𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐎, 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

[haethcliffs]

IND. PRIV. SEL. JOE GOLDBERG. previously at @heathcliffd, i just can’t remember the login. primarily ship-exclusive with @quismet’s love.

usual rules apply. i don’t support joe. i won’t wash over the heinous shit he does. joe is a misogynist, stalker, and a murderer. triggers will be tagged. ships can happen but with the understanding that they won’t go well. i am 25+. please do not interact if you’re under 18. more to be added here later.

starter call.     promo.     headcanons.

[haethcliffs]

LOVE had made me blind.

[maenaed]

that's right, label me the hysterical woman and lock me away in the attic. let me talk to the yellow wallpaper until i'm convinced i'm not alone in here, until my reflection talks back and tells me just what you want me to hear; what you want me to believe.

will he release me when i stop showing signs that i am a person with my own feelings? will he unlock the door when he believes i wont want to run, screaming, out of it?

which joe stands before me now, the loverboy, the bookseller, the killer? i see wild, wide and frantic eyes. there is no explanation for benji's phone, or peach's, or the jar of teeth -- there is no going back to how things were.

"i am calm. i'm calm, joe. you're not calm. you -- kidnapped me."

perhaps the lady doth protest too much. just a little. i should tone it down. agree. play dead - emotionally, that is. god knows what he'll do to me if he thinks i'm...

"let me out. i'll eat. we'll talk. please."

[haethcliffs]

"no, i didn't —" it's like you want to see the worst in me. it's like all that time we've spent together, poring over your writing, over your father, your own special case of daddy issues and disrespecting your own body... it's like none of that happened. you look at me and i'm afraid that all you see is the man who put you in this cage. and that's not me. you know that's not me.

i am large, i contain multitudes. walt whitman. granted, i'm not one for cowboy boots and hole-in-the-wall gangster bullshit where they see women as nothing but commodities and cash cows to holster their misogyny bullets in, but if there was ever a time to crack out post-civil war literature, it's going to be when your back's up against it and i'm two wrong moves away from a cell of my own. you've seen some messed up stuff! i know! i've done some of my own brand of fucked up stuff that lends itself to prose in a way i'll never know how to capture, but that's not me. i'm joe. bookstore manager, loving boyfriend, run-of-the-mill joe.

"beck... please. i want to give you everything you need, alright? you name it, i'll get it. but you need to cooperate. i need you to hear me out... listen to me. listen to... everything. that's all. i need you, beck. please."

[maenaed]

"you already did hurt me, joe. you knocked me out. locked me in a-- a plastic box."

i have to be careful of my temper. i keep my tone as even as possible; a calm mother scolding a child. i do not touch the glass-plastic-whatever that my cage is made of. i sit at my makeshift desk and i ignore the temptation of the brown paper bag in his hands. i am not immune to bribery but i can't fold just yet.

i am wondering if i can leverage my wellbeing to get some kind of point across, but in my heart of hearts i know that it wont stick. he looks at me and for the first time i see clearly what you are.

wide, watery eyes. a trembling lower lip. it's all real, i can't help it. i am so scared. pity me, joe. save me. rescue me from my tower, my prison.

"i can't eat. i can't think. joe, this is a nightmare. this place is my nightmare. please. let me out. we can talk, but i can't -- i can't breathe in here."

[haethcliffs]

"i know, beck. i know. and i'm sorry. and i will make it up to you, i swear it."

okay, well. ouch. but deserved, i guess. i hold my hands up, beck! i did do all that! and i'm going to make it right. it's all just a blip in the romantic saga that will be us — remember? us in thirty years time, all wrinkled and fleshy with hands held across dimly-lit bar tables at mom and pop restaurants while you're wearing something perfectly demure and age appropriate — no longer do you wear low-cut loose shirts with your nipples hard through something so sheer i can't help but glance down at and — god, i'm doing it again, aren't i? i'm sorry. head out of clouds and all that. i'm focused. present. i'm here with you, and there's just a little glass between what we might end up being.

"after all the time we spent together—" whether you knew about it or not, i should add, "— you know me. i'm not... that guy that you're scared of. that's not me. it's okay, just... take a deep breath, beck. you'll feel better if you have some food."

i can't let you out. not yet. you're still... a well of fear. you're a pit of despair (sorry, cliche, i know, but when inspiration slaps you so hard in the face it may as well have been that infamous warhead i talked about earlier). i just need to... dilute it. show you the good parts of myself first — the parts you fell in love with.

