thing.

and, suddenly, joel’s angry. at you, at himself, at the sound of that damned knife in your hand slicing down onto the chopping board. the fog of his ire blurs his vision, rendering him to move blindly through the night.

only when he finds himself looming over you from behind does his vision clear.

a hand meets the curve of your hip and you gasp, leaving joel to wonder if it’s because the shock of his cold, damp touch or, simply, because it’s his touch. without a thought spared, he firms his grip, fingers squeezing tight enough he feels your flesh bulge between each one, a bruising promise joel gifts you.

you may leave your marks emotionally, but joel’s will always be physical.

“why,” he pulls in a breath, loading up the will to keep his voice a low rumble, a quiet disturbance in the night for no ears but your own to hear. “don’t ya like me?”

if not for the pause in your practiced movements, knife stilling midway through slicing a carrot, he’d believe you’re unaffected by his proximity. “why do you care?” 

he scoffs, “i don’t.”

“hmm,” this hum is far less delightful than the way you’d been following along to whatever melody tess was playing in the living room. “sure sounds like you do.”

“yeah, well, i don’t,” he insists, and he swears he almost feels the way it only digs deeper the hole he’s created for himself.

joel knows he cares. it’s been burning at his skin and itching on his mind since the moment you’d welcomed yourself to a little bit of unfiltered honesty, dropping the perfectly poised and eternally polite mask you’d worn since the moment he’d first met you, an attitude he loathes as much as he anticipates surrounding himself with it each time he’s tugged along for the trek to bill and frank’s. 

what joel doesn’t know is why he cares. there’s nothing to be desired about him, no traits to respect and certainly no looks to admire. he’s near crafted his entire being in a way that makes sure of this, the more undesirable his presence is, the less likely he is to be approached, be it by other people or fate itself.

maybe there was a part of him that had wrongfully imagined you being the exception.

instead, you’re stood barefoot in the latest of hours, knife working away the vegetables in front of you, dress sticking to skin beneath his damp hand, and you don’t like him.

not one bit.

joel grabs at your hips harder, his free hand curling round the shape of your left forearm. his feet shuffle forwards, until there comes a point where one would struggle to make out where you end and he begins. his chest pressed to your back, his muscular legs trapping your soft thighs, his forehead digging into the side of your head so intensely it threatens to shatter both your craniums and leave nothing but dust made by bones blown into smithereens.

he inhales, and finds you don’t smell of lavender.

“for the record,” he watches your movements over your shoulder, entranced with the back and forth sawing of the knife through unidentified vegetables. ‘s like how i sliced that raider’s throat, he thinks, and instantly regrets it. no part of him should ever be compared to you. “i don’t like ya either.”

he’s lying through his teeth, hoping you don’t notice.

the knife never ceases its movement. back and forth, back and forth. chop, chop, chop. blurs of greens, and oranges, and more greens cover the counter before you. it’s oddly soothing, this repeated and unbroken pattern, reminding joel of times he’d found comfort in the mundaneness of cooking a meal after an emotionally exhausting day. perhaps, this has the same affect on you, a momentary lifejacket to keep yourself afloat amongst the waves that haunt you awake.

the hand on your forearm travels, mind of its own, drawing up the shape of your shoulder with featherlight touches that contradict the way his nails dig deeper into the the skin you hide beneath the waistline of your dress.

“that’s not news,” you must think he’s blind to the hitch in your breath when his fingers slip over your pulse-point. 

it’s his turn to respond with a hum.

“you only like yourself,” words more untrue have never been spoken before the man who’s every moment is spent drowning in his loses. his wandering touch halts. “a little selfish, if you ask me. but, that’s just what i think.”

this strikes a nerve. fury commands his hand into a fist and fingers find themselves tangled in the tresses of your hair. the realisation of how surprisingly soft it feels barely finishes registering when he’s pulling on it, dragging your head along with, till it lays flat on his puffing chest and your eyes stare up at him. “d’ya know what i think?”

even upside down, your beauty is striking.

“no, unlike you i don’t care what you think about-” joel tugs on your hair once more.

“i think you’re a brat. a silly little girl who thinks she can smile and get away with murder.” you could. he’d forgive you as you soak your hands in the blood you draw from him. knife in the heart, bullet through the brain, bat to the face, he’d slip away easily from this life if only to have you smile as he goes.

 “you’re hurting me,” you whine, joel growls.

animalistic, beastly, a rabid animal sinking its claws into its defenceless prey. his gaze dances over your features, catching himself before he can sink deep into your captivating eyes, tracing the shape of your mouth, slipping down the peaks of your collarbones.

your dress- red, a colour joel miller will no longer associate with bleeding wounds and stained weapons- sits tight on your chest, squeezing the swell of your chest beneath the fabric, and gives away all your secrets.

“you like it,” he speaks in awe, unable to pull his eyes off the two stiff buds that poke against the red fabric.

“no, i don’-” dampness follows wherever his hand goes, fleeting as he makes the journey around your waist and up your side, crawling higher and higher to where he can feel your heart beating from within your chest. “joel.”

he retightens his grip on your hair, aiding you with the way your curve your spine and force yourself deeper into his uncaring, ungentle, enamoured touch. whoever joel had been in a past life must have moved mountains or performed miracles to grant him the luck to be holding you this way, the fingers he’d gifted with nothing but the cocking of guns and the feel of his own pulsating lust now expertly tweaking at one of your stiff nipples, all thoughts of the fabric scratching at your sensitive skin dissipating into the abyss as he realises you’re enjoying the pain.

“heard ya, earlier, in the living room,” at the time, he’d been mortified to be overhearing such intimate words between you and tess. the blood that insists on rushing to his crotch now wants you to know, to hear the admission of guilt be spoken from his own mouth. “ talkin’ bout your past.”

he doesn’t specify.

he doesn’t need to.

you give away your shock with parted lips, widened eyes, frozen eyelashes, pupils staring up at him like a wounded fawn he’s about to take his first bite out of and, hopefully, it won’t be the last one.

“tess turned you down,” the hand on your chest switches sides, donning your other breast with some much needed attention. his hand must still carry residue of the water, for you gasp and shut your eyes in the shock of his touch, your own fingers shooting up to scratch at his wrist. near convinced you mean to push him away, the pressure against his hand that pushes deeper into his unholy affection has him realising otherwise. “i wouldn’t.”

you say nothing. joel pulls harder.

“too bad i’m-” you cut yourself off as he presses himself closer to you, your poor hips bound to awaken with bruises from the counter he’s got you pressed against. with a distance so small he can hear your teeth grind, joel watches you like a hawk. the twitch in your brow, the flutter of your eyelids, the bobbing of your throat as you silence what he imagines would be an otherworldly kind of moan, a whine he’d let kiss his ears and wind up poisoning himself with the torture of it replaying in his head each waking moment till he kicks the bucket, once and for all. the want to see you fall apart evolves into a need. “too bad i’m not offering you the chance.”

joel miller is a hot blooded man, at his core, weak to emotions and vulnerable to the warmths of flesh. with notches on his bedpost and a tally of lives beneath his belt, he sees little wrong with taking what he needs.

“who said anything about an offer?”

the descent to the floor is far from graceful, with bitten back groans of pain as clicking noises resound throughout the room while his joints bend and break in an effort to get him where he needs to be, where he’s needed to be for far longer than merely this exchange on kitchen grounds: on his knees for you.

a part of him would prefer it if you weren’t wielding a butchers knife.

the other part wishes you were facing him, eyes full of that repressed anger, hatred and discontent you likely harbour for him as you point the blade down at him and threaten to paint the floors with his blood. you’ve yet to do that, and so he takes it as his queue to progress.

smoothing his hands up your legs, he admires the landscapes of your body from this angle, with legs longer than any tree in the amazonian jungle and curves with peaks that resemble the mountains of the himalayas. arriving at the top of your knees, the hem of your dress both welcomes and conceals his touch, inviting him into the wonderful world it hides beneath it yet denying him the privilege of feasting his eyes on your paradise, an island of safety amongst the open ocean of his mind.

your breathing is measured, precise, too rhythmical to be natural, the subconscious action now turned into a practiced routine you mean to maintain nonchalance with. perhaps you’re yet to realise that, while he may remain indifferent to those that surround him, joel knows how to read people. and, right now, you’re a whole novel of lust, awaiting for someone to open up your pages and drink in every lyrical prose you promise to tell.

joel finds purchase mid-way up your thighs, hands sliding around to the front of them to grip the buttery smooth skin and ground himself in the reality he kneels before.

you breathe in, you breathe out.

one knee buckles, ever so slightly, the weight of you collapsing into his welcoming hold. he revels in the feeling of supporting you, in every meaning of the word, thumbs not even waiting on a command from his consciousness to begin soothing your tingling skin with a gentle back and forth movement to match the knife in your hand.

inhale, exhale.

your legs straighten once more, a hand of his winds its way back out from under your skirt and shoots up to grab your free one, dragging it down his pits of desire.

