#fuck frank miller in particular

[toyotacorrola]

like holy shitttttttttt. fuck i ran out of space in the tags

[thelastofhyde]

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

read on ao3. series masterlist. next chapter.

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 deadweight.

“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 deadweight, 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 too 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 smothering you both in a mockery of greyed tones- truthfully, it is the disappearance of the sun behind 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 its 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’d 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 that you think no one has noticed. Because he has, he always notices the little details that surround you. “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?”

tThis he likes less than the image of you with some fella, the thought of having to lay upon a mattress on which Tess has raised you to heaven on 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 gives 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.

“iIm 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, 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 just 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 that seem 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 digging themselves into the waistband of your panties and around 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 suddenly, 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 experience that only 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 remaining 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 out 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 a hand 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 rays 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 breaking through the clouds and heating the world with its rays. He walks a little ahead, feigning ignorance to the repeated coughing coming from Tess and wracking 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.

[bumblepony]

Tess Lives Fic Rec (No Outbreak Version)

Here are my Tess Lives fic recs in no particular order! These are all fics where no outbreak happens. I have a separate list of Tess in the QZ fics coming in the next couple of days.

Making Mirrors, a Tess/Joel Modern AU by @hypnotisedfireflies - A parallel universe to Drifters - the life lived had Cordyceps not conquered the world. - Mature

Tin Star, a Tess/Joel Western AU by @hypnotisedfireflies - The Sheriff and the Outlaw: sweethearts, bandits, soulmates. Magic horses. - Mature

Night Fever, a Tess/Joel 1970s AU by @hypnotisedfireflies - 1970s Bodyguard/Boss AU. - Mature

Of Artists and Architects by @emilylawsons - A Cordyceps-Free Tessjoel AU. - Mature

littlest digit, you've got the world by the handle by @ketchupchipsaregross - Ellie turns one surrounded by family.

smoke, ash, and strays by @ketchupchipsaregross - Joel (a firefighter) just wants to do his job and go home smelling like a campfire, it'd be great if the raccoon child from the alley would let him do that in peace.

dodors (and other birds) by @ketchupchipsaregross - How Tess and Joel accidentally restarted parenting in their 40s.

put it down in the pleasure of your company by Nyxierose on AO3 - "Normal functional people who live in mid-ring suburbs occasionally ask favors from people nearby and it’s not weird at all." Or, in which Tess gets into a lot more than she plans, but what else is new. - Mature

sweeter than sin by @raffinit - MODERN AU: Joel is a single dad of tweeny bopper Sarah. Tess is a single mom of teeny bopper Ellie. They've established a pretty comfy routine of being strictly fuck buddies. Until they're not. - Mature

the conjuring by @bradfordchens - Married demonologists Joel and Tess Miller hunt the supernatural together, all while raising two daughters.

we could walk forever, walkin' on the moon by @boopernatural - The one where Joel, Tess and Ellie take a family road trip to see a shuttle launch.

If I Had To Stay In A Haunted House With Anyone, It Would Always Be You by Steph_Puppet on AO3 - If someone had told Joel a few years back that he would end up traveling across the country with a self-proclaimed medium, sending ghosts back to where they belonged, he would not have believed them.

This section includes stories in which Tess is a Part of the story, but the story revolves more around a different pair's dynamic. So, Tess is more of a supporting cast member. These are still great stories, but Tess is just not a primary player.

a light in the dark of this danger (bookshop!au) by @two-birds-alone-together - The Bookshop AU! Joel Miller owns The Back Shelf, a bookstore located in Back Bay. He has no idea that his life is going to change when a girl walks into the store on an oppressively hot Boston day.

Ellie Williams' Guide to Teenage Rebellion by @simoncowellstits - Ellie is the president's Daughter, and Joel is her secret service agent.

Right Where We Belong by cauldron_zeta on AO3 - Frank has upheaved his life to move to almost the middle of nowhere. His closest neighbour isn't really a people person but Frank has always liked a challenge. - Mature

Compassionate Friends by @mildredellie - Ellie & Joel meet at a grief support group they were both forced to attend.

move so quickly (it can't catch me) by @howtotrainyourdoofus - Ellie navigating her first job as a professional ballet dancer and all the joys and strife that come with it.

Stubborn Love by @renegadeknight - Your favorite feral father-daughter duo repackaged, now with 95% less zombies and 99% more modern problems (golfing isn’t one of them)

world around you by @boopernatural - Joel's first date in two decades gets interrupted when his kid needs him.

To Have Loved Someone by Joels_revolver on AO3 - On her way back to Jackson, Ellie is teleport into a world where the cordyceps doesn't exist and Joel is very much alive.

At the end here, I am adding a few authors who have written so many good Tess Lives stories it's best to just go pursue their AO3 pages.

tessaservopoulos - @bradfordchens on Tumblr - Mature

Glitter_Gecko - @seethesunny on Tumblr - Mature

sillylily07 - Mature

Last, I am going to add my Tess Lives fics under the cut because I really am not trying to toot my own horn, but I want to have them on the list so I can have them all in one place.

Fate Makes Fools of Us All - Tess is Ellie's foster mom AU. - Mature

A Soul For Sale Or Rent - Ellie is a Ghost, and Joel is the only one who can see her. She needs his help to figure out what happened to her before it's too late.

In Another Time and Another Place - Joel and Tess meet at a bar in an Alternate Universe where the Cordyceps Outbreak never happens. - Mature

Ashes denote that Fire was - Behind Closed Doors - The Firefighter Joel Miller AU that only a few people asked for and I just had to write it. - Mature

Construction Corner with Joel Miller - Joel has his own TV Show on HGTV and Ellie is a foster kid who comes on as a helper and things progress from there.

And Baby Boy Makes Four - An AU where no apocalypse happens, and Joel has two kids with his ex-wife, Sarah, and a son called Junior.

[albertasunrise]

Seeing Things - Oops Baby

Masterlist

Summary: Being best friends with Frankie meant movie nights, drinks with the guys and a shoulder to cry on when you got your hear broken. He is head over heels for you but you don’t feel the same… yet a drunken mistake will tie your lives together forever!

