#perfect adversaries

[crowleysgirl56]

Something I have noticed. This reaction is Crowley responding to Aziraphale saying “I haven’t seen you since….the flood?”

Aziraphale may not have seen Crowley since the flood, but going by Crowley’s reaction he has definitely 100% seen Aziraphale.

😏 you wily serpent.

[bonefall]

longtime dc fan and i think a lot of people are angry because alex is obviously one of the most culturally relevant instances of misogyny in media. that being said being more culturally relevant doesn’t mean it’s the worst instance of misogyny and i think bumble definitely experiences more profound misogyny in the way the actual content is presented, if that makes sense

I get you, and that's a charitable way of looking at it.

I think what's rustling my jimmies is that like, there was a couple of WC fans being mildly dismissive of Alex in that note minefield, after dozens of comments of "fuck you how could you let the fridge woman lose" and "Bumble didn't deserve to win ANY rounds" and "how could A CAT experience misogyny." But then WE get blamed for the toxicity because THEY were butthurt that the Funny Cat People have the 'audacity' to win something they feel entitled to.

Like, we've gotta be endlessly charitable as we get openly insulted because they're upset about Alex losing, a very well-known and culturally relevant character with a legacy so massive we have a whole term named after her. But condemnations of "She's just a cat, letting WC into this poll was a mistake, Bumble can't even be a victim of misogyny" only started coming around once I started talking about it.

as if it's OUR fault people got passive-aggressive or even OPENLY aggressive towards us, and that we're "just as bad" for retaliating

But like you said, it's not a "Most Culturally Relevant Misogyny" tournament, it's a "Canon Misogyny Victims" tournament. And you're not even supposed to give a shit that Bumble died. The fat, woman abuse victim is beaten to death by a dictator, and your takeaway is meant to be, "It's so sad that Clear Sky is being blamed for murdering her, now they're all preparing for self-defense against a homicidal maniac, oh nooo :("

And I think that DOES make her deserve the win here! Alex is a MARTYR. Everyone with a brain agrees what happens to her is bad. It happened in her canon because it was bad. We talk about her and keep her memory alive. Bumble gets dismissed entirely out of hand because she's "just a cat in a kid's book" as if that doesn't make it worse, and as if the kid's book didn't treat a domestic abuse survivor like a moron for even asking for help.

Anyway, just to reiterate, I love DC fans. It's not all of you guys. Alex was done dirty and deserves justice-- and it's even kind of a shame that all she became is "The Fridge Woman." I haven't even heard people talk about how she was a wary, responsible person who was still ready to rock with Kyle's new weird glowstick powers, or that she was a journalist, or that she just got brought back in another edition as a Green Lantern only to be revealed as an illusion and re-absorbed back into Kyle's mind. Nope. Even her fans just remember her as The Fridge Woman.

[thisismycorneroftheinternet]

I'm unhealthily obsessed with Slay The Princess now, and lemme tell you, the crush I have with the big scary versions of the Princess is immeasurable. All I have to say is that if this 12ft tall lady

pummeled me to death with her fists and knees, I'd only say "Yes ma'am! Thank you very much, ma'am!" over and over again.

I mean, just look at her, the perfect woman.

[stuffyflowers]

*massaging my temples with an irritated expression* I am soooooooo tired of people misunderstanding starlos character

[the-ratronaut]

Just finished Slay the Princess, it's great and I totally recommend it! It's short but replayable (It's a flawed way of measuring it, but according to achievement percentage one run has seen me through 18% of the game's content), the story is wonderful and the ending I got was just as lovely! I'm probably going to replay it a bit more as there's a lot more that I need to see. I'm not going to go too much into analysis until I do another playthrough or two, but I will say that my current impression is that it's genuinely one of the better visual novels that I've finished this year.

[archduke-enver-gortash]

song that has been the backing soundtrack for my gortash x zeke breakdown so far. quintessential song for these two

[thymodyke]

my cell cultures are unionizing against me

[funbonded]

Funfred: obviously we were made to be rivals.

[weepingchoir]

Man this suuuuuucks *wastes one hundred adversaries with one hundred perfect blows* this fucking suuuuuucks

[grison-in-space]

Has Biden actually done anything at all? There's evidence going around and I think it's compelling, the alternate to voting is instead doing actual social work and participating in protests and organizing political action, which is a good idea i think

1) Yes. Inarguably this has been the most effective progressive domestic administration since I have been alive, and I'm in my thirties. What in the fuck are you talking about? It's not perfect, but it's better than we've seen in fifty years: Obama tried, but Democratic Congressional organization was just not yet used to working with a completely obstructionist GOP Congress in the wake of the tea party.

Even in terms of foreign policy, this is also pretty much as good as US involvement gets. Sorry. Our foreign policy has been shaped by monsters for decades, and that's even without dealing with our huge and active branch of Christian doom cultists. There ain't a candidate in the world that could stop the entire accumulated momentum of geopolitics with a snap of the finger, and I'm not really willing to pretend that Biden is particularly notable for not managing to fix Israel/Palestine relations.

