#i will take whatever li'l crumbs i get

[gonnaupdatethisrandomly]

Seb and Mick watching the qualifying

sources- twt, twt, twt, twt, twt, twt, twt, twt, twt, twt, twt,twt

[divinehedons]

a madness all-consuming.

Pairing: dark!raider!Joel Miller x fem!reader

Word Count: ~2k

Summary: There's a few rules that aid one's survival in a post-apocalyptic hellscape. Stealing from Joel Miller is, of course, the fool's road to hell. But you just couldn't resist it. Now you have to face the consequences.

Warnings: This is a dark fic, minors DO NOT interact! This fic contains explicit non-con, allusions to canon-typical violence, elements of torture (mostly psychological, slightly physical), explicit unprotected sex (wrap it up!), gun kink, hard dom!joel, angry sex, this version of Joel is a real meanie poopie head, biiiig legal age gap.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Comments and reblogs are much appreciated; requests welcome!

You figured it would be easy. He wasn't in the prime of life, after all. He couldn't even hear properly out of one ear. If you were going to steal from anyone at the end of the world, you'll take all the advantage you can get. So when you heard the clear sound of a gun's safety clicking off in the dead of night, you swore there was never a time you turned around faster.

That's how he found you, clutching a looted bottle of whisky, eyes wide and trembling. Joel Miller was many things. You heard whispers of that quiet man who spoke with his eyes. You knew people who fled from him, even in their sleep. Never look him in the eye, kiddo.

Was he some modern Titan, you wondered once, with his Medusean gaze and Midas touch? Whatever it was, you had tried so hard not to run in with him. And yet, here you lay, right in the belly of the goddamned beast.

You never should've taken the gig for some crumbs to live off of.

"Put it down, little lady," he mutters gruffly, motioning with the barrel of his gun as your breath hitches, the words escaping your throat as you slowly allowed yourself to place the bottle back on the floor. "Atta girl. Now, we can be civilised, can't we? You'll tell me what you're doin' here, and I won't shoot your pretty little head off."

You had begun to stammer out some semblance of an explanation. I was starving. I hadn't eaten for days. I'm trying to be good-

The cool metal barrel stares you down as the gruff man presses it against your forehead, finally shushing your panicked cries as the free hand cups your cheek, rough hands belonging to the much taller man, somewhat attempting to soothe and relax.

"Use that pretty li'l mouth of yours, sugar, c'mon."

"Th-they told me they'd give me more rations if I g-got something for you," you said between shaky tremors. "I don't have anywhere else to go, sir, please-"

"Are you gonna start being more specific or do i have to get it out of you myself?"

Perhaps it was the sobs that escaped you. Perhaps it was the sheer panic in your eyes. Either way, Joel Miller immediately knew you weren't going to be as easy to talk to as he thought. He sighs, returning the pistol to his holster as his large hand takes you by the scruff of your shirt- a grimy little thing, really, stolen from one body or another- dragging you to the rickety dining table, slamming your rigid frame, face up and floundering just as he tethers each limb to each wooden leg, leaving you spread eagle, the perfect little victim.

You try to peer at him from the darkness, squinting through the warm yellow light overhead. You barely make out his figure, the soft sound of tools clinking as you try, once more, to beg.

Argumentum ad miseracordiam. An appeal of misery. You try to tell him, in broken fragments. "The other raiders said they'd give me food- oh, God, please! I haven't eaten in days and I was desperate!" A cry escapes you as he returns with a knife in hand, looking to you with a gaze that you only understood for what it was: of a man without morals, stumbling upon a mode of release.

He moves closer, and you can feel his breath on your cheek as that cool blade presses against your exposed throat. You cry, you scream, you thrash, even when the rope on your limbs dig deeper into your aching skin.

"Give me a name, sugar. Wouldn't want to hurt your pretty little neck," he threatens, just as you feel that blade cut against your skin when your breath hitches.

"I-" you try and think, try and remember, try to shake off that looming cloud over her brain. The blade again, slicing as warm rivulets of blood stain his fingers. The answer never came faster. "I don't know!"