Relationships: Frankie Morales x Reader

Warnings: Like AO3 I choose to give none. Read at own risk. 18+ (So... I am trying to update my other pics but the reaction I getting from this ones really giving me the motivation to continue it... so thank you and I hope you enjoy this update! ♥️ It's not a super long one but everything gonna become clear I promise!)

Series Masterlist - Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

In the weeks that followed, the sightings of you only increased. You seemed to be everywhere he looked, asking him the same thing over and over again. 

Come back to me

He wished he knew what you wanted. Surely you didn't want him to leave little Esme? You would never have wanted him to hurt himself so why did you ask him to go back to him? You were dead!

"I brought you your favourites." He stated plainly as he pulled out the old bouquet of flowers Ben had brought you the week before. He poured out the stagnant water and replenished it with some from the bottle of water he'd stashed in his pack. Then, just as you had shown him on one of the many evenings you'd spent together, he arranged them carefully, sure to make sure they were just how you would have liked them. 

"I'm sorry I haven't visited sooner." He said as he got to his feet and rubbed the back of his neck nervously "Things have been busy with the baby and work... Don't want to bore you with the details but ya know... It's been hard." He let out a long sigh as he scraped his hand over his face to wipe away the traitorous tears that tracked down his cheeks "Esme's getting so big so fast." He continued "You should see her Titch, the spitting image of you! With the addition of my hair and eyes." He chuckled. 

His eyes traced over the words carved into your headstone. 

The words Here Lies carved in an elegant font followed by your first name and last name, 'Titch' at the end by request of Ben

Friend and Mother 

Forever loved

Never forgotten

Ben had selected the words. Frankie hadn't been able to bring himself to do it so the younger Miller had stepped up. Taking the 'anything I can do to help' statement he'd made to Fish when you'd died so literally. 

"Seeing you everywhere is killing me Titch." Frankie said after a short pause "Is this what you meant? Come to me, did you mean this? Because I am wracking my brains baby, trying to understand what it is you want from me." He sobbed "The guys all think I'm losing the plot but I know you're there. Just out of eyeshot or something and I know you're trying to tell me something so please... help me understand Titch." 

He paused, his eyes locked on the headstone as he let out a shaky breath before pleading one last time. 

"Please..." 

"Frankie." Your voice made him just and his head shot up, scanning the surroundings for you. 

"Frankie please..." You pleaded "Please don't leave me." 

No matter where he looked he couldn't see you. But he could hear you like you were right beside him. 

"What do you mean?" He begged, tears openly spilling down his cheeks "I'm here Titch... Baby I'm here!" 

"Please don't leave me, Frankie." You repeat, your tone breaking his heart as he desperately looked for you among the headstones "I can't do this without you." 

This statement let Frank's brows draw together. What did you mean by that? He was the one who'd been left behind. Your pleads disappeared like smoke on the wind and Frankie was left with the sound of his own breathing and the rattling of branches. He pressed his palms firmly against his eyes as he tried to slow his breathing, his pounding heart hammering against his ribs. 

"I can't do this." He whispered to no one in particular, allowing the dam to break "Fuck I can't... I can't cope with this." 

You didn't say anything else and Frankie audibly groaned before pushing himself to his feet. He didn't understand why you were doing this. Torturing him. He wasn't sure how much more of this he could take. 

...

"Well, ain't that better Lil' Titch?" Ben said as he finished fastening her babygrow "Uncle Ben's not so bad at this huh?" 

Esme smiled in reply, her legs kicking and arms waving in visible excitement before he scooped her into his arms and planted a big kiss on her cheek. She settled quickly on his shoulder and he smiled as she let out a little sigh and closed her eyes, falling asleep almost instantly. 

"Shit Titch... I wish you could see how perfect she is." He whispered as he placed a kiss on the infant's brow.

"Hands off... she's mine." Frank teased as he walked into the lounge, grinning as his best friend cuddled his daughter so closely.

"You gotta share the baby Fish!." Ben chuckled as he gently gingerly sat on the couch. 

“Yeah, yeah...” Frank grumbled as he waved off his friend, traipsing to the kitchen to fetch a beer. 

“How’d it go?” Ben asked when the older man reappeared, giving him a sympathetic smile as he watched him sit on the armchair across from him. 

“How’d what go?”

“Seeing Titch!” 

“Was fine.” Frankie shrugged, fooling no one once again. 

“There’s something you’re not telling me.” Ben pushed and Frankie groaned. 

“Ben…”

“You gotta talk about this shit man!” Ben pushed, pleading with his eyes for his friend to just open up to him. 

“You won’t believe me!” 

“Why would you-“

“I heard Titch again.” Frank snapped, keeping his voice low so he didn’t wake his baby. 

“What do you mean you heard her?” 

“I keep hearing her talking to me. Sometimes I see her and she always says the same thing!”

“Which is?” 

"To go back to her." Frank replied, scraping a shaky hand over his face. 

"Go back to her?"

"Yes, Ben!" He snarled "And today she was begging me not to leave her!" He choked "But she left me Ben!... I loved her and she left me all alone..." He trailed off as he broke down into tears, head in his hands. 

Ben got up and placed Esme in her Moses basket with practised ease before sitting on the arm of the chair Frank was sitting in and pulling him close. 

"I can't do this..." He sobbed and Ben sighed "I don't know what she wants from me." 

"Fish... this is just your brain's way of holding onto her." Ben sighed "We all deal with grief in different ways... Shit, I keep listening to the last voicemail she left me over and over again just so I don't forget her voice!" 

"No!" Frank all but shrieked "That's not what this is Ben! It's her I know it is!" 

"You can't seriously believe Titch is haunting you, man!" Ben sighed as he stood up to check on Esme as she started to fuss. 

"I don't know how else to explain it, Ben!" He growled "I keep seeing her everywhere and she keeps repeating the same thing over and over!" 

"Fish-" 

"But then today she said something different." Frankie interrupted " She begged me not to leave her... Told me she couldn't do this without me..." He trailed off whilst nervously pacing his lounge "What does that even mean? She can't do this without me... She can't be dead without me? Doesn't make any fucking sense!" 

"Fish... Man, you need to calm down!" Ben pleaded, noting how breathless the pilot has suddenly become "This won't be doing your heart any good man!" 

"My heart's fine!" The older man grumbled.

"You say that but this can't be good for you!" Ben warned "Just take a breath man... I believe you, okay! I believe you saw her." 