2) In your own words, anon, what precisely does organizing political action entail without participating in the political process? Do you think that abstaining from the part of the gig where you, the citizen, get to say which official gets the job somehow makes your opinions matter more to your elected public officials? Have you ever organized to get so much as a municipal one-time library project budget expanded? Are you perhaps only skilled at political argument with people who already agree with you on the Internet?

What is your leverage, and could it reasonably be described as "extortion" or "blackmail" or "political corruption?" Because those are pretty much the only things on the table that can work more effectively to drive an elected official than a disciplined coalition of political allies (who can be purchased with, you guessed it, votes) or a reliable bloc of voter support. Your vote matters less than the ones you bring with you, sure. Do you think that not voting yourself somehow helps people organize to drive more votes? Have you perhaps replaced your complex reasoning skills with a rapidly dying jellyfish?

3) Holy passive vagueness, Batman! "Evidence is going around." What a masterpiece of a sentence! How it suggests everything while providing nothing! What evidence? Who collected it? Who is talking about the evidence "going around?" Who is listening? How many of them are there? What did they think before? The more I think, the more questions I have, and damn if they ain't predisposing me to be even less charitable.

Like, this is so catastrophically poorly supported that I have to confess that I not only believe this is probably an ask in bad faith (i.e. by someone who is expecting to piss me off or otherwise engage with me adversarially, probably spammed to a whole host of blogs at once with no expectation of response) but I actively hope that it is. The alternative is to have to grapple with the reality that some people are so uncomfortable with the responsibility of moral agency that they're willing to release useful levers of legal and social power just so that they never do anything problematic with that power. Much better, of course, to wash one's hands of anything that might have the stink of responsibility clinging to it. Might fall from the membership of the Elect if you actually get yourself all muddy by doing things, I reckon.

I don't even believe that voting is the only lever we have when it comes to our elected officials or that votes are necessary to secure change, and I am certainly not talking about the presidential ticket alone when I talk voting. What I do believe is two things: one, that voting is a potential lever of power on the emergent chaos of the society in which we live. And two, that anyone telling me to leave a lever of power on the ground without a damn good reason is either incompetent, malicious, or both.

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

Why Writers Don't Finish Writing Their Stories, and How to Fix It

Hello fellow writers and storytellers,

The journey of writing a story is an exhilarating adventure, but it's not without its share of obstacles. Many of us have embarked on a creative endeavor, only to find ourselves mired in the struggle to finish what we started. In this blog post, I'll unravel the common reasons why writers don't finish their stories and explore practical strategies to overcome these hurdles and reignite the flame of creativity.

The Perils of Unfinished Stories

As writers, we often find ourselves in the throes of unfinished tales, grappling with the intricate web of characters, plots, and themes. There are several reasons why the ink dries up and the story remains untold. Let's shine a light on the familiar adversaries that stand between us and the triumphant completion of our narratives:

1. Lack of Planning:

Some of us brazenly dive into our stories without a clear roadmap, resulting in uncertainty about the direction of the plot and the fate of our characters. The lack of a solid plan can lead us astray, leaving our stories wandering in the wilderness of aimlessness.

2. Self-Doubt and Perfectionism:

Ah, the relentless whispers of self-doubt and the siren call of perfectionism! These twin adversaries can cast a shadow over our creative vision, compelling us to endlessly revise and perfect the early chapters, trapping us in a whirlpool of perpetual edits.

3. Time Management:

Balancing the demands of daily life with the ardor of writing can be akin to walking a tightrope. The struggle to find consistent time for our craft often leaves our stories languishing in prolonged periods of inactivity, longing for the touch of our pen.

4. Writer's Block:

The mighty barrier that even the most intrepid writers encounter. Writer's block can be an insurmountable mountain, leaving us stranded in the valleys of creative drought, unable to breathe life into new ideas and narratives.

5. Lack of Motivation:

The flame that once burned brightly can flicker and wane over time, leaving us adrift in the murky waters of disillusionment. The initial excitement for our stories diminishes, making it arduous to stay committed to the crafting process.

6. Fear of Failure or Success:

The twin specters that haunt many writers' dreams. The apprehension of rejection and the unsettling prospect of life-altering success can tether us to the shores of hesitation, preventing us from reaching the shores of completion.

7. Criticism and Feedback Anxiety:

The looming dread of judgment casts a long shadow over our creative endeavors. The mere thought of receiving criticism or feedback, whether from peers or potential readers, can cast a cloud over our storytelling pursuits.

8. Plotting Challenges:

Crafting a cohesive and engaging plot is akin to navigating a labyrinth without a map. Faced with hurdles in connecting story elements, we may find ourselves lost in a maze of plot holes and unresolved threads.