“hold,” he’s parched all over again, mouth drier than the texan wastelands on a hot summer’s day. all he can do to survive is peel up that infuriatingly soft, red fabric of your dress, skin unveiling itself to his hunger struck eyes. with the skirt bunched up, he shoves it into your awaiting palms, pinning your hand against your own waist. “don’t move.”

where he expects protest, he receives more breathing.

lace covers your skin, a delicate shade of a colour his eyes can’t quite distinguish in the dark of the night. one flicker of his sight to the very core of your body and he notices it, that tell-tale sign that you’re enjoying this little display of attention, despite what your measured breaths may have him believe. a wet patch, your wetness. the stickiest, sweetest of honeys that only a woman like you can possess, and a man like him should never bare himself witness to.

curiosity gets the better of him- one day, joel hopes, this will get him killed- and his touch is reaching for the lacy fabric, fingers curling themselves in the waistband of your panties and the fabric that covers your right asscheek before curling his hand into a fist, tugging upwards.

in and out, shaky breathing comes from above.

the lace pulls tight on your delicate skin, no choice but to nestle itself in the slit of your cunt as two pretty soaked lips peak out from each side. a heady smell he can only begin to describe as stiflingly sweet, tongue-tingling tanginess hits his nose. he makes sure to take a deep breath, letting the blood rush straight to his head- the one that sits packed uncomfortably in his tightened trousers.

delectable as sin, you keen back into his fist, back curving ever so slightly. there’s a tremor in the hold you have on the fabric of your dress. joel basks in the visual affect he’s beginning to have on you, no need to doubt if the fabric of your underwear rubs at your likely aching clit. he wonders if the sting of the lace digging into your skin hurts. he thinks it must hurt.

his fist curls tighter, pulls higher.

“ah,” at last, a ripple in your surface. though you still wield a knife, the carrot you’d been failing to chop rolls off the counter and onto the floor, lost somewhere in joel’s peripheral vision.

“shut up,” he grunts, like it doesn’t make his balls throb to hear you whine. “people are tryin’ to sleep.”

you scoff, and for a moment you seem to have rediscovered your composure. “tess is drunk as a sailor, and the old men could sleep through nuclear warfare.”

“‘s that an invitation to see how loud i can get ya,” he’s still caught in the way you mold against the lace, slickened skin carrying a reflection of the moonlight. this, he thinks, is what all them poets were writing about in their prose of love and beauty. “or a challenge?”

“it’s an invitation to stop lecturing me on volume control,-” you catch yourself, he realises, right before you can gift him some nickname a sweet girl like you would never use. asshole, dickhead, bastard, he’s heard them all and, still, he wants them on your tongue, in his mouth, condemning him for all the brutish, oafish ways he masks his obsession for you.

as coquettish as it may be, painting a picture worthy of a front-page on some playboy magazine, the sight of lace becomes a nuisance he no longer holds the patience for. so he strips you of it, hand moving to pull the garment down, down, down the length of you, till it hits your ankles. he awaits no movement of your own, taking it upon himself to lift each of your feet individually out the leg-holes.

it’s merely impulse that has him shoving the soiled lace into his back pocket, though he’s sure he’ll make use of them on lonely nights.

“you’re drippin’” his proclamation is ego-driven, pride swelling in his chest as he takes in the full sight of your bare heat. the view is a little obscured from behind you, but with the right amount of tilting of your hips at a certain angle and the widening of your legs, he’s bound to sit front row and centre for your private show. “‘s actually a little pathetic, sweetheart. is it cause ya like it when men get mean wit’ ya?”

he can imagine the way you’d roll your eyes at his words, and it has him thinking about how you’d look with your eyes rolling back for different reasons, reasons he’s about to gift you.

but first, he curls one hand around your ankle and tugs the limb along as far as he wants it. much better, he now faces no blockage in the path up to your slit, freely letting his wandering hands ascend to his newfound heaven. perhaps he’ll revisit the life of gospel, if you promise to be the altar he prays before.

cool fingers to warm skin, you swallow a gasp a little too late for joel to not notice as he drags the tips of his middle finger up the length of your slit. soft, puffy lips part for him, until he presses against that special button that’s bound to turn on your engines.

rolling his finger over your clit a few times, he refamiliarises himself with the female anatomy, with your anatomy, memorising each soft bump and meaty lump he finds along the way.

it happens so sudden, and unwillingly, the way his mind switches to thinking of tess. he wonders what exactly it is she does to those poor things she sends home on shaky legs, where she even begins to touch them. joel imagines she makes use of what she has and starts with her fingers.

so he does the same.

working over your slippery wetness, he coats the tip of his middle finger with it, till he finds what he’s been searching for: the gateways to your heaven, your entrance. he breaches your walls with that single digit and somehow that’s enough to have you squeezing around him so tightly he wonders if blood still manages to flow to his digit.

two, three, four pumps of his hand and he’s introducing his pointer finger too, pressing them both into you to witness the ways you mould around this wider stretch, the lips of your cunt a pair of cushions his knuckles collide against each time he fucks his fingers in.

“so now you shut up. ‘s the matter, huh?” he’s contradicting himself and he doesn’t even care, too busy focusing on curling his fingers inside you, delighting in the feel of that spongy tissue they press against. “am i too borin’ for ya?”

“you’re the most infuriating man i’ve ever- oh!”

a tongue meets skin.

the knife clatters onto the counter.

you lurch forward.

his hand pulls you back.

“tess was right, ya know?” he can still taste you on his tongue, nothing more than a simple lick over your slit and your salty pleasure already seeps deep into his veins, staining his very being with the memory of his new favourite flavour. he pulls his fingers out, slipping them up to your clit. three little taps to the pulsing bud- tap, tap, tap- and he’s slipping them into his mouth, tongue working overtime to clean up every last drop of you that coats him. “that boy of yours wasn’t doin’ ya right.”

the common sense that screams at him to not feel envy over some ex-lover, someone who was likely barely even an adult at the time and no longer appears to be around, is no match for the green eyed beast that commands him to tell you, without using words, that he can do better- touch you better, protect you better, fuck you better, if you’d just let him.

‘could keep ya satisfied.

that’s a new thought, one he’s never needed before yet never wanted more, a burning ache to be worthy of your trust, affection, lust. he’ll never forget the first time he thinks it, mouth salivating at the sight of you.

“is this the part you say some cheesy line straight out a porno? what ya need is a man, a man like me!” the softness of your giggle is still sharp enough to cut through the tension, god it’s never sounded sweet, and joel finds himself freely smiling into the darkness, yet still too stubborn to laugh at the deep voice you attempt to imitate him with.

“well, was you who said it,” his mouth finds it’s way back onto your soaked heat, taking his time to work his tongue up the length of it, his saliva mixing itself in a nasty cocktail with your wetness. he imagines the air is cold against your skin, and that you like it, memory of those hardened nipples hidden beneath the fabric of your dress. “but if ya insist.”

diving in head first had always been his style, from his first lover to his last, and to now, knees aching on the kitchen floor. the tip of his tongue dances round your clit, tantalising you to grind your hips to the rhythm of his sinful touches.

licking into you, he’s reminded how much he enjoys that swelling in the chest that only comes from bringing another pleasure. 

he’d not been a perfect lover, far from it, but he’d liked to believe at one point he’d been trained by only experience that comes with age, years of touching wrong and kissing badly to learn the right ways to make those he shared a bed- or a counter, or a backseat, or a club bathroom- with see angelic white as they writhed and squirmed under his touch. you’re lucky to have him now, matured by past lovers and broadened by age, with all the knowledge he needs to open your eyes to how a man pleasures, kisses, loves.

he’s out of practice, sure, with recent years adding notches to his belt that were merely frantic, unexpected, barely undressed run-ins with strangers, in strange places, cock barely getting a moments affection before he’d be spilling his seed and tucking it, limp, back into the confines of his trousers and locking it away beneath a zip.

what a perfect excuse you are, for joel to remaster the arts of lust.

it’s messy, wet dripping down his chin and staining itself into the stubble of his growing facial hair. it’s noisy, his mouth openly groaning depraved joy into your warmth as you sing him a song of sweet euphoria, slowly building towards that crescendo on the horizon. it’s animalistic, barely human as he revokes all earthly needs such as rest, and food, and socialising, his mind, and soul, and heart, and cock all screaming in unison to spend whatever days he shall possess on his knees before you.

and all the while you writhe and wriggle, some times running away from him touch, other times rutting so far back into him that you threaten to suffocate him somewhere between your warm thighs, and sugar sweet cunt, and the two well-rounded globes of your ass. 

his only saving grace is that he can’t see you.

hearing your pretty whines, and hand-muffled moans, and heavy intakes of breath is enough to curse him for the rest of his waking days, condemned to wander the wastelands of earth knowing the noises you make on the brinks of pleasure, with a touch-starved man satiating his hunger for flesh and blood with the sugary sins of your soaked cunt.

burrowing deeper into you, his consciousness rips through the fog of his lust to curse out his perversions as the tip of his hooked nose bumps against the puckered entrance of your ass. it does nothing to stop him tearing his tongue away from your clit, flattened as he drags it over the expanse of your cunt, and over your taint, and up the crack of your behind.