"You're just saying that." Fish scoffed, rolling his eyes when Ben frantically shook his head. 

"I'm really not okay!" The younger man pleaded "Just... Just please." 

Frankie sighed as he ran a shaky hand through his mussed hair. His eyes then drifted to Esme who was staring over at him with her large, teary eyes. His heart ached and he was quick to scoop her up into his arms and lay a soothing kiss on the crown of her head. 

"I'm sorry baby girl." He whispered as he bounced her gently in his arms "I just miss your mummy so much." 

"We all do brother." Ben said as he placed a comforting hand on Frankie's back "I'm not trying to say that I even remotely understand the pain you're feeling brother but know that I miss her so much it hurts... And that I am here! Whatever you need..." 

Frankie nodded, giving his friend a weak smile before resting his cheek on the top of Esme's head. 

"I know Ben." He said softly "Thanks." 

"Any time." Ben replied, giving his friend a friendly wink before grabbing his stuff to leave "See you tomorrow for dinner yeah?" 

"Sure." The pilot replied softly "See you then." 

...

"Why the fuck did you pick a restaurant that didn't have a parking lot asshole!" Ben grumbled as he pushed Esme's pram along the pavement, the steep hill making it a little harder. 

"It had good reviews okay!" Will grumbled, "It's not that bad!" 

"You're not the one pushing a pram up a 90-degree hill!" Ben grumbled, pulling a smirk from Frankie. 

"You offered brother!" Frank pointed out, sniggering at the groan that he received in reply "I can take her if you're struggling."

"I am not struggling!" Ben argued and Fish threw his hands up in surrender.

"We're nearly there!" Will piped up "Just across the street."

The three of them reached the crossing, breathing a small sigh of relief when the restaurant came into view. Will crossed first with Ben following closely behind him. Something had distracted Frankie, leading him to step out a few steps behind his friends but your voice calling his name stopped him in his tracks and he looked to his left, your figure illuminated by a bright white light. 

"Come back to me." You pleaded as you always did and Frankie froze. Tears sprouted as he looked at you smiling back at him as you held your hand out to him "Come back to me." 

You disappeared as quickly as you appeared, a horn sounding before Ben screamed his name. Then suddenly he was flying for a brief moment before his body connected with something solid and he rolled over it before hitting the ground with a sickening crunch. 

"FISH!!" Ben screamed as he ran to the pilot's side, hands shaking as he took in his friend's condition "Fish stay with me." He choked as he saw how bent and broken the older man looked.

Frankie winced as he turned his head, noting how Will was standing with the pram as he frantically spoke to who he assumed was the emergency service on his phone. He also noted that the driver who had hit him was nowhere to be seen. 

Hit and run. 

"Ben." He coughed after he spoke, blood filling his throat at an alarming rate. 

"Shhhh." He hushed the man and stroked his hair, desperately trying to keep himself together "Just keep breathing for my Fishsticks!" He pleaded 'Please don't leave me..."

His last statement blended into yours. He could hear you again, pleading not to leave you and he only felt more confused. He was dying... it was clear that he was so surely he was going back to you. 

Surely you should be happy?

"Please, Frankie... Please don't leave me." 

You pleaded... your voice shaky. 

"I'm coming Titch." He whispered. His eyes fell shut as darkness took him. 

"What's happening?" You sobbed as hands moved you from the room.

"He's crashing!" Stated someone in the room and you shook your head as you were pushed into the hallway, still able to see everything through the glass walls of Frankie's room. 

"Please, Frankie... Please don't leave me." You sobbed "Please..." 

Another set of hands pulled you away but not before you witnessed them shock the man you loved, desperately trying to restart the heart that was supposed to save him. You were placed in a room where you had spent more time than you cared to remember in the past month and a half. Hours sat waiting for news on whether Frankie was going to pull through. 

He'd gotten the heart he so desperately needed yet for close to two months he'd been in a coma, fighting battle after battle. This was just the latest in a long list of complications he'd suffered. 

Kidney Failure... Infection... His body had even rejected the donor heart but that was something they had managed to detect early. It seemed his body just refused to get better, even if his mind wasn't willing to let go. 

"What's happening?" Asked Ben as he stepped into the room after being directed here by a nurse, his brows tightly drawn in concern. 

"He crashed." You sobbed as you threw your head into your hands.

"What?... What caused it?" 

"I don't know." You replied, shaking your head "They dragged me in here as they tried to bring him back... I haven't heard anything yet." 

Ben nodded solemnly as he sat down beside you, handing you Esme when you held your arms out to receive her. You needed to hold your baby. 

"Why won't he get better Ben?" You sobbed as your eyes locked with his.

"He's really poorly." He replied softly "He needs time to get better." 

"But that's just it... He's not getting better!" 

"He will, Titch." Ben assured you and you sighed. 

"How do you know that?" 

"Because he's got something to fight for." He stated plainly. 

The two of you then sat in that room for what felt like hours, glad of Esme to keep you somewhat distracted from what the outcome of this latest setback might be. The doctor appeared sometime later. His expression was difficult to read. 

"How is he Doc?" Ben asked, holding your free hand tightly in his. 

"We managed to bring him back." The doctor announced, "He's weak and we have had to up his anti-rejection meds." 

"He's rejecting the heart again?" 

"He never technically stopped." The doctor stated "We have been able to keep it under control with medication. He seems to be responding well though and we're hopeful." 

You both breathed a simultaneous sigh of relief, glad that finally, something was going right. 

"There's something else though." The doctor stated and both you and Ben shared a grim glance before looking at the doctor again. 

"What is it?" You asked, your voice shaking slightly. 

"He's awake." 