9. Character Development Struggles:

Breathing life into multi-dimensional, relatable characters is a complex art. The intricate process of character development can become a quagmire, ensnaring us in the challenge of creating personas that drive the story forward. (Part one of Character Development Series)

10. Life Events and Distractions:

Unexpected events in our personal lives can cast ripples on our writing routines, interrupting the flow of our creativity and causing a loss of momentum.

Rallying Against the Odds: Strategies for Success

Now that we've confronted the adversaries that threaten to stall our storytelling odysseys, let's arm ourselves with strategies to conquer these barriers and reignite the flames of our creativity.

Embrace the Power of Planning:

A clear roadmap illuminates the path ahead. Arm yourself with outlines, character sketches, and plot maps to pave the way for your story's journey.

Vanquish Self-Doubt with Action:

Silence the voices of doubt with the power of progress. Embrace the imperfect beauty of your early drafts, knowing that every word brings you closer to the finish line.

Mastering the Art of Time:

Carve out sacred writing time in your schedule. Whether it’s ten minutes or two hours, every moment dedicated to your craft is a step forward.

Conquering Writer's Block:

Embrace the freedom of imperfection. Write, even if the words feel like scattered puzzle pieces. The act of writing can unravel the most stubborn knots of writer's block.

Reigniting the Flame of Motivation:

Seek inspiration in the wonders of the world. Reconnect with the heart of your story, rediscovering the passion that set your creative spirit ablaze.

Reshaping Fear into Fuel:

Embrace the uncertainty as an integral part of the creative journey. Embrace the lessons within rejection and prepare for the winds of change that success may bring.

Navigating the Realm of Criticism:

Embrace feedback as a catalyst for growth. Constructive criticism is a powerful ally, shaping your story into a work of art that resonates with readers.

Weaving the Threads of Plot:

Connect the dots with fresh eyes. Step back and survey the tapestry of your plot, seeking innovative solutions to bridge the gaps and untangle the knots.

Breathing Life into Characters:

Engage with your characters as if they were old friends. Dive into their depths, unraveling their quirks, fears, and dreams, and watch as they breathe life into your story.

Navigating Life's Tempests:

Embrace the ebb and flow of life. Every pause in your writing journey is a chance to gather new experiences and perspectives, enriching your storytelling tapestry.

The Ever-Resting Pen: Harnessing the Power Within

Fellow writers, the journey of completing a story is filled with peaks and valleys, each offering us the opportunity to sharpen our resolve and unleash our creative potential. As we stand at the crossroads, staring at the canvas of unfinished tales, let's rally against the odds, armed with the power of purpose, passion, and perseverance.

Let the ink flow once more, breathing life into tales left untold, and watch as your stories triumphantly reach their long-awaited conclusion. You possess the power to conquer the adversaries that stand in your way, and within you lies the essence of untold narratives waiting to unfurl onto the page.

Here's to the journey that lies ahead, the stories waiting to be written, and the unyielding spirit of creativity that thrives within each of us.

Warm regards and unwavering encouragement, Ren T.

[youhavereachedtheendofpie]

yall will see a mother figure in media that isn't 🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗 100% of the time and scream abuse I'm so tired

[justsalpals]

"The damsel and the thorn are the only explicitly romantic paths-"

to YOU

I'm locked in enternal violent combat with my adversary in a world that's only the two of us, kept moving by pain and adrenaline and the glance in each other's eyes as we rip open another vital wound in perfect sync and the ever beating surety we have that the other cannot die bringing a cruel sense of bone deep, blood pumping elation because just by thinking it means it must be so

[electronicdelusionstarlight]

With the Slayer and the Princess away as mortals, the Cycle Broken, that leaves the 10~ voices and 20~ princesses left in what was once the Long Quiet, their centers gone, reality a simple cabin in nothing.

The voices however each believe in their respective princesses so much, they each shape the world with their beliefs, splintering multitudes of pockets of lifetimes in the nothing that is their everything.

Smitten and Damsel, simply staring into one another eyes in a meadow, they say nothing, do nothing, cause the other being happy is enough for them, and the other is happy if they are happy, an endless feedback loop.

The Tower on her throne, the Broken in a gilded cage beside her as she coos and pets him, the little Bird preening in adoration.

The Adversary and the Stubborn locked in endless, perfect, almost sexual combat, hand in unlovable hand.

The Opportunist and the Witch, embracing, smiling fake smiles, each with a blade ready to stab the other in the back.

The Razor and the Cheated playing Uno. The Razor is eating cards when the Cheated isn't looking.

Skeptic and Prisoner also looking into one another's eyes, each in chains, each squinting, never breaking eye contact.

The Cold and the Spectre, chilling.

The Nightmare and the Paranoid, gloved hand trailing across the bird's feathered neck.

Contrarian and Stranger, him trying to do something to annoy her, her laughing screaming in anger crying ignoring him.

The Hunted and the Beast, playing an eternal game of cat and bird.

What? They can't all bee good endings.

And yet, despite everything, none of them would have it any other way.