“n- ah,” you can’t deny him while sounding so eager for more, the tip of his tongue now circling your back entrance, mimicking the treatment previously given to your little pearl. “no, don’t, not there.”

next time, he thinks, we’ll try that next time.

sights returned to his previous desires, he works to rip every sigh, and every whine, and every dirty little song you’ll grace him with. the sound of whatever record tess has put on in the other room becomes a safety blanket, dousing you both in the warm protection of not being overheard.

and, then, he does it, he makes the ultimate mistake.

his eyes flicker to the left and he finds himself faced with the stove that sits within bill and frank’s- and, by an extension he does not enjoy to remember, your- kitchen. there’s little that’s remarkable about the appliance, just your standard, everyday oven that he’s sure you’ve spent countless hours cooking up those comforting meals he’s come to anticipate each time tess tells him they’re due a visit.

except, the oven door is made of glass.

glass which now paints the most pornographic masterpiece for no eyes but his own. you, with hands gripping the island’s counter like your life depends on it, and the skirt of that goddamn dress he’s envied all evening for the way it got to rest against the warmth of your thighs now bunched up in your tight grip, and your head thrown back, curving your spine in a way that has him wondering about the other ways he’d be able to bend and break you beneath his touch.

 and then there’s him, down on his knees like a devotee laying himself down to worship his goddess, face burrowed in the space between your legs, mouth devouring you from behind with the help of his hands, the same ones that had strangled a man less than a day before and reigned fire down on countless others for years, that now grip the meat of your thighs to pull you back onto him, fucking his tongue into your sopping heat.

the image will haunt him more than the face of any man he’s killed.

“d’ya touch yourself, sol?” you don’t answer him, but that’s okay. in a sweet change of pace, joel miller’s perfectly fine with talking enough for the both of you. “yeah, bet ya do. late at night, right? once you’re all alone in bed. ya seem like the kind who can make herself scream.”

you back into him, smothering him under the weigh of your body. becoming his holy grail, he drinks from you like it’s the key to eternal life, and what a way of living this would be, time disregarded as nothing but meaningless while your bodies melt together in the heat of passion.

fucking his fingers back inside, he becomes frantic beneath the need to make you cry, fall completely apart with only his hands to hold you together. “let me do the honours this time though.”

you don’t scream, can’t scream, hand over mouth muffling whatever profanities and theatrical proclamations he rips from within you with the stroke of his agile tongue, the only muscle of his that’s yet to develop aches and pains. he imagines that will no longer ring true once he awakens past sunrise.

he’s unsure how much longer he works his tongue over you, slipping and sliding through the liquid pleasure, but it ends with fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him away and tilting his head up.

you’ve never looked more holy, moon casting it’s shine around you, eyes glossed with unshed tears, lips parted and swollen from the pressure your own teeth had bitten down on them with. your expression, he can’t quite read. not sad, not happy, not mad.

your eyes catch on something, abandoning his own for something closer to the floor, to which he follows and finds exactly what you’re staring at: the evidently dark patch that now stains the front of his jeans.

the discomfort of trekking back to the qz will now be tenfolds worse in the stains of his own pleasure.

“joel...” his name is nearly a beg, a prayer, an invitation. hand still in his hair, you tug, pulling him upwards off the ground. legs open wider and back arches deeper, a seductive sight that your body pleas for him with.

he swallows a groan, knees alleviated at last from the floor, and presses himself against you once more. strong arms crush you in an embrace, pulling you back into him as his head slips to rest against your shoulder. he’s capricious with the way he lets himself litter a few wet kisses over your neck, breathing in the smell of you.

“that,” you grind back into him, a torturer who takes his aged body as her victim and toys with his barely recovered cock, the cum in his trousers sticking uncomfortably to his skin. he pulls tighter on your body, grounding himself in the weight of it against his own to find the sanity to finish his sentence. “shouldn’t have happened.”

joel hopes no one awakens as he slams the door on the way out of the kitchen.

people once spoke of how the only certainties in life were death and taxes but, nowadays, the words don’t ring as true and the guarantee of life with taxes has morphed into something else entirely; a reality where death and time go hand in hand. as sure as tomorrow will arrive, death will come too, eventually. not today, however, and joel miller finds himself stood throwing a ball back and forth for a dog.

it chases and retrieves, trailing it’s happy self all the way back to him only to spit the ball down at his feet, siting and waiting to repeat the process once more. there’d been a time where this is all he’d wanted: white picket fence, dog in the yard, home-cooked meals filling a house with warmth.

that dream seems so far away now, even as he stands within it.

he cracks his back, huffing out a groan. “no, not again. my back’s fucked as it is, buddy,” with no one around to witness, joel lets himself crouch down onto his knees- both popping obnoxiously as he does so- and rakes his hand over the german shepherd’s head. it whines and makes an attempt to nudge the ball against him, protesting in the only way it can. a scratch to the ear does the trick to distract the animal, to which it tilts its head and forces itself deeper into his blunt nails. “not so bad, are ya? huh?” never in a million years did joel think he’d be talking to a dog when him and tess had set out for their routinely visit to the bill and frank’s. never would he have thought that would be the least shocking event to unfold on this trip.

he hears you before he sees you.

“you planning to make your knees familiar with every surface of this place, texas?”

he tries to rise, he truly does, but the four-legged foe he’d been petting mere seconds ago betrays him the instant it catches sight of you, charging past him and knocking him over in the process, ass to floor and head to sky.

the world above is a storm of greys, clouds swallowing one another with a looming threat of danger on the horizon and not a lick of the sun’s warmth seems to make its way through.

so instead, it sends you.

peering over him from above, hair a tangled mess, eyes a wreck of under-bags and sleepless tears, the collar of your jumper lowered just enough at this angle that he can see a tease of cleavage, you radiate a brightness like no other, more dangerous to his naked eyes than uv ray could ever be. he’s squinting again, frown etching itself on his forehead with the threat of becoming permanent soon. a few more years and his face will be nothing but frown lines and crows feet. at the very least, he considers, i’ve survived long enough to wrinkle.

the smile above him is worth a million laugh lines, a kindness laced within it that matches perfectly with the hand you hold out. when he does nothing but stare at it, you wriggle your fingers, enticing him to take a hold. he does most of the work, truthfully, but you play a part in pulling him back to his feet. upright once more, he can’t help but bask in the way he’s able to physically look down on you.

“thanks for tiring him out,” you’re the first to talk. you’re always the first to talk, and he curses you for it. “won’t need to walk him as far tonight.”

a queasy feeling overtakes him at the thought of you walking the dog alone at night, nothing but the moon to light your way. he’ll need to remember to tire the dog out next time he visits. “no problem, thanks... for feeding tess and i.”

“no worries!” you’re so kind, so good, smiling at him with a cheerful chirp in your voice. he can’t wrap his head around how you can bring yourself to treat him this way. “oh, actually, that’s why i came out here, i was looking for tess-” of course you were, when would you ever be looking for him? “hold on!”

you shoot off back inside so quickly that otis just reaches the doorway by the time you return. with an idle pet to his head as you pass by, joel once again sees, in the way such little affection can have the dog so elated, that resemblance between them you’d spoke of. in your hands, you carry an array of containers full of food- soup- each filled to the brim.

“i wanted to give you these, before you guys leave,” you’re explaining yourself, and joel wonders if it’s nerves that bring you to need constant babbling to fill any gaps of silence. he can’t imagine how he could make you nervous and therefore that thought is quick to be discarded. “i know the journey up here and back can be long, consider them a token of my appreciation towards you both for-”

“why don’t ya like me?” he cuts you off.

pathetic, he knows, but he can not stop himself, a deer caught in the headlights of your brightly burning, too-good-to-be-true, too-pure-to-be-fake personality.

you show no signs of hearing him, smile unwavering as you continue to hold out the boxes to him, “there should be enough to last you a few days, if you watch your proportions.”

it’s too much for him to handle- the food, the smiles, the sweetly glistening eyes-, and joel just has to know, needs an answer before the heat of his confusion consumes him entirely in its flames and leaves nothing but his smoking remains.

so he tries again, louder.

“why don’t ya like me?”