Next

For updates follow @albertasunrise-ficsblog

[crosbyism]

now I must know who you consider outrageously hot. sid? nate? other non-hockey fellows?

lmao ok anon ur on. to be frank while sid and nate both scratch very specific itches in my aesthetic brain and i go heart eyes AWOOGA every time nate wears what i call his “assassin outfit” (the travel day one where he’s wearing a turtleneck), that is like. my favourite food. y’know? like i recognise that those men are very hot to ME, specifically, and not necessarily objectively so hot you can’t look at them directly. my fave restaurant, which is not listed in the guide michelin or the san pellegrino top 100. you know what i mean.

there are VERY few men in the nhl i would even consider for the “can’t look at him directly” drop dead gorgeous intimidatingly hot category. i’m talkin’ palm sweat, can’t look them directly in the eyes when you shake their hand kinda hot. the type of hot that makes you self-conscious about even looking at them, where you have to remind yourself not to stare. where you get physically flustered by their looks. Anna Kasterova kinda hot.

but you know what: i’ll pick out a couple guys for ya, anon. disclaimer: gabe landeskog and kris letang are incapable of making this list because as a pens n avs fan i’ve had exposure therapy to them. In no particular order:

Alex Wennberg

if i had to shake alex wennberg’s hand, i’d have to look at his left earlobe to do it. i’d be the guy getting jittery just ‘cause of his eyes. that’s not a natural shade of blue. because i’m a parody of myself, i also have no doubt i’d see his earlobe and go oh no, even that’s handsome somehow. you know how erik johnson once said he was the poor man’s gabe landeskog? well, if we’re talkin’ in those terms, gabe landeskog is the poor man’s alex wennberg. if i sat at a dinner table with this man, i’d strategise to sit next to him so i wouldn’t have to deal with seeing his face all night and giving myself a conversational handicap by drifting off in the middle of a sentence just because i got so mesmerised by his face. intimidatingly handsome.

K’Andre Miller

k’andre miller is easily the most gorgeous guy in the nhl. i’m not sure i could be in the same room as him. that picture of him with his girlfriend? it took me ten minutes to realise that there was a woman in the picture because i was too busy staring at him. and his girlfriend is beautiful!! but not as beautiful as him; alas, it would be a miraculous feat if she were. if attaining perpetual beauty is a sisyphean task, K’Andre Miller is simultaneously the rock the rest of humanity is pushing up that mountain and the benevolent victor at the mountaintop, looking down at us all with kind, pitying eyes. again, simply being in the same room as this man would instantly obliterate me into dust.

Nick Schmaltz

i will admit that i could be in the same room as nick schmaltz and even look him in the face, albeit not for long. but the instant there’s a friendly touch on my shoulder or back, it’s fucking over. nick schmaltz is the kind of beautiful that would induce full-body shivers if he got too close. i’d have a physical reaction from the proximity. he’d think i’d have allergies and i’d have to excuse myself to the bathroom and afterwards maintain 6 feet of distance for the rest of the night, which would no doubt leave him with the impression that i either hated him or was a freaky rude germaphobe.

Honourable Mentions:

Roman Josi

i’ve seen roman josi irl and he really is that handsome in real life. extremely attractive. intimidatingly hot for sure. however, i feel like i could hang out with him in a smaller group for an evening without embarrassing myself, so he doesn’t make the top 3.

Tom Wilson

tom wilson is very hot, but his actual beefcake stature would be the biggest reason to feel intimidated, also i’ve read various brobeans fic too often to not feel somewhat comfortable with the idea of chilling out with tom wilson for sure.

Carey Price

honourable mention bc he doesn’t play anymore. extremely beautiful man. couldn’t be in the same room as him for sure. my god what a beautiful man.

[keepsmagnetoaway]

Marvel Team-Up 100 (December 1980)

Chris Claremont/Frank Miller & John Byrne

We've read a fair few issues of the long-running Marvel Team-Up and it's always an interesting time: now, for its 100th issue, we have the treat of it featuring X-Men (or, at least, X-Men-related characters) in both its main story and its back-up, both of which are striking and important stories.

In the first of them, the featured team-up is actually Spider-Man (yay!) and the Fantastic Four (boo!), but the story also introduces the silhouetted figure you can see here, initially seemingly as a villain.

If you're thinking "fuck, these layouts are good," then you're right: it's Frank Fucking Miller! We don't have time for Miller Discourse - I will literally never have time for Miller Discourse - but Miller here was at the beginning of his imperial phase, having just started drawind Daredevil and being on the point of taking over writing on it too, and his distinctively moody take on New York City is on display in this issue. This nightmare Deco tower, at a wildly expressionist angle, is purest Miller.

Anyway, I'm skipping over most of the action here because it's Reed Richards bullshit and I hate it, but I do want to talk about that mysterious new character: it's Karma, and she's got Issues.

A beautiful panel filled with politics: that's good comics, baby. It's important to say that there is also a fair amount of tone-deaf stuff about Asians in this issue - Karma's wider family feature and they're not exactly subtly depicted, especially the villainous members, who include Karma's evil twin brother.

And yet...this is 1980, the Vietnam War is a recent memory in the US, and along comes a complex, traumatized Vietnamese character, who evolves from villain to anti-hero to something like a full-on hero in the space of this single comic when - in a moment that's genuinely shocking, coming as it does in the middle of a fight in which Peter Parker and Ben Grimm seem to be competing to make the most wise-cracks - she kills and psychically absorbs her brother. This, I repeat, is our introduction to this character, her very first issue. Fucking hell.

And that's Karma! The story ends just after this, with her tentatively established as some kind of hero, but the reader is none the wiser about what's coming next for her: which was, as you probably know, an integration into the X-Men world and a gradual emergence as one of the most interesting and popular characters of that world (helped by the fact that she also eventually turns out to be gay, hell yeah). It's a hell of an introduction and a fascinatingly political story about the shadow of American imperialism, and it's then followed by this issue's back-up story, which is also powerfully political.

This is a Claremont/Byrne story, a little chaser after our farewell to him in the main book, and (despite the team behind it...) it's about Blackness. It's The One Where Storm and Black Panther Meet, And Also Apartheid South Africa Tries To Kill Ororo.

It's actually largely told, after the initial sequence, in a flashback to their first meeting, and I have tried and failed to work out how it's supposed to fit in with the backstory also depicted in the 2006 Storm series - I don't think they exactly line up, but the 2006 series does sort of reference and expand on this story, in particular by reusing Andreas 'The Bull' de Ruyter, the enjoyably repulsive Afrikaner villain.

In the present, it turns out, de Ruyter is still trying to kill them, and they get to defeat him all over again, and part ways in a bittersweet, ship-teasy moment (again, no idea how this fits into subsequent canon with them getting married and so forth, but, who cares).