"we all just need to calm down, and talk. i love you, beck."

[maenaed]

he expects me to write in here. he expects me to be whole and fixed, a butterfly under glass and to be grateful for the isolation. he imagines me a princess in a castle, i imagine myself a world where i escape it. escape him.

angela carter once wrote:

in the turret suite he had given me for my very own, i could gaze out over the tumultuous atlantic and imagine myself the queen of the sea.

but in this little box of horrors i can only look out and see myself. the harsh fluorescent bulbs overhead drain my skin of its colour. i already look like a corpse, and i wonder how long it'll be before i actually become one. surely soon. he can't keep me in here forever.

can he? he's brought food. how long is he going to pretend that this is normal?

"i'm not hungry, joe."

i'm scared, joe.

[haethcliffs]

i'm not perfect, beck. i make mistakes. we all make mistakes. you sleep with the wrong guys. surround yourself with the wrong type of friends. you work, and you work, and you draw yourself into this facade of your shitty friends who'd rather throw you under the L-train than pick you up off the tracks, and i... well. i put you in a box. i told you i wasn't perfect.

but i know you. i know what's budding inside of you. i know that pretty brain of yours has more to come out of it than dreary, half-formed ideas that resemble neither poem or prose. i want to give you the time for that. but you worry. you want to make it in the big apple by yourself — i understand that. i know you want to do it all by yourself, like some strangled, infantilised version of rosie the riveter, but you don't have to. that's what i want you to see — i can take care of all of that for you. i can take care of you.

"you've gotta eat," or we can sit here all night, and i can watch you type your brains out until it's spattered across the plexiglass.

wait. shit. no. bad thought, bad thought. i don't want to hurt you. that's not my goal here — it was never my goal. (you have to believe that, right?)

"please? i'm not going to hurt you. i don't want to. we just... we need space to talk. please."

[haethcliffs]

@maenaed.

if only i'd known how much trouble you'd bring me. you put something into motion inside of me, beck. something quiet and hungry and full of want and will. you have ignited something inside of me, beck... a desire to be. let me be the man you always wanted — let me protect you, keep you close, tucked between the rungs of my ribs and revere every second we breathe as one. i wanted to be everything for you, untangle every caught breath and anxious nerve from that scrambled brain of yours and show you exactly how to survive in a world that wants to dull your brightness.

do you know how hard it is to kill a man? i'm not talking about the ones already under my belt — they all deserved it, in their own toxic masculinity bullshit type way. but to really kill someone? all the variables, the things that could go wrong even when you're doing it for the right reasons. because that's what this is, isn't it? the right reasons.

you fucking wanted this. you flipped your hair and i'm expected to — what, ignore it? you came to me like some breath of fresh air, and you wanted me to follow you. to find you. to fix you. and that's what i did.

don't get me wrong. i don't believe moulding you in plexiglass was the best case scenario for us, but we were in love. we are in love. but this...? this gives you... clarity. a clarity that only the box can bring. it's time to write. its' time to figure out your next moves.

"are you hungry?"

it's like a warhead spinning colossally back down to earth, ready to scorch earth between us and blow up our pretty little bubble.

"come on, you've gotta eat, beck."

[haethcliffs]

rip joe's dick

[alicent-florent]

like mother like son

[haethcliffs]

why is joe fawning over someone who says menty b, lowkey and vibes

[haethcliffs]

they say home is where the heart is. all sixty beats per minute and all wrapped up in sinew and mucous sacs which honestly feels a little too stephen kin.g for this type of love story — but despite the coke-addled narrative with all the subtlety of a stone mallet, you've gotta admit, he makes some valid points. all that eIvis wise men said bullsiht, fuzzy duffy feelings that feel about as tantamount to love as something you'd knock back in the dark rooms of a busy bar, only to find yourself alone, dead at forty, and sweating up a storm through each and every pore...

i don't think love's for me any more. i've made my peace with it for the most part, and perhaps i've taken more with me from the yoga-pant-loving, matcha-infused city of angels with its over-priced erewhon bullshit through an iv drip when i tell you that this here is my love story to my goddamn self. every horrible decision, every chickenshit attempt to try and better your life for you, and make you see exactly who you need to be in that mirror... i'm done with it now. my home has spent the past few years drowning out the voice in the back of my head. my home has raced, harder and faster than ever before, throwing myself across peach saIinger's stupid fucking 20 acre garden after leaving my fucking piss in her back office. my home has done nothing but squeeze and pump and run.