“and i’d probably say you’re best to heat it up, especially for tess,” you ignore him, again, lips stretching what can only be described as uncomfortably wider. “winter is sure coming in faster than last year, isn’t it?”

he grabs at your arm, fingers curling round the swell of your bicep as he speaks through gritted teeth, "answer me." like a frightened dog backed into a corner, he bares his teeth and yells his bark.

"for someone who doesn't care,” you try his patience, knowingly or not, and his grip tightens. you don’t flinch, welcoming the sting of his blunt and bitten nails against your flesh. “you sure do talk about my opinion a lot."

"answer the damn question, girl.”

“or, what?” you’ve got him there, he’ll admit, holding no real plan as to how to punish your silence. “you gonna give me the same treatment as last night?”

had he known you’d be so unabashed to mention the events on the kitchen floor so flippantly, as casually as one would speak about the weather, he’d never have dared to get on his knees. truthfully, he’d not given things a second thought, disregarding the later for the now, living in the moment with caution thrown to the wind over what the morning would bring. perhaps he’d hoped you’d been intoxicated enough to dismiss the memory as a nightmare, maybe he’d wished you’d keep away from him to free him of the volatile grip you have on his soul.

instead, you stand tall, proud, eyes fiercely staring back at his own as you challenge him to retaliate, mock you with none of those saccharine smiles you hide harsh tones behind.

joel says nothing.

“how about this, let’s make a deal, like the ones you and bill make.” inching closer, crowding in on his space and forcing him to take note of the smell of freshly cleaned clothes mixed in with your own fragrance. clean, warm, inviting, scents he’d never given meaning to before now. “you get me something, i’ll tell you what you want to know.”

he grunts out a response, hands meeting his hips as he juts out one knee, the shifting of weight between feet a perfect distraction to the rising tension in his worn-out jeans. “what d’ya want? ‘cause if it’s somethin’ like a gun, think again. i ain’t messing with none of bill’s strange politics on you havin’-”

“a dress.”

“a dress?” the statement has him quirking his brow, burning questions swimming in the depths of his eyes as he stares back at you.

“yes, and don’t look at me like that!” it’s hypocritical, he believes, for you to berate him for the looks he sends you when all you do is cast stones his way with your gaze yet shake him to his very core each time you smile. “i need a new one, my favourite one got ruined whilst making soup.”

unaware he’d even began to lean closer, joel’s quick to recoil, as if your words are bullets and his skin the target you hit on the bullseye every time. 

“joel!” his name resonates from somewhere in the house.

neither of you dare to break eye contact. again, his name is yelled. this time, he manages to identify tess as the owner of the voice. habits have him used to running to her whenever she calls, but habits have never been caught between the choice of tess or you. 

his feet remain glued to the ground.

tess yells once more and, though you speak up, you don’t dare look away. “think you might be needed inside, macho man. your missus is calling.”

“she ain’t my-”

“you two just gonna stand and stare at each other all day, or will you help a woman out already?” tess enters the scene somewhere behind you, a blur of her familiar shape standing out the front door.

only when your head spins and he no longer finds himself lost in the black of your eyes does joel take her in completely, hair clearly damp and complexion a little paled by her hungover body. in her arms, she struggles with the weight of a folded table. you approach first, he follows, his two hands aiding in carrying it out into the front yard as you retighten your grip on the boxes of soup in your arms. 

“i should probably,” laying the containers down on the now unfolded table, you fidget with the sleeves in your hands, eyes downcast with something he can only read as guilt. he decides he much prefers the fire they hold when you berate him. “go check on the food, before it burns.”

you’re in the door and out his sight before he can so much as ask you to stay.

tess and him hit the road by noon. earlier than predicted, later than he’d wished for. the bite of cold already marks the air, despite the sun heating the world with its rays. he walks a little ahead, feigning ignorance to the repeated coughing coming from tess and racking his brain for answers.

answers to why he’d never noticed how hoarse she’d been sounding till you pointed it out. answers to what awaited them both upon returning to the qz. answers to when will be their next chance to visit the safe haven bill’s created. answers to why you don’t like him.

i don’t like you, joel.

it motivates him to walk quicker, faster, racing to put as much distance between himself and that damn kitchen floor, miles upon miles not enough to rid him of the dull ache in his knees that goes hand in hand with the throb within his too-tight-jeans. if he were alone, he’d break out in a sprint. but tess is here, he’s not alone, and home will simply have to wait on the passing of time to drag him back to it.

till then, he needs to find a dress.​

[chaifootsteps]

Chai do you think any of the spindlehorse employees find it weird that their boss doesn’t seem to comprehend what Quid Pro Quo even is? Maybe some have expressed it to you, who knows. And needs it explained to her that sexual misconduct in the workplace is bad, not funny, it’s not tragic just for the abuser cause he’s lonely, and isn’t a good basis for a “soulmates” relationship? Did anybody animating Look My Way not have a moment of clarity ‘hey this plot is a little disgusting actually’ ?

Also. Wow. Helluva boss’ “romance” story is actually so toxic that it’s the reason I learned the term for this type of sexual abuse and how to recognise it in the workplace. It’s (unintentionally) told with the type of subtlety Valentino and Angel Dusts story needed. Moments of kindness but also immediate backhanded remarks, power plays, grand romantic gestures mixed with scathing ones and physical boundaries pushed, and just overall confusing behaviour. Like the constant whiplash when stolas appeared in truth seekers. The victim doubting their own memory and his friends saying it’s all in his head.

For others though, younger audiences who love gay ships in any media just for the sake of it being gay, it’s just conditioning them to see it as quirky or the responsibility of the victim to “set the record straight” and negotiate out of sex.

People are actually using it as an example of what coercion is when asked what it is, and many people say it’s taught them how to recognise abuse in their relationship. This is what “stolitz” could have been. A cautionary tale. Stolas and Valentino guilt tripping their employees using various tactics is also educational. Funny enough, if this show gave a damn about its audience that would’ve been a scene in the show, Blitzø convinces himself he’s just in “love” and even with even Millie backing this up, naively finding it cute (being a meta stand in for shippers who don’t really pay attention) Moxxie in discomfort smiles a and says nothing out of fear, and then Loona shows him a info website that even has the term “quid pro quo” in writing for the audience to see and sits down to explain to him he is very much experiencing Stockholm syndrome and abuse. Hell, this crystal thing is just the ‘flowers and chocolates’ part of the abuse cycle.

And I don’t want to go there again but the fact Viv projects onto stolas and Brandon relates to Blitzø a lot when writing him, and the fact Viv shoe horned in that romance in a way he wasn’t in a position to object to since she’s the showrunner? Eerily similar to the characters in universe power dynamic? Yeah that’s a little nightmarish.

Oh lord, remember those days when we all thought that that's exactly where all of this was leading...Blitz being hit with the realization that he is to his employees what Stolas is to him?

Seems like a lifetime ago now.

[ccalhoun]

Hihi! I was wondering if I can send a request of a Brahms Heelshire oneshot angst? The plot would be like you guys got into a fight of some sort, making him angry and violent. He would accidentally hit you or push you, or anything that can cause you death? What would be his reaction? You can decide that :D

If you decide to do it, thank you so much! No rush at all! Take your time and have a lovely day💕

≻ ┄┄ ♡ ┄┄ ≺

brahms heelshire x m!reader oneshot!

warnings: male reader, can be trans or cis, toxic brahms (its brahms lets be real), arguing, mutual comfort, mentions of blood, descriptions of abandonment, hurt to comfort

wc: 900+

cut for length!

you stormed out of your room, brahms following quickly behind you.

"wait, please! just listen to me! why are you so upset?" brahms' voice was a mix between begging and yelling at you. he was horrified you were going to abandon him and leave him (how would be survive without you)? however, he also thought you were being irrational, how bad was it really that he killed the most recent grocery boy? its not like he deserved to live, how could someone like him try to flirt on someone like you? it was disgusting, really, he views you as an angel, a higher being when all you really do is love him and sort of put up with his stalker-y bullshit. he couldn't let such a lowlife entertain the idea of doing impure things with you, obviously he had to kill the man.

"brahms! just leave me alone, i need to be alone, okay?" you snapped, still keeping you voice low but sharp. brahms let out an almost noiseless growl, barely hearing it himself.

"what's gotten into you? why aren't you listening to me?" brahms' tone now had more of an angry tone, you backed up slightly out of fear. you knew brahms loved you and just had problems with getting told no and being in healthy relationships, but he was still scary. and unstable. almost like you predicted it, he shoved you, hard, and you hit your head on the edge of a small hall table holding a vase with plastic flowers in them. the vase quickly fell off as well, smashing on the floor next to your hand. the sound not only scared you, but also made you flinch and get a few pieces of glass in the palm of your hand.