This is a really remarkable issue, all told, and though it's all created by white men, and as ever there are some, shall we say, heavy-handed moments, but its use nevertheless of a Vietnamese heroine, her life ruined by American warfare, and of two Black heroes fighting an explicitly apartheid-supporting villain is pretty striking: on top of which, the art is outstanding. Great stuff! This is also the start of a run of half a dozen guest appearances and the like from this era that we're about to read, so let's hope the rest of them are this interesting.

[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

tuesdaypost year in review

this year brought to you by viewers like you. thank you! i still do not know how to thank everyone for their incredible generosity during the Late July/Early August Moving Catastrophe Badtimes and im still feelin some kinda way about it. thank you.

took eight weeks completely off, more than any other year so far

overnight traveled for work for the first time

moved cross country with Mack to face dangers untold and hardships unnumbered

bought an actual for-real couch and not a futon

got Phil

(unrelated to Phil) i got spayed after almost ten years of begging and pleading various medical professionals, (also unrelated) got covid and RSV back to back

listening

fallow weeks: 8. i almost always have a tuesdaysong bc i am almost always listening to something. all of the tuesdaysongs are here:

particular favorites were Peel Me A Grape (Anita O’Day), top spotify song of the year Yeah Yeah Yeah (Blood Orchid), Yeah Yeah Yeah’s Wolf remixed by Sextile, Father Finlee (Spence Hood), A Minha Menina (Os Mutantes).

the very last tuesdaysong of the year is Sugar Rum Cherry by Duke Ellington, one of the few christmas songs i tolerate.

special shoutout to the austin underscore walker universe of podcasts, bc i mainlined A More Civilized Age (clone wars/star wars rewatch) while packing, and devoured P/alisade (the newest scifi season of F/riends at the Table) this month.

-

reading

fallow weeks: 11. pleased that i am killing the invisible rules in my head and including more articles instead of feeling guilty about Not Reading A Real Book!!! every week when i sit down to write the tuesdaypost. read a fuckton earlier this year bc i was procrastinating moving prep, have not read much since i moved.

article sources:

inoreader (the best free RSS feed/app imo)

The Markup (gold standard usage of data to show how various technologies are being used to harm the public good: you may have heard of the recent American bills to equalize internet service and fix organ donation grift. that was them)

Web 3 Is Going Just Great (crypto disasters)

404 Media (technology reporting, internet culture, also break a lot of data/legal/privacy scandals)

Remap (formerly Vice's video games division Waypoint, more active on podcasts and twitch but do have great personal essays about gaming longreads)

Retraction Watch (an important academic service but platformed a particularly virulent transphobe and let the comments devolve into a free for all. yes im still mad about this)

Krebs on Security (~once a month extremely long and thoughtful infosec writeups)

Data Colada (cover academic data whoopsies, currently being sued for their journalism)

the two authors i spent the most time with this year were Alexis Hall (romance novels and novellas) and Raymond Chandler's noir detective novels. i read 90% of Raymond Chandler's work in march and went insane about yet another sad bisexual man. Philip Marlowe the cat is named after his pet detective, the human Philip Marlowe.

march was kind of a banger for this category bc in one of what i consider the best tuesdayposts this year, i tried to break down why i fucking hated Frank Miller's Sin City comics so much.

other comics, but ones i loved: Spy X Family, Berserk, weird noir DC miniseries The Human Target.

-

watching

fallow weeks: 10

notable stuff i watched for the first time (according to letterboxd) that will stick in my head for a bit. some (The Night of the Hunter) i am so glad i watched once but do not feel the need to revist. some (Slipstream) fascinate me with how good they could have been. some (Twilight. all of them) were fun bc of the people i watched them with. the two i went particularly deranged over are The Big Sleep and Day of Anger. still feel very normal about them.

very heavy on crime and courtroom films this year!

television: very excited for s2 of Blue Eye Samurai, Interview With The Vampire, Spy X Family.

i should loop back and finish Black Lagoon, Adventure Time (completely forgot i rewatched most of that this spring), and The Big O. that last one is throwing me a little bc (since i last checked) there is no freely available version with subtitles (i cannot find subtitles Period) and i'll be damned if i have to import a dvd. i can find the dub with subtitles but! i want to hear spike spiegel as mecha-batman :(

sort of lukewarm eh-i'll-get-around-to-it about s/tar wars shows. i have not watched a/hsoka At All or wrapped up the animated Resistance show. i'll pay attention when ando/r is airing again.

-

playing

fallow weeks: 10. way fewer than i would have guessed!

the trouble with this category is that it is exceptionally hard to find new good games (either ones i already own or ones that are free). it is almost completely prohibitively exhausting to trawl through the free category on steam. there's simply a lot of cruft out there. a very good thing (but also incredibly timeconsuming thing) i started this year was throwing games into various folders so the eight bajillion libraries i have are less overwhelming. i can safely ignore 80% of my epic games library, for example. the itch.io library is a whole separate weekend project i think.

got back into genshin for good or for ill, which took up most of the back half of the year.

go play ABZU. i am no longer asking.

i would like to go back and finish the RPG Gamedec, un-softblock myself in the RPG Weird West, and finish the visual novel Dead Man's Rest. i think i stalled out in Call of Juarez: Gunslinger bc there was a mexican standoff that my reflexes are simply not fast enough for/too much to pay attention to. i am excited to pick up that spooky fishing simulator DREDGE when i have fun money again.

completely forgot i spent most of jan/feb/march being annoyed at fallou/t 4 but having some fun in Far Harbor, also forgot i spent an entire month playing through Wolfenstein: The New Order but i am not compelled to play through it again. it was fun! but like many games after one playthrough my time with it is done!