Not even the Paranoid.

At least his organs aren't shutting down anymore.

[caws5749]

Hi, can you do nat x reader? Reader can walk through walls so the avengers hired her because she can be an asset to the group. What she's not telling them is she could see the red string of fate. She sees tony is connected to pepper, scott is connected to hope and etc. But she couldn't see hers that is until she met natasha

A/N: this is such an absolutely beautiful idea and I am so honored to be able to write this, this genuinely may be one of my favorite requests I have ever received

The music provided the perfect ambience for the scene. It was loud enough to be heard and felt, but quiet enough for conversations to be had. Voices came from every direction, some laughs floated above. The party was your first since joining the Avengers team.

You let your eyes wander about the room as you sat on the couch. Red, faint, glowing strings could be seen about the room. Some connected to another person at the party; some went out the window.

Your heart warmed seeing Tony and Pepper, their strings relatively short given the closeness between the two as they shared a private conversation. A smile tugged at your lips as your gaze fell to Hope and Scott. They were a bit further apart, their string a bit longer, glowing brightly under the lights. When they shared a loving look, you couldn't help but feel hopeful about your own life.

You couldn't see your string, you couldn't see your fate. But you could see everybody else's. Well, not everyone had one. Some people just didn't have someone they were to end up with. Some people's person wasn't here anymore, as sad as it was. Steve didn't have a string, but you knew at one point he certainly had. Natasha didn't have a string either. You weren't quite sure why. Perhaps she had had someone and they were here no longer. Or maybe she just didn't have someone and never would. Perhaps she wanted that. Perhaps she didn't.

You hadn't actually met the red-head yet. When you'd joined, she'd been gone on a mission and was supposed to return this evening. Perhaps you'd finally get to meet her. You found that she was often on your mind, for a reason you still hadn't figured out. It just seemed that no matter what you did, Natasha Romanoff was there.

But your ability to see that fate of lovers wasn't even why you were on the team. In fact, the team had no idea about that little gift at all.

You'd been hired for quite a different skill-set, one that even you couldn't quite seem to figure out why it happened. While it seemed odd to say, you could walk through walls, something that was incredibly useful for mission. You and Vision shared that little gift, and once it became apparent you could fight and were easy to train, they were happy to have you on the team. It helped that you often knew just how to pressure certain adversaries, possibly because you could see who they were connected to. You could see their weakness, as much as you hated to exploit it.

"There she is!" Clint's slightly intoxicated voice rose above the rest. You quickly looked in the direction of the doors, eyes going wide. Natasha Romanoff stood in the doorway, smirking slightly at her best friend, donning a skin tight black dress. She was practically glowing.

She moved into the room, her hips swaying. She seemed to move in slow motion. Her eyes quickly swept across the room, starting at the opposite side of the room and moving towards you. The Widow stopped in her tracks as her emerald eyes met yours. Her smile faltered, brief shock and an unknown emotion flickering across her face.

You felt a sort of pull, a tug and you looked down to see a red string emerge from your chest. You watched as it lengthened and met another string. Your breath caught as you saw that string had come from her. And while she had been practically glowing before, she was actually glowing now, a soft red hue surrounding her silhouette.

"Nat!" Clint yelled. She ignored him.

You stood from the couch and she switched her direction to you. You met in the middle.

"I'm Natasha. Why haven't I met you before?" she questioned softly.

"I'm Y/N. I just joined."

She hummed and tilted her head. You could tell she couldn't quite tell what was going on.

"Why do I feel... drawn to you?" You couldn't decipher if she had asked that rhetorically.

"It's a long story," you murmured. She quirked an eyebrow.

"I've got all night."

[vivwritescrappythings]

Yours

joel miller x fem!reader

Finally finishing the request for a Joel Miller fic inspired by "Jealous" by Nick Jonas for @prettyinpunk85 (I hope you like it)

You get new neighbors in Jackson, Joel doesn't like how much attention they pay to you so he decides to teach them a lesson.

tw: afab and fem reader, p in v sex, alludes to curvy reader, age gap (twenty years), exhibitionism, some dubcon, dirty talk, no use of y/n, unsafe sex (do as i say not as fanfic writes), oral (f receiving), fingering, finger sucking, jealous joel, written from joel's perspective (may be bad)

Word Count: 4.8k

MDNI

masterlist

—

Joel didn’t know what to do with himself when you’d happily announced that you had new neighbors. The house next to his in Jackson had been empty for some time, it was yours until you decided to move in with him and Ellie. He was hoping the neighbors would be a family, or maybe some older survivors. Really, someone you could be friends with, he knew you were way too extroverted for just his company.

But instead the new neighbors were his nightmare: two guys–in their twenties.

You were young for Joel, he knew that. Part of him had always attributed your interest in him to the fact that choices were limited in the zombie apocalypse. He hadn’t even known how to flirt with you, awkwardly leaving tattered books he had found during supply runs on your front porch, sometimes accompanied by wilted wildflowers. One day he had left you a bookshelf he’d built, endless hours spent in his studio sanding the wood to perfection and carving flowers into the border. You had to ask him to come over to help you move it inside.