"damn!" you shouted out of shock before staying seated and trying to take deep breaths so you didn't pass out. brahms just looked at you in shock, millions of thoughts running through his head. his hands were shaking and his heart was beating in his ears, he started silently crying without even thinking about it. "brahms?" you whispered softly once you got your breathing under control and noticed the poor horrified man.

the sound of your voice woke him from his mini coma, looking at your face before starting to sob. his first thought was to get you a rag with water on it and some bandages, since thats what you used to clean him up when he got scraped. he quickly ran off to get the items despite your yelling for him to come back.

you wanted to get up and try to find him but you felt way too dizzy, you were just gonna have to wait until you could stand and walk around. hey, at least maybe he'd be more calmed down by the time you actually do find him! you started to doze off without realizing it when you heard the sound of him softly stepping close to you. your eyes slightly opening wider to look at the man in front of you. he was holding what looked like a cloth of sort and a box of band-aids, how sweet.

he carefully and slowly knelt down, making sure to avoid any of the glass on the ground. you quickly noticed the glint of silver in his hands and realize he was holding your tweezers, you instantly thought of the time he got a splinter and you used the same tweezers to get the small piece of wood out of his hand. you wanted to cry in a good way, he was being sweeter than normal and you missed seeing him like this.

"i'm so sorry," his voice was shaky and slow as he started to carefully and slowly look for glass in the cuts on your arm, trying his best to clean it up and make sure you'd be ok. it was at this point you realized he was still crying, it must have really freaked him out. your heart filled with warmth as you looked at the poor man, scaring himself because he's still trying to learn, him apologizing at all is a massive step. you were less scared, now just convinced you could help him to be even better, and make this the last time this ever happens.

"it's ok, brahmsy," you made sure to add his nickname so he listened better, you knew he loved it when you called him any nicknames, "you're still learning, it's ok. you're helping me now, you're doing such a good job," his crying seemed to stop as he froze and looked at you. the tears started up again after a minute and he hugged you tightly, avoiding your arm, letting out small 'thank you's and 'i'm so sorry's. he really did feel bad. you gave him a soft kiss on the forehead before interrupting the soft moment.

"sorry to rush you, but can you go back to getting the glass out of my arm? i want to show you how to do it properly, if that's ok with you," you smiled softly at him and he nodded slowly, handing you the tweezers and towel, setting the box of band-aids on the floor closer to you. you showed him how to find glass, take it out, clean the cut, and carefully put on the right sized band-aid, once you knew his attention was fully drawn from what happened, you relaxed as well, just enjoying showing him how to help.

and he did listen, he was able to clean up the rest of your arm without any problems <3!

≻ ┄┄ ♡ ┄┄ ≺

[zeldasnotes]

These are just for fun and I have some of these aspects myself so take these with a huge scoop of salt!🧂

Part.1

Part.2

Venus Square Neptune Stop fantasizing about marrying people who dont even know you exist. No you do not have a special connection they seriously dont even know who you are.

Venus conjunct Chiron please get over your inferiority complex you are GORGEOUS and deep down you know it. Also stop getting involved with people who you know damn well are toxic.

Chiron in the 1st house women I know guys trashtalk other women infront of you because of your obvious insecurities but just so you know they actually dont find that girl ugly they just say it because they know you wanna hear it. Oh and the worst part: The girl they told you not to worry about is always the one you should worry about😂

Scorpio Moons I know you jokingly call yourself a psychopath because you are so fascinated and obsessed with murderdocumentaries and you secretly wish you were that cold but truth is you are way too sensitive to be one.

Lilith Square Ascendant people so when are you gonna stop giving insecure guys a chance when you know they will start putting you down when they feel less than you. You know exactly what type of guy im talking about.

Sun aspecting Pluto ok thank you we know you are super dominant stop bragging about putting people in their place.

Moon aspecting Saturn stop bragging and comparing to make up for your sensitive ego and stop hating on people you consider ”weak” just because you dont know how to show emotions.

Virgo Moon ”Why do you look at the splinter in your brother’s eye but don’t notice the beam of wood in your own eye?” Mathew 7:3. But you should already know that verse since you are pretending to be a saint.

Libra Moon you are not nice just because you avoid conflict. You dont even like most people you hang out with you just cant stand being alone.

Sagittarius Moon running away from the problem wont make it go away.

Scorpio Rising its not cool to stand in the corner of a room trying to analyze whos the fake in the room. You are the fake one for putting on an act 24/7 trying to be mysterious.

Mercury conjunct Neptune stop blaming the wrong people for things just because you are overidealizing the ones who are actually hurting you.

Aquarius placements Oh you are disagreeing with everyone in the room? You are refusing to wear the latest fashion? Wow how unique

Cancer Rising you are pushing people away with your mood swings

Capricorn Risings you find literally everything innappropriate and embarrasing just stay at home if everyone and everything is making you disgusted

Uranus 1st house you dont need to give a complicated answer to every question. Everything you say doesnt have to be unique

Mercury/Pluto and Pluto 3rd house you never get tired of all these mindgames?

Leo Rising No they are not pretending to ignore you because they are jealous of you they seriously did not see you.

© 2022 Zeldas Notes

[uninformedartist]

Quick thoughts (its not quick I lied). Was reading the Google doc on the animators reviews specifically spindlehorse and saw a LOT of terrible things done and said to LGBTQA+ people in spindlehorse. Its not even funny or anything the things artists mentioned is borderline harassment, homophobic and toxic in every sense. Vivienne can go on about how inclusive her studio is, how accepting her studio and fandom is, from actual word of mouth reviews its anything but that. And it does reflect back through the show and fandom. The show has TERRIBLE representation, handling of sensitive matters, full of stereotypes and won't hesitate to cash in on fetishising the characters in extention their sexuality through merch ect. And the fandom... homophobic in most aspects, if you hate the show even if you're queer yourself they'll go on to call you slurs, harass you, doxx you in some cases and its all tolerated because you went against Vivie/you just a hater/ ect bullshit reasons. So I don't expect anything better going on behind the scenes with staff if the show and fandom is this toxic.

Now I don't like to compare but damn if you look at the owl house. Yeah its a kids show but how it handled representation, sensitive topics, lore ect is 1000 times better than helluva and thats an adult show. Anyway how Dana and her team made the owl house was with pure love and care, many artists working on the owl house loved working there and what they made (dispite Disney's bull). And the fandom for the most part is really lovely, yeah there is toxic apples but its a lovely fandom overall. I can say none of those things on Vivziepop's show and fandom, and this bullshit reasoning of "you too sensitive" "its edgy humour" "if you don't like it Don't watch" fuck off. Homophobia, harassment, making light of serious topics like abuse, rape and neglect and feeding into toxic stereotypes/fetishising of LGBTQA+ people is disgusting fuck you for seeing all of that as acceptable to do.

Chai, anyway sorry for the rant just reading that doc, it hurts it really does my heart goes out to these artists and it pains I can't do more or bring Viv to actually justice because her clean up crew (bootlickers and staff members thats her besties) cover everything up.

Back to my bigtop burger high ‎(ﾉಥ••ಥﾉ) ya'll I'm serious if you haven't seen bigtop burger by worthikids do check it out its an absolute gem on YT.

Bye :)

[yanderes-galore]

had gotten past the ep where we finally meet toxic rick yesterday ( also known as gunk! rick )

may i have a yandere toxic! rick concept or short ? you pick ^_^

Of course! Just keep in mind, there's going to be swearing if I do voicelines as that's just his character- No banner yet, will make one later ^^ Also, this an AU of the episode he's from. I had a concerning amount of brainrot for this idea so, it's a hybrid of a concept and short. Feedback is appreciated!

Note: This could seriously be a story all on its own, damn-

Color Guide

Rick - Healthy Rick

Rick - Toxic Rick

Morty - Healthy Morty

Morty - Toxic Morty

Yandere! Toxic/Gunk Rick Concept

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Swearing (Like a lot of it, I went all out to be in character), Obsession, Manipulation, Sadism, Threats, Being covered in gunk, Disgusting behavior, Using gunk to mark you (?), Biting, Possessive behavior, Kidnapping, Dark themes, Toxic behavior obviously, This character is really dark, Selfish behavior, Moral conflict, Murder mentioned, Carving names into flesh mention, Implied regular Rick is Yandere, Healthy Rick x Reader also implied, Man I am sorry you had to see me go all out on the dark toxicity in this, but gotta keep it in character, For horror purposes all of this is wrong.

- Oh... where do I even start with him?

- His base personality alone is aggressive, egotistical, and entitled.

- Although he is protective of his Morty-

- He'd be a problem for you from the start.

- Once he's out of that container, it's like you let out a demon.

- Now, let's say in this concept, Regular Rick loved you.

- He could be Yandere for you and hide it well until he seperates the toxic traits from himself.