-

making

fallow weeks: 17 (unsurprising, pretty low energy year as a whole as i recovered from covid rounds 1 and 2 and the frankly insane stress of moving).

wrote exactly one fic: some matters at the heart of cowboy western snap shirts: why they are so and some of the implications of their being so, i would like to write more next year but i don't really have the brainpower. i hope this changes soon.

the baby blanket i started last year is still not done but the baby is still under a year so i have a very narrow window of time.

dyed some couch covers im still very pleased with

wrote an extremely long but very well received gallery wall guide

recipes: 12. sort of shocked by this? i am becoming an incrementally better cook and slowly finding recipes i both like and can successfully execute. found the fortitude to caramelize onions, for example. quick pickled red onions, for another thing. big year for protein or greens on top of beans and rice. faves included: cuban-style pork shoulder, hellofresh peruvian chicken, red lentil soup, white bean/kale/rice bowls

i would like to be less terrified about cooking fish. i would like to eat more fish.

and of course, the biggest project of all, acquired Phil. here is my very favorite photo ive ever taken of a cat

[littleeyesofpallas]

it is funny rewatching DBZ with a friend of mine who managed to dodge that whole zeitgeist, and being able to faintly see, in the corners of my mind's eye, the shadows of what-could-have-been. Just these fleeting glimpses of how close I came to being one of those dudes who just had his whole self image irreparably fucked up by big square muscular men on the tv.

and as a millennial it feels like a cliche to say I was in one way or another "the last of a generation" to experience a particular thing, but it does really feel like people my age were the very tail end of those kids who had to contend with being the target market of both the last of the peak of Arnold Schwarzenegger's film career AND the prevalence of DBZ. Like, as little maybe 6 or 7 years older than me and the whole rise of anime era was just a little too juvenile, and any younger than me and the Schwarzenegger era of action heroes was just a bunch of forgotten oldies.

And then add in that Liefeldian dark age of superhero comics and for that brief golden hour of shit moment little boys were just utterly incapable of seeing the male body in any kind of a normal way. Just totally inescapably condemned to be fucked up in the head about body shapes and shit. Stupid buncha He-man, Thundercats, Frank Miller Dark Knight, Franzetta Conan the Barbarian motherfuckers never had a chance.

[marmotsomsierost]

When you fuck with the youtube music algorithm long enough, it's useful (discovering opal ocean, chinchilla, black pumas, etc) and entertaining (unexpectedly being teleported back to high school when smashmouth's flo pops up, realizing the marcus miller version of higher ground is a stevie wonder cover*) and, at times, the risk of creating a sudden bluescreen is absurdly hazardous.

Such as tonight, when i was about 2/3 the way through this song

when the combo of it plus the ambient xcom noises and the more acute noises of sierra gnawing on the mini-mjølnir and the clunking of the dryer abruptly tripped all the overstimulate-audio switches in my brain, so i skipped it.

Algorithm gave me this next, followed by several other Hu songs

and then this, which was a little heavier than i was vibing with tonight, but i had zucchini all over my hands and no easy way to skip to next without zucchinifying my phone or my earbuds.

All fine, right. So why the post, M? This was the next thing to play:

Like. Youtube. Buddy. I know i listened to like three phish albums on wednesday and yesterday was a lot of andy allo and leikeli47 and frank ocean and tuesday was, like, seventeen repeats of the great gate of kiev and jupiter the bringer of jollity and tine ting helseth's recording of hummel's fuck this trumpet in particular concerto in e flat and also abdelazer's rondeau from empire brass and bill kuhlman (listen tuesday was A Day, okay, monday was not so bad and we paid for it with tuesday) and i understand that might make it difficult to accurately predict what i might next want to hear. But.

Going from italian gothic metal to swedish folktronica is certainly A Choice. Not one i would recommend. I would also especially not recommend timing it in such a way that you are in the middle of dealing with hot oil and moist vegetables, because the resulting bluescreen might lead to dumping the entire bowl of shredded zucchini directly into the pan from somewhat higher elevation than desired.

In entirely unrelated news, everything to the left of my stove and the floor is very very clean now.

I'm adding this one in here because though it was not involved in today's youtube shenanigans, it is a fucking excellent song.

(I was at the concert this recording is from, and it is one of my most favorite memories of college. I had been having an absolutely shit day, decided i absolutely could not deal with one of my classes that day and went to the masterclass the empire brass was offering instead- that was a small mood-booster, but the actual concert was just...joyful. Instantly obliterated any and all of the crappiness from that day. It's still pretty far up there on my most favorite concerts. I will always recommend this album to people who like brass arrangements or organ or are unable to escape my general vicinity. or tumblr.)

*i could hear my mother declaiming 'A HOLE in your eduCATION!' from 800mi away. I know, mom. I know.

[clay-cuttlefish]

This batch: bad timelines, crossovers, and all the miscellaneous non-canon stories that aren't long enough for their own dedicated readthrough.

Flashpoint: Batman - Knight of Vengeance #2

Renee's a bartender in this timeline. Not much of an appearance, but she goes for Thomas with a baseball bat, which is deserved.

Batwoman #6

Renee's the Commissioner in the evil Tim future. Haha wouldn't it be fucked up if she became the commissioner, glad that's in the dystopian timeline, what a bad idea.

Points for Katerenee old woman yuri.

Bat-Thing

Part of the DC/Marvel mashup universe.

None of the sources I can find say Christine Montoya is crossed with any particular Marvel character, so she's just an off-brand Renee doing off-brand cop things.

Tangent Comics: JLA

Tangent Comics was a weird imprint that took a bunch of heroes and created new characters based on the codenames alone.

This Question is an anti-metahuman assassin and the older brother of Vigilante.

It's not a particularly interesting take, since it's literally just some guy with the same codename. I like his ridiculous edgy jetpack costume, at least.

The Dark Knight Strikes Again

...I think Vic is one of the less godawful elements.

Him being written as a shitty libertarian pundit is bad, but pretty much every other character gets shafted in dramatically stupider ways, so at least the Objectivism is cursed in a somewhat understandable way.

Anyways fuck Frank Miller.

The Multiversity: Pax Americana

A very weird book. I don't think it works as a take on the Charlton characters, but it's not really trying to be, and it's less lazy than most of what DC's done with Watchmen?

I'm pretty sure it's successful at what it's doing but most of what it's doing is esotericism and unnecessary homage so ???

Definitely would not recommend it for Vic.

Future State: Shazam!

Of all the characters to be the Question in the bad future, Boston's an interesting choice. I can buy that he'd end up with the mantle somehow and choose to stick with it.

He doesn't get enough focus to be that interesting but the idea of him using the Question mask to pretend to be a single, living hero while still swapping between bodies is intriguing.

I'd be down for him and Vic or Renee to team up someday.

I'm still hung up on if "Drake" was meant to be anyone specific.