He stabs the stained knife right beside your left ear, so close you swore you could've heard your own hair tethered to the same table as you cry out from sheer panic. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry- Please, I won't come near you ever again, just... please don't kill me-"

"So fuckin' mouthy," Joel finally says, glaring up at you with those same relentless eyes, retrieving his gun from his holster, pressing it against your lips as you sob harder. "Open your fucking mouth before I shoot your brains out, sugar." You obey, the idea of death so foreign and terrifying that it shocks you to consciousness. Making you all the more aware of the hell that comes next.

Slowly, Joel fucks the barrel of his loaded pistol, in and out for a few times as he watches you struggle against the sheer size of it. Finally, he presses it deep, despite your gagging and whining. "That's it, baby. Keep that pistol warm for me." All at once, you feel the heat in your cheeks, the tears wetting your skin, spread wide open and weak. "The only time you should be talking to me is if you're gonna tell me who sent you, peach. Got it?"

You try your best to nod, horrified of how much further he could go. You whine when he tears your shirt, uses his knife to cut open your pants. Within minutes, he has you how he wants you: bare, trembling, and completely at his mercy. It is then that he takes the gun away, chuckling darkly at the string of spit that clings against the muzzle.

"Ready to give me a name, darlin'?"

You sob, and try again. Like a fool, you think. "I didn't know, I swear!"

You feel his fingers take one pert nipple, pinching so hard you squealed and swore you almost saw stars. You look down, seeing the reddish-purple marks of his fingers. "Such a waste, baby. We could be having fun by now, but you're so fuckin' stubborn."

There's something else. You feel the slightly warm sensation of metal drifting against your stomach, lower and lower until he reaches that sweet cunt of yours. He watches, mesmerized by that strip of flesh that had never looked more delectable. And his beloved pistol is there, finding your needy little clit with ease.

"Tell me, sugar. Or else, you're fuckin' my gun."

You looked to see his expression to see if he was joking. If this was his sick form of pleasure, watching the fear enter your gaze. Only when you look, his gaze only carries burning clarity.

You feel white-hot shame cover you, and you hear yourself saying the words. "There was a blond!"

He pauses, just enough to see if what you were saying had any relevance. "He said he... he said it would be funny if I succeeded-"

"Interesting," interjected your captor, pausing momentary as he positions his gun right at your entrance. "Interesting, but not good enough."

With that, you feel something fucking up into you as you screamed, thrashing against your bindings as he chuckles, first sinking his pistol's entire barrel, only to recede and fuck back into you at a much more brutal pace.

The agony was indescribable. The pistol helped with nothing but your spit, your body, at first resisting, only to keen when the metal brushes against somewhere so deep within you. Wetness secretes from your very essence and makes it easier. You fought again, knowing just how much sickening pleasure it would bring him to know his gun had gotten you wet.

But he knew. Of course he knew.

He knew from the way your body tenses, builds up, locks itself. He knew from the miniscule way your hips chased his motions, the way your lip trembles, your eyes closing, only for your orbs to roll back. Fight as you must, your body told him you wanted this too. And that was enough to make him smirk.

You hear it, despite your whimpers. The distinct click of the safety turning off as he focuses on your needy little cunt. "That's it, baby. That's fucking it-" He smirks up at you as you shake your head, begging him to stop as he continues.

"Fuck no, baby." He leans closer, free hand holding your face and making you look at him. "I want you to look me in the eye as you cum."

That was all you needed. Just as he says it, your hips tense, your cunt clenches, your scream echoing throughout the house as your orgasm takes over you so wholly and completely, your spend making it so much easier to fuck you through your peak.

It was utter humiliation, seeing Joel pull away the pistol for it to be soaking, the evidence of your arousal dripping directly from the end of the muzzle. You whine, shivering where you lay as your eyes water.

"I-it was a raider too," you try again, wracking your brain throughout the darkness in an attempt to remember.

That seemed to peak his interest, looking up to you again, hands reaching down to unbuckle his belt. He smirks again, as if pushing you to say more in the chance that he'd stop. You start panting, squirming, struggling once more as you tried to remember anything else.

"Please, I've given you everything!"

That made him chuckle. Smug, collected, cool. "I don't know 'bout that, darlin'," he says in that significant southern drawl, leaning down to spit directly on your fucked out cunt, climbing up on that same dining room table, taking his cockhead to spread his own spend. His last kindness. Carefully, smilingly, biding his time. Like the monster that plays with his meal, as if the fear would make you taste as sweet.