- That means Healthy Rick still loves you, but it's like... y'know, normal?

- He treats you well, expresses affection, overall is amazing to you.

- It's a welcome change.

- Meanwhile Toxic Rick recieves all of the Yandere traits.

- While he's in that container, he's panicked.

- He can't find you.

- He sees his stupid Morty, but he can't find you!

- You still plague his mind yet he can't have you-

- He is going to, of course, blame Rick and his Morty.

- He cares for his Morty but also blames him for... everything.

- Then he hates Rick because he has you and Rick doesn't.

- "God damn it, Morty! That Rick has (Y/N). Keeping (Y/N) all for himself like the selfish prick he is!"

- It's very ironic that he thinks Rick is the selfish one.

- Once he's able to see you again, it's when Rick, Morty, and you check the monitor on the machine to fuse them with their counterparts.

- Then he sees you... and goes feral.

- "THERE YOU ARE! WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH HIM!? YOU'RE MINE, ALWAYS HAVE BEEN. GET ME OUT OF HERE, HE DOESN'T DESERVE YOU."

- Rick is suddenly upset about having to fuse with... him.

- "Agh... (Y/N), was I really like that? I'm sorry... I hope I can better myself when this is over. Go home, I'll take care of this."

- You embrace Rick, as you prefer this version, then run home.

- Rick starts screaming about this but you refuse to listen.

- You didn't want to be there when Rick has to fuse with... that-

- "Just text me when it's over...."

- This begins your long wait at home.

- You watch TV and try to put your mind at ease.

- It'll be okay, Rick is still... well himself, he'll text when things are okay.

- You get no text, much to your fear.

- You actually get a knock on the door.

- One a bit too intense.

- "Heyyy, baby, I know you're in there."

- You say nothing, backing away from the door and quickly look for an alternate route.

- "You're going to ignore me now, aren't you!? All because you think you deserve some piece of shit like that other Rick. You don't, no, you never did."

- Another bang on the door, it sounds like he threw himself at it.

- "You get to have ME. The ONLY one good enough for YOU. WHY WOULD I JUST LET YOU GET WITH SOMEONE ELSE, HUH!? Open this fucking door!"

- You refuse and leave to find your other door.

- "MORTY! BE USEFUL AND BLOCK THE OTHER DOOR."

- You're running at this point, trying to open your secondary door.

- It doesn't move and you hear whimpering from the other side.

- You panic when you hear your front door burst open.

- "I'm sick and tired of sharing...."

- You mutter 'no' as Rick corners you like a large cat.

- "Come on, baby, it's not like I'll let you leave without me anyway. Want to know why?"

- He leans closer, disgusting slimy hand touching your cheek.

- "Because. You're. MINE!"

- Toxic Rick's Yandere behavior is Obsessive, Manipulative, Possessive, Sadistic, Violent, Protective, and Egotistical.

- He makes things all about him.

- He also uses Morty against you.

- Rick gets Morty to help him keep you.

- He also makes you feel bad for Morty.

- "Love him, don't you? I love him too, but you shouldn't love him more than me. You don't, right!?"

- He's obsessive over you.

- Probably likes to spread gunk all over you in a disgusting attempt to show you're his.

- Yet that's expected of someone literally having toxic in his name.

- He's manipulative and forceful.

- He'll get you to do what he wants with threats, usually threatening you or others around you.

- Possessive... like more than Normal Rick surprisingly.

- Normal Rick atleast holds it back at times.

- Toxic Rick? No, not in the slightest.

- He does everything to show who you're meant to be with.

- Covering you in gunk, biting, violence, tight holds, he hates the idea of giving you up.

- Gets so pissed when you try to wash off the gunk, too.

- "What the hell do you think you're doing, (Y/N)!?"

- Would probably be the type of Yandere to carve his name into your flesh.

- Would be incredibly sadistic with making you in pain.

- Especially with punishment.

- He finds your pain delightful and wants you to regret considering leaving him.

- He would kill people in a heartbeat.

- Probably sets up a security system around the perimeter of your house to see if anyone comes near you.

- Especially that other Rick or any like him.

- Like with his Morty, he can be protective at times.

- Although it's hard to tell between his possessive and protective behavior.

- Lastly, he's egotistical.

- He feels he is a God over you.

- You should worship him as he is what you deserve.

- He dehumanizes you by forcing you in his lap, patting your head like you're a domestic animal.

- You cringe the whole time, feeling his gunk seep onto your skin.

- You can't get rid of it, like you can't get rid of him.

- You hope Rick is okay and is working on a way to save you....

- You miss him and Rick can tell.

- This angers him but no matter what he does, you don't change your ways.

- "GIVE HIM UP! You have me! You only need me!"

- His affection and behavior is disgusting and filthy.

- Once Rick does find you, one way or another, he's surprised at your condition.

- You're covered in flith and gunk, head to toe in green.

- You then dart towards him and cling to him, scream crying.

- "RICK! GET RID OF HIM, PLEASE, I WAS WAITING FOR YOU."

- Rick is now on edge on what he needs to do.

- If he gets rid of Rick, he'll never be himself.

- If he fuses with him, however... who's to say he won't be just as bad as this?

- Is this how he truly feels about you?

- To the point of being a monster?

- What's the right course of action in this scenario?

- He looks down at you in sympathy...

- If he fuses with Rick again, does he really deserve you?

[blorb-el]

superman: lost finale

tldr: huge L for people who want to see clark reintegrate into his life with people who love and accept him even when he doesn't feel he's 'being' correctly due to his enormous amounts of horrible trauma (me). but also huge W for people who want to look at clark ultimately addressing his trauma by doing something so batshit insane he would never ever inflict on another person but his self standards are so toxic babygirl you are SO fucked up (also me)

short plot recap: at the end of this issue, clark and hope go back in spacetime to the beginning of where he was dumped out of the space trawler's ship, and send past!clark back to earth. then the clark we've been following goes on to help the evacuation for ten years, and then become the time loop clark we saw in issue 7, warning his past self not to try to escape, while the past!clark he and hope sent back goes on to live with lois and be the in-continuity clark we're familiar with.

various disorganized notes upon this:

clois book and clois divorce book at the same time

the book is metacommentary on how editorial will never allow clark to actually have lasting effects from trauma because that's not marketable/palatable to people both inside the dcu and outside

nerds bein like 'ohhh that's not how time travel works' news flash: time travel is not real its a storytelling device. if it serves the author then it's how it works

i. loved lois in this. all throughout. i know some people think she's ooc but she's so angry and compassionate and her concern and drive is what intersects with clark's self sacrificial brain in the end to make his FUCKED UP choice it is just. tickles the brain in a capital T Tragedy way. fatal strengths/fatal flaws chefs kiss

immediately headcanoning Gatekeeper/timeloop clark to eventually become the superman-null of Strange Visitor even though i think he was visually based on Maggin's Ghost of Superman Future from Superman 416 (which, if you like time loops, you should read, and if you dont like time loops you should read anyway because it fucks). let me have this. or, i know that Gatekeeper says he's had this conversation over and over, but i would would also accept if he figures out how to break it eventually and then becomes an iterant space paladin

the hope-is-pregnant jumpscare was. fine whatever 😔 a concession to serialized storytelling demanding cliffhangers. shoutout to parthenogenesis was nice but That Aint How It Works......like That's The Point Of Asexual Reproduction You Don't Need Another Person's DNA.......

this issue was fun to read alongside the current arc of WF since mark waid is also pointing out clark's flaw of impossibly impossibly high standards for himself in the way that main universe clark is so furious and disgusted with kingdom come clark; main universe bruce has never seen him that angry before bc clark's hatred/fury/fear of his own failures is obviously usually internalized

lex's part in this book was so damn good. that egotistical genius delusional psychosexually obsessed loony. especially the bit about the paintings. stop imagining yourself in a naked wrestling match with your enemy. time to listen to les troyens i guess

throughout the whole book the art has just been. incredible. coloring lines inking the whole thing. the stylistic change in 7 was interesting, not my favorite art, but it worked bc they were in a black hole at the time. i got some of the lee weeks variant covers and they're so incredibly good.... but the mainline covers were also wonderful.

slaps roof of superman. this fellow sure can get lost

anyway. if you made it to the end low effort mspaint sillies

[secretivemessenger]

hello! can i reg about having a secret relationship with gary smith from bully videogame for the event?? 😗 gary has internalized homophobia and he treat reader like shit when they're in public, and sometimes in private even they're a couple cause gary finds it hard to believe that he fell in love with a boy. finally gary breaks up w him and told him the fworld. soon gary realizes he misses him and was the only person who ever loved him but he's still a jerk so do the ending u want thank you! 🤩

Regrets

Gary x male reader

Rating: SFW

Warnings: Homophobia! Bullying! Toxic relationship! Cheating! Manipulative behaviour! Sociopath behaviour! Break ups! Angst!