That was over two years ago, and he still had no clue why a pretty thing like you had decided to even talk to him, let alone be with him. To be honest, no one else in Jackson understood it, either. You worked at the small bakery on Main Street and wanted to convert one of the buildings into a library. You liked to sew pretty dresses and planted superficial flowers outside of the house in the summertime. 

Joel was nothing of the sort, keeping everyone at an arm’s length aside from Tommy and Ellie. He stayed on the fringes of community events, always present but never participating. Ellie was loud enough for the both of them, boisterous and friendly and everything he wasn’t. He was happy to watch her thrive.

So the first time she asked him to go to the bakery so she could hang out with a friend, he reluctantly agreed. He’d introduced himself to you like a complete idiot, blushing when you laughed and informed him that you were neighbors. Joel had become enamored with you from the second he saw your smile, the way your eyes crinkled at the edges and your cheeks lifted. He could’ve died a happy man right there at the counter. 

From then on, he claimed that bakery visits were firmly his responsibility.

He sucked up every piece of information you gave him, starting with your favorite items at the shop and spiraling until he knew that you loved wildflowers and what books you liked to read. Joel was greedy, he wanted to know everything about you–he wanted to be the only person that knew everything about you. 

That was when he started leaving you gifts at your door, and the rest was history.

So when you swatted his hand away from the cooling cookies on the rack in the kitchen, his brown eyes regarded you with betrayal. “They’re for the neighbors,” you informed him, untying your cute, frilly little apron and hanging it on the hook he’d installed.

The neighbors.

They had already become adversaries in a war that only he knew existed. Joel sighed, heavy boots plodding against the floor until he could wrap his arms around your waist and pull your back to his chest. “Now why are you giving the neighbors my cookies?” he asked, nuzzling the tip of his nose against your temple. 

“To be friendly, Joel,” you said with a giggle, turning in his arms to look up at him. His big, scarred hands were on the small of your back, fingertips rubbing gentle circles through your shirt. He swore his heart stopped every time you looked up at him, your thick eyelashes fluttering as your lips quirked into a smile. “Something that you are unfamiliar with.”

He scoffed, rolling his eyes. “M’friendly,” he protested, pecking you on the lips as though it would prove his point.

“Oh yeah?” you asked, leaning up and kissing the corner of his lip once before squirming out of his grip. You retrieved one of the few plates that didn’t have a chip missing from the cabinet, transferring the cookies onto it with care. “It took you how many months to talk to me?”

Even if the question wasn’t rhetorical, he decided to treat it that way. He moved closer to you, a possessive hand curling around your waist and lips meeting your shoulder. “To prove you wrong, I’ll come with you to introduce ourselves to the neighbors.” He wanted to keep an eye on them, let them know that his pretty girlfriend was in fact taken before they got any wrong ideas.

Your brow furrowed, immediately suspicious of his motives. “Who are you and what have you done with Joel Miller?” 

He smiled, trying to be sweet and smooth like he used to be when he was younger. Before everything. “Maybe I just want to be nice, wildflower. Ever thought of that?” 

Your eyes dragging across him let him know that you weren’t convinced. The two of you stared at one another, waiting to see who would cave first. Apparently it was you. “Fine, but I know you’re up to something.”

Joel’s hand was firmly planted on the small of your back as you stepped out into the afternoon sun, the whole world looking like it was dipped in gold. You went up the rickety porch stairs first, Joel only a half step behind you as you adjusted the plate to one hand to knock on the door.

He was staring at the way the blue paint was starting to peel, thinking about how no self-respecting man would let his house fall into disrepair like that. No mind that they had only moved in a few days ago, they should’ve repainted the front door by now–it was people’s first impression whenever they walked up to the house.

It took a moment after you knocked for the door to swing open, two blonde idiots who looked like they were straight out of a magazine advertisement standing on the other side. Their blue eyes lit up when they saw you, easy smiles gracing their features like they hadn’t been battle-hardened by the outbreak.

Not like Joel was.

Joel’s fingers dug into your back, his expression hardening. They tempered their excitement when they saw him, standing so close to you that he could practically be your shadow.

He loathed the way they were looking at you, his jaw set tight and flexing beneath his beard. You were talking, he could hear the notes of your voice like you were speaking underwater–he was too focused on the dopey smiles in front of you to even pay attention to what was being said. You made them laugh, they said something back to you. Probably their names if he had to guess.

Before he even realized, you were tugging him back down their porch steps and into your shared home, flitting away to make Joel his own personal batch of cookies like nothing had happened.

–

Three times that week he had come home to find them loitering outside the front door or talking to you along the edge of the freshly painted picket fence. They were always showering you with compliments, be it about your cookies or the flowers you’d carefully planted in the boxes Joel had built you. They scattered whenever Joel was there, making excuses about chores that needed to get done or errands that needed to be finished.