now, i'm not really a bible guy. honestly, i'd rather stick pins in my eyes than sit down and study the scripture the way those slick-backed mega preachers sweating profusely through the single spotlight in their cheap suits and tax evasion cases do, but the truth will set you free! (so donate now and i'll make sure The Big He listens to your prayers and smites you with the exact amount of over-spun zealotry that you stuff your face with potato chips for and pay for my next self-charging ev beamer! — sorry. i got off topic.)

but the truth will set you free. beck. candice. love. kate. you.

i don't think i'm a particularly important man. i've spent more time basking in my own cynicism and waiting for that badum-badum heart-skipping-a-beat love that sends better men than me spiralling. but i'm not a cliche. this isn't my swan song. i will be better. i will put good back out into the world that's so full of shit that flat-earthers would be up to their ears in it if any of their beliefs held true. that's my promise.

[haethcliffs]

😇

[1liv]

[haethcliffs]

LOVE had made me blind.

[haethcliffs]

@talonsown: so tell me. who are you?

isn't that the million dollar question? Just Joe. new yorker, old boots, cares more for old books than people, general critic of the big apple's rotten core. or is it will betteIheim, LA alien, burning like a lobster in the californian heat, a dickensian orphan thrust into the rungs of angelenos whole food obscurity? two toes down, generally spending more time eating instant ramen than tending to one's own garden, so to speak. but hey, he managed to send a notorious moIester into an early grave and leave his own slurry of bodies strewn from one side of the golden coast to the other. and then there's jonathan. i've gone through names, id's, lives and passports like they're a child picking out his own favourite candy bars without much regard for fat content and other skeletons to bury.

to put it bluntly, identity is an object of obscurity for me now. i learned to recognise the thorough and primitive duality of man; i saw that, of the two natures that contended in the field of my consciousness, even if i could rightly be said to be either, it was only because i was radically both.

"that's a bit of a loaded question." will nick spencer jonathan joe tyler adam daniel james — spin the fucking wheel and you'll churn out a different archetype each time.

"i'm a reader. sometimes i feel as though each book has a profound effect on my personality." or... well. it's a very colourful way of saying i have no fucking idea. (i can be who you want me to be — i can be that man, that white knight, that protector, that loyal, staunch companion. i can be the man who sees you for who you are. and slowly — ever so slowly, like peeling back the layers on a month-old corpse — you'll see me too.)

[haethcliffs]

like for a thing.

[emotional-emotion]

PENN BADGLEY as Joe Goldberg YOU (2018-)

[haethcliffs]

@vitalphenomena / spirit: that’s code for ‘i hate strong women’.

i'm more of a man of drawing rooms than bass-heavy clubs where sweaty boys sniff hard drugs off the back of their fists and hope that the three-hundred-pound bouncers covered in menacing tattoos and europop don't kick them to the curb and strung-out, free-spirited, live-laugh-loving women bounce in perfect harmony with pupils the size of the fucking moon. see, this isn't my scene. loud, ear-drum-piercing, and stiflingly warm like flies trapped around a heat lamp.

i am in hell. that is the long and short of it — for all my sins, for all i've done to tar my soul and blacken everything i once stood for, this is... hell. a special, delicious type of purgatory that only targets the coke-addled and degenerate youths. is this what i've been reduced down to? sticky-sweet drinks and fencing off coke bumps from the biggest douchebags in the country?

the bar is safe. the bar is... well, it's not clean, but as far as i can see, clean from vomit. so instead of wading through ass-grabbing techoslut men, i get to watch it all unfold from the safety of a rum and coke.

i'll be honest, i'm not listening that closely. you've caught my attention — in the midst of a crowd, pushing away the coke, almost definitely pulled out here by your immature friends that you would be so much better off without... i think you'd prefer my life too, than to be contributing to the city's trash problem along with dumb and dumber either side of you. hemingway. joyce. what's your poison, really? underneath the go-hard partying, there's something about y—

spirit. shit.

"hm? — oh. you're probably right. nothing says 'i love strong women' more than grabbing ass. you know, in a feminist way."