100+ Event

Being a student at bullworth academy is a living hell everyone gets bullied there for absolutely no reason , once you show them that you are incapable of self defence you are immediately targeted

And you , you are a gay man in that kind of school thats full of homophobic from top to bottom , you were destined to be targeted by them that’s why you tried to hide it

You tried so bad to blend in with the students there , yes there still was some bullying but it wasn’t as bad as it would be if they found out that you’re gay

That is until one day , you entered the main building like usual but once you were in sight all eyes were on you , judging eyes disgusted faces they were all looking for you , you were confused you had no idea what happened what so ever

So you tried to approach your one and only friend , you asked him what happened and his only response was “are you really gay” thats when it hit you everyone somehow knew the thing you’ve been trying to hide all this time

You panicked , you were scared of how things are gonna turn out and your friend who you thought would back you up looked at you with such disgusted eyes “if your really gay , does that mean you like me” he asked you while backing away

That broke you completely not even your friend was on your side , and when you kept silent the only thing he did was simply back away then run off and he hasn’t talked to you since then

And it all went down hill from there , everyday people would talk about you whisper the nastiest things in your presence knowing damn well you can hear every little word they say , that was how the normal students treated you the group leaders are a different story

It’s like they wanted to make your life more miserable than it already was , there are tons of students with bad history but they targeted you personally , it turned you into and outcast you thought you life here would just continue to be like this

But that all changed when gary came , he was your first crush you really liked him but with everything that’s going on you knew it would be hard , and you were pretty sure it’s one sided attraction until he confessed to you one day

You called yourself the luckiest man , you thought by dating the boy you like you would finally have a happy life at bullworth academy but you were proven wrong

Its been few months now since you dated gary it was not as amazing as you thought it would be , when you first started he made it clear to keep it a secret you understood what he meant , his reputation would fall and he might end up in a situation even worse than yours

At the beginning of the Relationship it was all lovey dovey but after a while his behavior changed completely , the way he would treat you infront of everyone , he would always call you names push you around and act like a total jerk

Even in your private life it’s actually worse , you can’t count how many times he would curse at you , how he would sometimes push you away harshly if you tried to get too close him even if no one’s there

You even walked in on him kissing another girl literally cheating on you and when he saw you he couldn’t care less and continued what he was doing , you never felt more miserable than you felt that day

You tried to confront him saying you can’t live this life anymore , hearing your words he almost cried he spilled everything that happened in his life too you told you about his parents about his personality disorder’s

It broke your heart you couldn’t help but forgive him , you know he’s saying this to guilt trap you but you still couldn’t leave him , it’s like the moment you started dating invisible robes wrapped around you locking you up to Gary , he had effects on you he can easily control you and he knows it

Gary smith always wondered why he fell in love with you , the fact that he fell in love with a man disgusted him so bad , he can’t help but feel grossed out of all the things you two did together and he feel more grossed out from his own feelings

His heart that keeps beating whenever he was with you , whenever you looked at him with that beautiful face , whatever it was he was convinced that it was your fault if it wasn’t for you he wouldn’t have caught these feelings

One day you were walking around and you saw gary hooking up with another girl , and when she asked him about you all he said is how much of a disgusting person you were and how he’s been using you all this time

You were too blinded by him to not realize how he really is , no you knew from the beginning how he was but you were just stalling , but now your finally ready to face reality

“What is wrong with you” you screamed at Gary’s face and all he did is look at you with annoyed face “what is it now” he said with a tone of boredom “what do you mean , you just cheated on me”

“So what it’s not like this is the first time” Gary said which made you look at him in shock before he continued “if you hate it this much then why are you still here , if you can’t handle me then maybe you shouldn’t have dated me to begin with”

His words were like knives stabbing through your heart , your heart was aching you finally realized what this is , your relationship has always been toxic you were just blinded by your emotions but you now finally can see things how they really were

“Then let’s end this” you said looking at him with cold eyes , you turned around never looking back , and gary was too lost in his anger to process what was going on “yeah scram you fucker , run away” his screams were completely ignored by you , your now back alone but for some reason you actually feel much better now

As for gary , after few days it all finally hit him when he didn’t see you greet him in the morning like you usually do , when he didn’t see you following him around the hallways like always , for some reasons it pissed him off so much

And then jimmy came the perfect distraction , but it didn’t go as planned gary got expelled which was the total opposite of what he anticipated , and The one thing that came to his mind as he’s leaving school is you without realizing it his body is moving on it’s own

And in no time he found himself standing infront of you “gary I heard what happened” you said with a worried tone breaking the ice but he ignored your words “im sorry , i realized that i still love you… yes i was an asshole but I changed i swear please take me back” he blurted out

You would’ve believed him if it wasn’t for his crazed eyes looking at you “im sorry but I already moved on , i hope you have a good life and get the opportunity to change in a place better than this school”

Those where your last words before you turned around giving him your back as you walked away again , he couldn’t believe it he thought with some sweet words you would come back running to his arms , he was left in great shock looking at you walking figure

He felt the sudden urge to run after you but his prideful personality wouldn’t let him , “ yeah run off you gay fag , I don’t need someone like you in my life anyways” he screamed at you but you kept walking

Looking down to the ground disappointed you whispered for yourself to hear “changed my ass”

[crimsonxe]

Rant below the cut

Its 2023 and people are still pissing me the fuck off with shit Blake takes and ignoring fucking canon. The current pile of sludge capable of typing saying how they don’t “believe” that Blake actually left to protect anyone. That she just left cause of being a coward. Oh and how Blake is as toxic as Adam for leaving. 

Also that Yang should’ve “ripped her head off” for leaving her (and that is actual wordage used). That Yang was just filled with rage and resentment without any care for Blake post-v3 (y’know cause her gently stroking Blake’s image in a picture, saying how she wanted to be there for her, and having AtM being a song essentially about wanting to be with her even if it means risking her pride totally goes towards her not caring). 

Meanwhile according to them: Sun isn’t a stalker and “did nothing wrong” in v4 (yet trying to say that Yang also violated Blake’s boundaries back when first meeting her because she tried to introduce Ruby and Blake; which is totally on par with Sun’s eavesdropping on a majorly emotional and vulnerable conversation between a father and daughter w/ the latter being a survivor of abuse); somehow got the impression that Blake actually opened up to him more than Yang; and has shown more affection towards him than Yang. 

Proof that some veins of people even now have never watched the actual show and live in their own bullshit delusion bubble that is disgusting, misogynistic, and homophobic af. 

Blake is a badass that deserves to be loved in only the way Yang the walking sun that is completely fallen head-over for her can do. Sun is a bro that would tear these shitlords into pieces for their shit. UGH I think I need a damn shower because of their shit.

This is also in the comment section of a vid from a far/soy-leftist that tries to call BB QB, so gives some insight into the people that flock to that type of vid and showing how far left and right practically overlap due to their bullshit.

[malewifehenrycooldown]

a very long post about bateman, and how i made a mistake liking him in the first place and should have shut that shit down when it started. the prioritization of my white feelings have gotten people hurt and its best to acknowledge that I was wrong for even liking him in the first place.

i really don't want to make a post like this but i just want to ask people to please stop associating me with bateman. I know my feelings were quite strong for him however I should have never liked him to begin with and I should have stopped liking him much earlier. i unfortunately prioritised my white feelings over the comfort of real people and honestly after thinking about it, its just not worth it anymore.

I get I should be self-indulgent but sometimes your feelings for fictional characters can get real people hurt and its your responsibility to accept that fact and own up to it. To my detriment I now recognize that liking bateman was the wrong thing to begin with. sure he has all the social commentary behind him as a character, but honestly that is too late and inexcusable. I was catering to my own feelings over the actual lives of other people who are negatively affected by the character's actions, I've lost friendships over it and now I have to deal with the consequences of my own actions, of which I do deserve. It should also be noted that unfortunately the original commentary of the character has been twisted to become a trojan horse that looks funny but actually peddles and pushes harmfully shitty ideas onto young impressionable audiences in the real world who don't have the full context or understanding of the source media.

When people think of bateman they don't think of the actual in-depth commentary left by Ellis or Herron, no, they think of the vile viral videos that endorse shitty 'alpha sigma whatever bullshit wolf pseudoscience label' ideas onto impressionable young amab teens who are confused and scared about the wider world and how it leaves them to internalize toxic ideas of masculinity. hence why people are reasonably disgusted by him.

I should have known better to even entertain the idea of liking him, and I should have cut myself away from all of his source material to begin with. Real people have gotten hurt due to the nature of the character and the source, I can't forgive myself for that, my reckless self-indulgence has caused real discomfort and harm to other people, I feel that I should have noticed it sooner and dropped him earlier. Hence, why to me, its not really worth liking him in it in the long run, plus like there are so many other much better slasher-like characters out there that don't have the same amount of controversial baggage as bateman has.