You will always remember those brief moments. Where everything falls silent and all you can hear is the soft pleads, your wit's end hanging on to the desperation in your voice. You remember those dark eyes glinting in the darkness, as if he's still waiting, eternally watching, just how far you'll be able to beg for your dignity.

Perhaps that was why he bit down on your shoulder when you screamed as his massive girth spread you wide open in one solid thrust. From then on, he doesn't wait anymore. He fucks you through your tears, your screams, your fingernails digging into the hard wood of the table as he takes his pleasure, methodic, repeatedly, without satisfaction in sight. When he fucks you, he does so in a way that seemed to claim, carving a home for himself within your walls. A home for his spend when, some time after, he kisses your mouth needingly as his hips stutter and fuck his orgasm right against the very entrance of your womb.

He stays there, collecting himself as you wince, sniffle, turn your face away out of embarrassment, humiliation, feeling that finally, despite surviving another night in your post-apocalyptic reality, that you lost something anyway. That you weren't human anymore, anyway. Just a ghost inhabiting the body that was once your own.

"Blond, you said?" he asked, brows furrowed as he pulls himself out of you, tucking himself back into his pants. When you nod, you hear him depart into that darkness.

The peace felt jarring, silent, without a threat to the warm evening. But as soon as it started, so soon too, did it break.

All you hear is the clatter a few rooms away from you. Incomprehensible yelling from Joel and someone else, and, soon too, the rhythmic sound of pounding, grunting, the second voice falling silent.

Joel takes you again when he returns, turning you over and gripping you with sticky fingers. You shut your eyes and cry. You do not want to ask. You do not want to know.

But when he forces two fingers past your lips, the heavy taste of blood settle on your tongue. It tells you enough.

Was it madness if you felt relieved?

[ladygoofball]

A Shady Love Poem from the office of Cassandra Apparently

For Apparently, Nobody. Fuckers. If you want Inanna's story? You'll keep reading. If not, feel free to scroll on by and accept my little written kiss sounds

kiss muah muah lovie lovie thank you for the time.

I just love pushing the boundaries of what is possible because the only thing I've ever been good at is fantasizing a better life for myself. I'm just nobody though, don't quote me on that.

To clarify it is to the same audience as my Battle Worn Boots poem. I'm tired of figuring out the meaning of words. You might say I've been chasing some wild geese for crumbs. What the hell do I know though? I'm just a lady! An American at that!

Another application? In this economy?! Come on. I've done thousands over the course of 7 years, and I'm pretty sure that is not hyperbole but I can't look in my emails without feeling a sense of disgust in my own behavior. Call it an official Strike Declaration.

The offices of Cassandra Apparently calls that? Witchcraft. Ereshkigal's crypto-testimonial (free of as many negative effects to the environment as humanly possible so better than crypto currency) is below the cut. The vibe? Keep that li'l diddy on repeat.

DATE OF PREDICTION: Basically all of 2024 so far. Assholes.

First off? Fuck you for questioning that authenticity. That needs to be said in no uncertain terms. Call me Absolute Truth, if you dare. I won't accept that in writing that needs to be told TO my face. That's where my self respect is, raise the bar any higher and I'll be happy to take this shit elsewhere tyvm (thank you very much in american gods damned english)

The spirits told me?

CALL THE PROJECT CASSANDRA!!!

I knew They'll say "No, that's too good to be true!" The bots will prevent the word from Reaching you. I did it anyway. That's too bold? Cool now I have to code switch to flirting because characters are limited and have to jump through hoops to prove I'm not trying to do that with any real ass person right now.

I say? I'll keep knocking until I get answers. As politely as possible until it might get to be too late. That's called good cyber security working out of courtesy to save something worth fighting for, Your Honor. What if there was a better world that I could show you?

I keep them begging. Yearning for the definition of the word. I am a Lit'rary thirst trap on the world wide web. I'll be Miss spider for a second and keep going anyway.

Oh...yes? GIVE IT TO ME, PLEASE!!!!

Bitch, "please"?

Just "please"? Not even dolling it up for me?