But he knew better.

Of course, you talked about the nice boys next door over dinner, it took everything in him to not immediately scowl at the mention of them. The fact that you referred to them as boys was laughable, they were closer to your age than he was—maybe a few years difference between you at most. Nothing compared to his whopping couple decades. He tried to brush the thought away as quickly as it sprouted.

He humored you, knowing that you just thought that everyone was kind and friendly and honest because you were. That was what he loved about you.

–

The last straw was when he was out in the back installing a porch swing for you to read on. They were doing something, near enough to the tall fence splitting the yards that he could hear them talking as clear as day. 

Joel almost went over there to give them a piece of his mind, listening to them speculate about why you were with him. They were laughing as they bet that he couldn’t even get it up anymore, that there was no way he was taking care of you like a man was supposed to. 

He was old, angry. And you… you weren’t.

He was seething by the time they finished up and went into their house, his hands nearly shaking when he finished screwing the brackets into the roof. Back in the QZ, Joel would have probably fought them—killed them, if he was honest with himself. 

It would be easy to bust down their door and give them his retribution, he wasn’t always the domesticated beast he’d become for you. But nevertheless, he sucked it up. You would be devastated if he fought with them, as much as he would love to feel their skin split under his knuckles. He couldn’t do that to you.

—

It was a few evenings later that he got what he wanted: an opportunity for his revenge. You were on the porch swing with him, the two of you nestled together in the orange rays of the sunset. You both were reading, Joel’s arm tucked around your shoulders so your chin was pressed against his bicep. 

You always were fully immersed in your books, an earthquake could happen and you would have no clue. So you didn’t hear your neighbors’ back door slide open, but Joel did. 

He barely moved, didn’t bother to say a word as his broad hand moved from cupping your shoulder to gently graze around the side of your breast. It was a lazy day for the two of you, you were only dressed in one of Joel’s flannels and pajama shorts that were so loose around your thighs you may as well have never put them on.

You immediately shivered at his touch, your thumb slipping between the pages of your book to hold your place. “Joel, the neighbors,” you whispered, twisting so you could look up at him. 

“Went on a hunting trip, they’re not home,” he said loud enough for them to hear. Hopefully they would have the good sense to shut up. His thumb circled your already stiff nipple, a smirk stretching across his features conspiratorially. “C’mon, Ellie’s at a friend’s house and no one’s here—let’s test out the porch swing.”

Your lips were already parted, the heat building on the back of your neck so intense Joel could feel it through his shirt. “Joel,” you whined in the way that made him get hard as a fucking rock in his pants.

“Yeah?” he asked, suddenly playing dumb as though he hadn’t started it. 

You pouted, your brow furrowing and bottom lip jutting out as you arched your tit further into his hand. He acquiesced immediately—he always did—pinching your nipple through the well worn fabric of his flannel. His reward was a soft moan from you, your body both melting into and arching away from his. 

“What’s my girl want?” Joel asked, his voice a deep rasp as he stamped his lips against your temple. The small of your back was pressed against his oblique, your cheek squishing into his collarbone as he watched your thick thighs press together. He kept toying with your nipple, his free hand setting his book aside and pulling yours from your clutch. “C’mon, you gotta tell me. Can’t read minds.”

You huffed, you always hated it when he made you ask for what you wanted. “Joel please,” you whined, pressing your heels against the cushion that covered the wooden seat and sitting up so you were flush against him.

“Please what?” His free hand skimmed down your side, snapping the stretched-out, elastic waistband of your shorts. It made you squeak, a quiet giggle coming from your throat.

“God, please just touch me,” you whined, your impatience making him chuckle darkly. His hand moved from your waist, tracing over the pudge of your stomach and dipping into your loose sleep shorts. There was nothing beneath, just your soft skin and the curly patch of hair on your pubic bone.

“No panties? You slut,” Joel teased, his fingers traveling even further down until they sunk into your cunt. You were wet and warm, almost scalding his skin as he parted the lips of your sex to find your swollen clit. “And already so soaked.” 

You moaned, a hand winding around his bicep as your back arched. He kissed the crown of your head as he rubbed your clit between the pads of his pointer and middle fingers, slow and soft. He knew you’d complain, beg him for more. He just wondered how long it would take until you did. 

Not long at all, it was maybe half a minute when you rocked your hips impatiently against his hand. “Joel, you’re being mean.” You were loud, louder than you would ever mean to be with the threat of someone possibly catching you.

Joel chuckled, shaking his head. “Mean? Not true,” he countered, increasing the pressure he was putting on your clit. If he strained his ears he could hear how wet you were, a quiet squelching noise barely muffled by the fabric of your shorts. You pressed your hips further against his hand, your teeth digging into your lower lip to keep your noises to a minimum.