I do genuinely want to apologies to people that have felt genuinely hurt by me for liking bateman. Your discomfort is absolutely valid and you have every damn right to not accept any apologies from me, because I have to work for that forgiveness, i have to work hard to earn that respect back. if you've blocked me in the long run, i don't blame you, I'd probably do the same thing too. Sure the heart yearns for what it wants but sometimes you NEED to put that thinking cap back on and priortise other people's safety over your own feelings and that's a good learning experience.

Unfortunately, also I realise that I've put my thinking cap on way too late, and I don't think anything i do is really going to fix that even if I try as hard as a I can. But at the same time it's better to acknowledge that you're wrong as opposed to taking the cowards way out and doubling down, not bothering to learn from the mistakes to begin with.

The only other takeaway from this is that I do acknowledge that american psycho as a piece of media in general is a fantastic litmus test to know the level/understanding of a person's media literacy skills, which is pretty valuable in my opinion. If that's some silver lining I can take away from this, then that's okay with me.

If you made it all the way to the end, thank you for taking the time to read this, however it's up to you if you still want to interact with me and I won't blame you for not wanting to interact with me anymore.

Also before anyone asks, I'm actually not as heartbroken about it at all, however i am disappointed in myself for letting it happen in the first place and I should have just. you know. not enacted upon said crush to begin with. I've deleted many posts involving patrick but there's probably some that i've missed and i'l do my best to search through my blog to find them and delete the rest.

[discoscoob]

All I keep thinking about in regards to the St//ddie situation is: some people on the internet are trivializing homophobia again to give their narrative some meat. It has happened before in fandom and it always will, but it’s crazy to think that in 2022, some people still haven’t understood what homophobia actually is and what its /real/ effects in life are (and to think that they’re actually comparing effects such as hate-fueled murder, assault, etc. to someone disagreeing with them… damn). Ain’t no one homophobic for hc-ing a character as bi or straight rather than gay. It really goes to show how desperate some of these toxic peeps are that they’re misusing a hateful and disgusting trait to dehumanize and villainize normal, possibly actual LGBTQ+ people over the fact that they might not vibe with a ship. Personally, I’m as open-minded as one can be (I’d describe my sexuality as /hot people/ no matter their gender, genitals or whatever), yet I have already been called homophobe just because I said I see no real romantic chemistry between two characters that are portrayed as rather straight. Sorry to all the people out there who cannot accept that a character which has been shown to lust after women only doesn’t strike me as super gay and not that bi either. But maybe I’m just getting too old for this shit.

Every time I see someone assume/invalidate someone’s sexuality over a ship, it’s so shitty.

They call people straight for shipping a m/f ship. I’m bisexual, I’m proud of that, it’s part of who I am and I don’t want it to be invalidated because of something as trivial as a fictional ship.

These people have no respect for real peoples sexualities because they’re too busy yelling about people not respecting their headcanons of fictional characters sexualities.

[magnificentnightmarepolice654]

So, am I the only one who has seen so many god damn fics on this site and on others all having waterfalls in their pants over yanderes? Like I hope im not the only one who thinks its kinda fucked that so many people keep thirsting over the idea of being stalked and abused. Also fun fact, several of said posts also have bpd in the tags which is just disgusting and offensive torwards people with bpd and mental health issues in general who are already stigmatized by media at large as being violent serial killers, they dont also need carol from Nebraska saying she gets turned on by being treated like garbage and she wants them to do it to her. To clarify, I myself struggle with my mental health and have been in toxic relationships so Im really grossed out that people genuinely seem to want that and treat it like its an uwu cutesy quirk of their s/o. Finally I can't help but notice that when a man is a yandere or when the gender is not defined its sexy, bad boy toughness but when its specifically a woman its either creepy and violent or cute uwu baby girl, just saying. Tldr, there should be more posts and fics about standing up to and fighting abusers, along with postive rep for bpd and metal health conditions in media, when a man is a controlling asshat its not hot, and people who abuse and try to control you dont actually love you, dont fool yourself into thinking they do.

[get-bitches]

"it's ok to be an enabler if the other person is a bitch"

the thing about some toxic relationships in cartoons these days is that they'll have the husband/dad who's a fucking distant father figure asshole or hes just a pussy but then to redeem the asshole husband/dad they'll make the wife/mom a huge abusive bitch that's supposed to be viewed as a horrible, unforgivable, disgusting person with 0 redeeming qualities and its supposed to just completely redeem the guy so little tik tok twitter kids who collect mental disorders like its motherfucking pokemon go can justify calling them a uwu wholesome smol gay bean who must be protected at all costs and whatever tf mfs on this website say idk my father's still in my life. even though no, the guy's still a fucking asshole. you cant just automatically redeem a character and say they're actually a good person just because the girl is a bitch because the guy's still an asshole and being in an abusive relationship does not justify it because he still chooses to be an asshole. and no this isnt me saying like the writers are sexist because that doesnt automatically equal being sexist, that's dumb and i'm not a bitch. i'm just saying completely antagonizing one party and letting the other get off scott free just cuz they got trauma is lazy writing. maybe you can fool dumb people on twitter but ya ass cant fool me. damn that last sentence sounded gay that's crazy.

[slashersgostabbystabstab]

Unfortunately im pretty sure the transphobic remarks Re: The Unknown are actually being made solely because the VA is trans. No one was saying anything like that before the VA was known, even after the outfits came out. Its pretty disgusting. last I saw she said she was on good terms with BHVR, and she had made a post of her playing as the unknown, but she's since deleted it so... idk. I'm kind of waiting to see what BHVR says, but at the same time i worry if they acknowledge it that'll bring it to more people's attention, which will only make the situation worse. at the least, she's said that she doesn't find the unknown itself to be transphobic as a design/character concept, so there's that small upside i guess.

its just really unfortunate all in all, but at the same time it wouldve happened no matter who she voiced; I saw people who thought she voiced sable making transphobic remarks regarding sable. people were going to be like this no matter what, but the mimic nature of the unknown just made it much, much worse. and of course people are going to nitpick anything she says because you cant react emotionally or these people will call you a snowflake and use it to justify their behavior. it really sucks. i dont think BHVR themselves were being malicious, nor does the VA as far as ive seen, but it was clearly not thought out well at all.

Yeah I can understand that, it's disgusting how people will just turn around on something because of someone's identity. And yeah I did see something of her saying she's on good terms!

And that's true on it happening no matter the character she voiced. Once again, it's repulsive how people act and I hope things settle down as best as possible but...this community is so damn toxic.

[kupussy]

''Ohh why do you wanna leave the TF fandoom?''

CW: Mentions of grooming, rape, Getaway, Trepan

ITS SO TOXIC AND GROSS IM ACTUALLY GONNA CRY im so done with peopel constantly romanticizing groomers (GETAWYA, FUCKING GETAWAY THE DISGUSTING ONE THAT LOOKS LIKE A MINION HAVING ITS FACE SMASHED IN WITH A FRYINGPAN YES THAT ONE) LIKE... JESUS CHRIST.

this fandom is in total shambles and gosh i feel actual anger like, seeing people like a character so gross and even more- not just getaway but also trepan, a full on rapist like hello??? have you NOT READ MTMT EIM GANSFIDAHBVFWFNHSCVSDFOI im sorry i just have to let it out but im seriously i just cant with any of these people

transformers has has the worst people EVER in this damn fandom to the most disgusting people i've ever met/gen, it's actually so annoying seeing people be the most careless people just because these characters are ''robots'' like christs sake get AHOLD OF YOURSELF

this is why im full on just dragging myself into new fandoms like TMA, Faith, Ultrakill, AVP and on and on- i seriously hate the tf fandom sm bc CONSTANTLY i see weird and actually disgusting people EVERYWHERE with huge platforms n stuff- like i've spoken with other tf fans that are also my friends abt some other tf fans that are like- big on some platform, and ends up that person is utterly disgusting because they're fetishizing the most horrid stuff ever and simply excuse it with ''ohh it's just a robot'' istggddsalmkmnnm

i've met absolutely HORRID people in this fandom, like actually disgusting people in here- full on ADULTS have harrassed me for stating a very VERY obvious opinion of ''hey, this character (getaway) is fucking disgusting, why do you even like him'' and my god the answers i've heard makes me wanna strangle someone- like WHAT DO YOU MEAN THAT YOU'LL DEFEND HIM BC HE'S HOT?? HE'S SO UGLY I'D RATHER KMS THAN EVER BE AROUND THAT MAN.... yes im judging your taste, because WHO EVEN WOULD LIKE A GROOMER???? jesus christ im just angry today i am NOT sorry i will hate getaway 4ever and ever