THE queen of 2020 hindsight? Come on.

You know what, now I have to start laying some ground rules. Call them boundaries, a steel sword in a marriage bed, or whatever. That's why I'm so activated anyway, I'm now in military generational trauma land Your Honor.

Yes, it is kind of your fault...but Yes it is kind to know people care. No, I'm not really that angry but Witness Ereshkigal cannot rest this case until it she knows it has been WITNESSED. Inanna does not come out for just anyone. /genuine.

I just have to set some HARD LINES IN THE SAND. I call that: building a wall with just imaginary bricks and mortar since the economy is collapsing and border walls are a poor concept in real life anyway. I call that Quality American Craftsmanship, a dying breed. I watched "Adventures from the Book of Virtues", I know when something is just a lesson and when something is direct. That was how I went to sleep thanks to good ole public television.

Rules for Conducting Business with Cassandra Actually, if you want to come into her house and beg her forgiveness for not listening to her sooner.

For the Camp Records: No, You don't personally have to, but someone should at this point for fuck's sake.

Rule 1: JUST PLEASE?! If this elvish paradise isn't enough for you, then hand me the keys. I'll drive US somewhere better, eh? We can call that Manifest Destiny without slaughtering native peoples and not endangering anyone in the process for being too on the nose. If that's not possible? I get it, but somebody has to try to get something better for me and for the record? I'm very happy to do it by myself thank you very much. My grandmother owns her own building. It's in my blood to seek the best for myself. Noni would approve, and she calls me frequently to provide tech support for her because she can't work a computer to get tenants. I don't have a single aspect of what I do on this WWW that is not exploited by someone, so that's why it has to be like that.

Rule 2: Do not do me the discourtesy of keeping their names from my shit list. If they bother any of you, bring them to me. I'll show them a way around a word or two. I've written thousands just for myself and nobody gets to see that before I am finished.

That last song probably got old by now, so you know what? Let's throw in another one to change the audience and the tone without putting words to what I'm doing for once in my gods damned life.

Rule 3: If I swing and I tell You to Duck? Then, bitch you had better get Quacking. That's not putting too much emphasis on the timeline, that's running out of funds to write checks that I can't cash if I wanted to because Nobody says it is not safe for me there. My entire Organization is on the line. I still honor the value of words, which is a craft that is apparently lost on these ghosts.

Rule 4: I may have been here for a while now, but I do NOT make time for anyone who can't get their damned facts straight. Even if it hits them over the head with ACME's Anvil. Bugs Bunny ass. That's not my problem, Your Honor. That sounds like a pissed off spirit. Too bad the art of Necromancy is dead in this place. If only a wizard knew how to Divine the cards as well as we can. A shame, really.

He must not be a master of the school of Divination like he claims to be!

Rule 5: I do not have time and will not make time for anyone who cannot get their facts STRAIGHT. It's the only straight thing about me, all these facts that I have are the definition of the straight and narrow.

He says that the way I hit it makes him forget his words? Try harder than that!

He says I must be celestial with all these angels singing in the chorus? Try harder than that!

The tone shifts away again? She can't keep doing this, but They say "Third time is the charm!"

Bozo Apparently asks: WHO THE FUCK HEALED YOU? WHO LAID HANDS? WHO CHARGED? THE GOOSE GIRL?? Over 400 hours, assholes. And weeks of playing with wild geese on the internet. 3 different runs through the Holy Narrative and I refuse to play through Act two until my eyes stop burning and my psyche is healed. I know how to play a video game or two and I know far better ones I can spend my time with. Ask Matthew Mercer who my last man might have been. Call that? Rune Factory 4 approves.

Did you say: Only a General could get them stepping this fast?

Bozo says: It could have been too late, sorry I'm a bit rushed! The economy is collapsing and industries I keep trying to get into are shutting me out faster than I can count how many weeks my unemployment checks. It's not that bad, all things considered, but if I was more than a half inch away from losing my familiars with no other options to save them I would not call myself Witch.

Bitch. Fuck a closing paragraph.

Wait, one last recommendation? Watch "The Social Dillema" and tell me I'm looking too into subliminal messaging online again motherfucker. You might as well add the Lizzie Bennet Diaries youtube series to your media diet too, while you're at it.