He dipped to gather more slick at your fluttering entrance, teasing it for a moment before returning to your clit. You were being so good for him, so sweet. His other hand unbuttoned the flannel you were wearing down to your navel, freeing your breast for him to knead and squeeze in his broad palm. 

Your eyebrows bunched together, your lips parting as your gaze was stuck on where his hand disappeared beneath your shorts. “Feeling good?” he asked, relishing in your moan of agreement as you nodded. 

Joel smirked, pulling his hand from your shorts. “No–oh my god,” you protested, nearly up in arms. If looks could kill, he would be struck dead. He stood, his dark eyes briefly looking over the fence to see the neighbors still on their porch, their jaws dropped to their chests.

His smile widened as he sank to his knees in front of you, your protests dropping off as you lifted your hips so he could take your shorts off. A wicked grin stretched on your features, you sucked your bottom lip back into your mouth as your gaze roved over him. You settled so your ass was almost hanging off the porch swing, spreading your legs without Joel having to direct you to do so. 

“You want me to eat this pretty pussy of yours?” he asked, rough hands smoothing along the insides of your soft thighs. Joel wasn’t a man with a weakness for pretty things, but there was something about your slick and puffy pussy dripping for him that made his heart nearly stop.

“Fuck, please, Joel.” He loved the way you begged. 

Joel pressed his mouth to the soaking mess of your sex, moaning at your salty-sweet taste on his tongue. He could never get enough of you, settling one leg over the curve of his shoulder as his other hand pressed your knee to your chest. The sun was shining in his eyes, but he didn’t let it stop him from looking up at your face. He lapped at your cunt with firm, long strokes, practically drinking from you.

In a moment of generosity, he pressed the middle and ring finger of his free hand knuckle-deep in your pussy, pulling a loud and broken moan from your chest. He was smiling into your pussy, suckling at your swollen clit as he pumped his fingers into you.

Your fingers tangled into his dark brown curls, grabbing at them in a way that sent shivers down his spine as you pulled his head flush against you. Joel loved the way your soft thighs pressed against his ears, almost muffling the sweet sounds falling from your pretty lips. Almost. Being outside had made you reckless, the promise of Ellie and the neighbors being gone letting you reach a volume that he hadn’t heard in a long time.

Of course, Joel knew better. He ate you like a starving man, proud that every sound you made was heard by the two men–boys–sitting on the other side of the fence.

His knees on the concrete ached, his back protesting being curled so he could keep his mouth pressed tightly against your weepy cunt. The pain was worth it, every second of it was worth it just to make you fall apart. Just to remind the world that you were his and his alone. 

Your head had fallen back to rest on the bench, your eyes scrunched closed as you gasped. Joel’s fingers crooked inside of you, finding the spongy spot at the front of your cunt. It made you writhe, the hand keeping you spread apart for him pinning you down and forcing you to be somewhat still as he pressed at that spot mercilessly. His eyes remained on you as much as they could, taking in every heaving breath and the way your breasts moved under the fabric of his unbuttoned shirt.

It was only moments more until you were coming apart at the seams. You’d squirmed out of his hold, your heels digging into his broad back. Your legs clamped around his head, your back nearly broken with an arch. The sound you made was almost wounded, a desperate cry of his name as your legs spasmed and you practically gushed over his hand.

He worked you through the aftershocks, your pussy fluttering deliciously around his thick fingers. Your hold on his hair loosened just enough for him to pull away, mouthing at the crease between your thigh and your cunt. You came back to yourself, breathing again as your legs relaxed to rest on his shoulder. He peppered sticky, wet kisses on your inner thighs.

“Joel, oh my god,” you sighed, scrubbing a hand over your face as you panted. A laugh left your chest, making him grin like an idiot as he rested his facial-hair covered cheek against your leg and caught his breath.

“Clean these up for me,” he requested, his soaked fingertips now pressing at her bottom lip. They glistened in the afternoon sunlight, a sticky film coating the entirety of them. You narrowed your eyes at him for a moment, your bratty streak coming through before you submitted and opened your mouth to let his fingers slide against your warm tongue.

You sealed your lips around them, sucking your slick off earnestly and rolling your tongue along his digits. “What a good girl, sucking on my fingers like that,” Joel said as he stood, making eye contact with the neighbors before looking back down at you. His knees protested the movement, cracking a bit as he straightened. 

He had to check to see if they were paying attention, the blush across their faces visible from across the yard.

A hum against his fingers brought Joel’s attention back to you. You watched him through your thick eyelashes, the sight alone making him feel like he was going to blow his load.

Your hands found the tie at his sweatpants, pulling the bow apart impatiently. You let go of his fingers with a pop, your soft lips shiny with a mix of your spit and slick as you started to pull his sweatpants down. “Wanna suck your cock, Joel,” you said, almost sounding drunk on it as your fingers hooked in the elastic waist.

He couldn’t help his smirk, his hand caressing your cheek and jaw as he looked down at you. He could feel two sets of eyes burning into him as he let the silence hang for a moment. You were being so perfect for him and you didn’t even know the extent of it.