The Batman & Scooby-Doo Mysteries #10

The single speaking appearance of Renee as the Question in a spinoff comic is in Scooby-Doo and it kinda rules for her.

I mean, it's Scooby-Doo, it's not exactly high drama, but I'm easily charmed and it's nice that there's a silly low-stakes Question adventure.

[house-of-lovin]

To my dear house-of-lovin:

I have a series of questions about Legally Binding bear with me, this is all merely speculation and possibly too much all at once so I apologize in advance.

Cherry-pick from this ask if you have to!ᵕ̈

How young was R when she’d been forced to start acting and singing?

I read somewhere on your page that you answered early teens! And you referenced Zendaya so I’m assuming she got her big break at possibly 14 and before that moderately small acting gigs?

R definitely seems to have a passion for music but how often does she get to produce?

She also seems like the type to make music more for herself than to share with the public given her history, I think not only something she really enjoys but uses as an outlet to cope with things.

Can you give us a few songs as reference to what music R’s produced?

I’m interested in listening to them from R’s POV! Personally, I thought of Never Felt So Alone by Labrinyth. I have no fucking clue at all what song R’s creating right now and I’m assuming since it’s for Coachella it has to be upbeat but might I suggest thinking about Good News by Mac Miller. Pfft or even The Spins by Mac Miller, fun, cocky and memorable like R.

Is there someone else in particular besides her family that made her start to think of everything she does in public from a ‘business standpoint’?

What character in the MCU does R play?

For me the first character that came to mind is possibly someone from the Spider-Verse! I mean why not bend some truths and pretend there’s one Spider-Verse comic that fits R’s description? I think it would align with the fact that R’s been an actor since her teen years and by now if a few movies have been released; her Spider-Verse character has got to be aligned with her age!

Hmm so I’ve read through someone else’s asks and you mentioned not having enough time to look up tv shows and movies aligning with R’s age. I was thinking for some of them, why not just have R’s character in said projects be someone that doesn’t necessarily exist in the current adaptation but is popular anyways?

For other fandoms you say? Is what you wrote still lurking on those platforms I’m curious! Your daydreaming keeps us supporters taken care of.

What kinda music do you play/listen to? I listen to just about everything under the sun except Heavy Metal, too much shouting and I’m already losing my hearing as is lmao.

(I love to trespass abandoned building/areas, for the first date just run when I do and we’ll be good but that’s at night, can and do you like swimming? If you say yes then during the day we’re exploring open waters/pretty nature on a jet ski (safe waters dw)

Am I possibly also picking the first activity to be be held? Ahem HEARSAY you can’t prove that)

Cordially,

Specter

I think yes early teens like 13 or 14 possibly. I think somewhere in my head Justin Bieber was lowkey a reference for R's character.

R gets her big break as a teen and does roles for smaller movies that gain her critical acclaim until major studios recognize her. (Sorry to Hailee but maybe Edge of Seventeen as one of those movies LOL) Before def small roles. (Idk what good movies have a 13 or 14 year old soooo)

I don't have a list of songs for R but with all the asks its def building. I'd love to hear what you guys think? But like I answered before, I see slow & modern R&B. Like SZA (cussing songs LOL), Frank Ocean, Omar Apollo, Yebba. BUT OMG I LOVE MAC.

I feel like with R's family background & starting so young it made her grow up faster than most. So I think over the years, she's just built a wall around herself around people in the industry giving her that 'business standpoint' mentality. I mean come on, there's no way she's had a whole career w/out getting burned by someone. It happens more often than ppl think.

I think her MCU role is def a spider-verse role too! Maybe there's a version of her a Spider-Gwen in the MCU movies LOL IDK.

There's a fic or two on AO3 for a totally unrelated fandom but its a couple years old so idk its kinda cringe LOL. (I also have a Kate Bishop unfinished series that I've just never posted LOL)

I play the guitar so I listen to a whole variety of genres! I like/am open to most music except heavy metal too lol. But I love R&B, Soul, Jazz, Rap. I like older music too so I listen to a lot of 50s, 60s and 70s. EVERYTHING. I WANT TO LISTEN TO EVERY SONG EVER MADE LOL. (but same my hearing is shit lol)

I CAN swin (somewhat) I just can't tread water (ik ik disgraceful) but jet ski you say👀

(I'm indecisive af so I need ppl to plan things for me LOL)

ENJOYED ANSWERING THIS <3

[ellethespaceunicorn]

Share ten different favorite characters from ten different pieces of media in no particular order, then send this to 10 people (anon or not, your choice) 🎥🎬📺

These are going to be in no particular order because if there is anything I hate, it's rating my faves or comparing them to each other.

*~*~*~*~*

Geralt of Rivia - Multiple pieces of media

I first saw him in The Witcher series, then played The Witcher 3, then started reading the books. I am definitely obsessed with this man. And if I write too much on Geralt, I'm libel to make headcanons or maybe even an entire fic on just Geralt's hair or the way his eyes seem to glow under moonlight. See? Obsession. He is also my comfort character. I go to sleep and imagine running in the woods to this man. What the actual fuck?

Walter Marshall - Night Hunter (2018)

Seeing as how I am currently writing fic about this man, I think it goes to show this is a well-crafted yet moldable character and he can do no wrong in my opinion. Unless he dates Rachel, that's wrong in my opinion. She doesn't even have a last name.

Joel Miller - The Last of Us Games, The Last of Us series

Now I would be remiss to not mention Pedro's portrayal of Joel Miller (and that it solidified his status a my cool slutty daddy). But I must talk about how Troy Baker's voice in the game gave me strong Daddy vibes and gave me my second crush on a video game character after Lara Croft when I was a kid.

Ethan Hunt - Mission Impossible films (1996-Present)

If you know me, you know I have seen every Mission Impossible film since the first came out when I was 9. I was, and will most likely always be, obsessed with these movies. I love the heart-stopping action moments, the raw emotions, and I really like when Tom Cruise almost dies in every movie.

Peter Parker - Multiple pieces of media but I will focus on the films

In 2002, I was 15 and liked the older man that was Tobey Maguire (I was a superfan of his and of Peter). I had a Spider-man trapper keeper for goodness sake! In 2012, I was 25 and I was crushing on Andrew Garfield as a contemporary, someone in my age group. In 2017, I was turning 30 and had a crush on what, to me, seemed like a little boy in Tom Holland (he was over 18 but still). Either way, when asked what my favorite superhero is, I always say Spider-Man.

Bernadine Harris - Waiting to Exhale (1995)

I was 8 when this movie came out and my Momma let me watch it with her. Little did I know, my mother was ready to divorce my cheating father. This character spoke to me and continues to speak to me. I still see my Momma when I watch this movie. She was so badass. And so sexy.

Olaf - Frozen films

Fun fact: I used to collect snowman figurines and snow globes. Knowing this, my young niece made me watch the first film. Josh Gad as an inept snowman who loves the idea of summer is so fucking dramatic that I watched this movie on my own plenty of times. I love him so much and I just wanted to cuddle him.

Castiel - Supernatural (2005-2020)

I started watching Supernatural by watching the live airing of Simon Said, the worst episode of the series some would say. But I stuck around. I wanted to see what the kids on LiveJournal were so excited about. Cue season 4 and this son of a bitch just waltzes in with his wings and his coat and his chapped lips that, to this day, have never seen any moisture. And I fell in love. Fun fact: my dad named his dog Castiel.

Frank Reynolds (but specifically as Ongo Goblogian) - It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia

I have artwork in my bedroom over my nightstand of Ongo. This entire episode was gold to me. It was early season 8, I believe. Charlie was doing a Richard Grieco thing, Dennis was trying to get his erotic memoirs made into a Fifty Shades of Grey type thing. Mac was in the duster. Dee was in a smut film. Just golden. But then Frank was this Andy Warhol-esque art collector just doing the most. It was beautiful.

Louise Belcher - Bob's Burgers series and film

Louise, what can I say about this wonderful human that hasn't already been said? Louise is what I wish trauma didn't take from me. Louise likes to slap beautiful people, as do I. She is confused when she likes a boy, and so am I some of the time. And Louise has her comfort clothing item, her hat. I have my froggy robe and my penguin socks. In the latest season that just ended, it was pretty much confirmed that Louise is non-binary, as am I. My fiancee compares me to Louise on a daily basis and I just smile and tell her she's 100% correct because she is. Louise embodies me when I was 9 years old, right before childhood trauma took all of that away and replaced it with an old curmudgeon. I love my sweet Louise and no one can ever tell me that my love is unwarranted.

I would love to tag people to do this, but I know a lot of us are in the same circles LOL. This was too fun!

[docgold13]

Noting all the big names being thrown I'm gonna ask, who is your least favorite comic book artist/writer for me is Miller, more for what he stands for...and how he handled batman like fucking hell I'd prefer punisher in a silly hat after that disaster

I don't know if I have a number one least favorite writer/artist. If a creator's work doesn't do it for me, I'll just not read it. For a while I hated Judd Winick because I was convinced he was dead-set on killing off Dick Grayson. Yet he also wrote a Superman / Shazam team-up series that I just absolutely loved.

Nothing remains static. People and tastes change, sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse. Frank Miller's Batman Year One was just fantastic; his All Star Batman and Robin was a disaster of epic proportions.

Perhaps its best to love or hate particular projects more so than the artists and writers who work on them.

Beside, when it comes to legit hatred, that's reserved for real life villains: killers, tyrants and rapists.

[eric-coldfire]

I may not completely agree with anon’s take, but I do believe you need to exercise restraint when working on a show, or anything if you’re a fan of it, at least in a professional sense.

And when someone says “no, it’s the best and only good can came from a fans creating official works of the media they love!” I remember what happened when DC hired a Nightwing fangirl to write Nightwing comics, and the first thing she did was write a story where her self-insert raped Nightwing while he was comatose.

Then there are the likes of Dan Slott and Frank Miller who are fanboys of a small particular aspect of a character and when they get put in charge of writing said character, that aspect become the character’s entire existence.

Or in Rwby’s case, refusing to let Jaune develop beyond the universe’s punching bag, or push Yang and Blake together because it’s a popular fandom ship while doing fuck all to actually give them chemistry.

It’s a slippery slope when you’re in charge of creating what you’re a fan of.

The rwby writers and staff act like they are fans of their own show which is heavily unprofessional and childish.

Some of them ARE former fans.

[mattelektras]

Hey, I'm curious. I know fuck all about shit but I've only ever heard people rave about and praise Frank Miller's work. What makes him in particular a bad artist in your opinion? /gen

his art used to be pretty ok like he's always had a thing w women but thats who he is as a person. but its a greg land thing where its devolved over time because frank miller's brain is literally rotting from alcoholism. also i have a thing on why i think his writing n him in general are shite here but for art ALONE:

people argue that its stylized which yes. SOME parts of it are. miler uses a lot of silhouettes and negative space which in itself is fine. but when your base style has decayed into something barely recognizable as human, thats not a style, king. that's bad art

[opinated-user]

One major problem that I have with Lily’s videos that I feel doesn’t get talked enough about is just how incredibly disjointed and like whiplash that they feel. That is, I feel like more and more often (exspcially with her most recent videos) LO seems to care less and less and less about actually sticking to a single topic with her videos and ends up somehow rambling on, going on random tangent after random tangent in these FUCKING EDITED AND SCRIPTED videos. Never being able to focus on the thing that she actually claimed she was talking about in that particular video’s title. Actually this recent video is a PEFECT example of just how badly this has become. Not only does Lily somehow manage to find the time to call Sam Raimi a “douchebag” in this video that supposedly about the DC HARLEY QUINN SHOW (as that other anon pointed out). But towards the end of that video she also begins talking about Frank Miller, the Dark Knight movies, and ALSO shitting on the most recent SPIDERMAN movie as well (With it being just a coincidence that its literally the second most critically fucking praised Spiderman movie to date, I’m sure)!!

Seriously, Lily is the not only the only person that I know who will shit on both Marvel and DC all of the fucking time (as that other anon said, of course). But she ALSO the only person I know who has such terrible SCRIPT writing skills that she shits on them both IN THE SAME. FUCKING. VIDEO. That has to be some kind of fucking RECORD for just absolutely terrible script writing right?!!

this is a recent development as well or at least i don't remember her videos being like that on such noticeable way before.