“Nuh uh, not tonight,” Joel said, stooping down to press a wet kiss to your forehead. Your whine of protest made his chest puff up with pride. 

He shook his head with a smirk, kneeling down on the cracked concrete again. His poor knees–he would certainly regret the entire escapade tomorrow. Really, he wanted to get you up on his lap and have you ride him until you were crying–but he didn’t want to risk you seeing the neighbors. Or the neighbors seeing any more of you than the back of your head.

Grabbing you by the waist, he pulled you so your entire ass was hanging off the porch swing. The only thing keeping you from falling was his hands and your legs hooking around him for some stability. You were already grabbing at him, fingers twisting in the shirt he still wore. “Want me to fuck you?” 

“Uh huh,” you panted desperately, nodding with a frantic look in your eye. “Please, Joel.”

He smiled, pushing his sweatpants down around his thighs and taking his cock into his hand. You moaned as he rubbed the tip of it along the seam of your pussy and pressed it against your clit. 

“Fuck,” you whimpered as the blunt head of his cock caught, Joel filled you with a quick slot of his hips.

Your head fell back, a whine pulling from your throat as you bore down around him. He almost lost his mind right there, no matter how many times you’d had sex you still were so tight. You both stilled, panting and gripping at one another as you become acquainted, blinking in the afternoon sun.

“God, I love this pussy,” Joel grunted, trying to talk you through it as he started thrusting gently. No matter how quiet he was in his normal life, as soon as he felt you squeezing around his cock he started running his mouth. The hinges of the swing creaked a little as it moved back and forth, his hands anchored to your hips. 

He took you slow, wanting to savor the moment as much as possible. Bitten down grunts and grit teeth were met with your sweet mewls and dulcet moans as he split you apart. One of your hands reached for his, your fingers lacing with his before he pressed your knuckles onto the cushion of the swing. “Wanna hold my hand, sweet girl?” he asked, voice borderline condescending as he did.

You nodded pathetically, gasping every time he rutted inside of you. He’d reduced you to mush, partially formed words dying against your lips as he hit home against the spot inside you that always made your breath lock up in your chest.

“Who do you belong to?” Joel asked, squeezing your hand to get you to come back down to earth. You looked a mess, completely fucked out as you blinked slowly and took a deep breath. It took you a minute to really focus on him, your hand weakly squeezing back. 

“You, Joel,” you answered, teeth scraping along your plump lower lip as you fisted the open flannel still draped around your shoulders.

He chuckled darkly, leaning down toward you as he kept up his almost machine-like pace. “Louder, be a good girl,” he murmured, pressing a wet and sloppy kiss to your throat. You clenched around him at the praise, it had always been one of your weaknesses.

“Joel, m’yours,” you gasped, words broken up by the reverb of his thrusts and the slap of his heavy balls against your ass.

He never had reason to doubt that he was who you wanted to be with, but the reassurance helped ground him. The whole week he’d been wondering if he was holding you back, if you actually wanted something else from life. But with the way you were taking his cock? The way you moaned for him? Hell, the way you looked at him was more than enough. There was no mistaking it for anything other than love. 

“That’s right, you’re mine.” You shifted under him, the angle of your spine letting him hit deeper inside of you. His hand left your waist to grab the soft cheek of your ass, keeping you steady and supported. “No one else’s, right?”

“Yeah, Joel. Just yours.” The assurance was breathy, your voice faltering in your throat as you started to go rigid. You were looking up at Joel so sweetly, tears starting to glisten in your eyes as you tugged against the fabric of his flannel that you wore on the porch swing that he built you at his house. He had a mean possessive streak, but look at you–so happy to be his.

He lost himself. He worked on pure instinct, pistoning into you as he became blind with the desire to pin you down and fill you. You whined as he slammed into you, his sweaty forehead pressing against your sternum and his hands gripping you tight. He could feel you draw up like a spring beneath him.

You lurched on a wail, your cunt clenching around him so tightly that it almost hurt as you came. Joel moaned in sympathy with you, greedily taking in every expression you made beneath him. You whimpered and mumbled unintelligibly, your grip tightening around the hand you still clasped as your limbs locked up. 

Joel lost all semblance of coordination and control, hitching up one of your thighs and driving himself deep into you. Instinct dictated his every move, overriding common sense as he grunted above you like an animal.

He thought his jaw would crack in half from how hard he was clenching it, mumbling nonsense to you through his teeth. There was a lurch deep in his stomach, his abdomen starting to flex as he fell out of his rhythm. It was only a moment more before it felt like his skin was too tight and everything was too hot and he was spilling inside you while groaning your name. 

You were so full that you were leaking around him, come dripping down his balls and splattering on the concrete. Both of you were shaking, breathing each other’s air as your foreheads pressed together. Love filled your expression, making him smile tiredly.

You felt for him, your fingertips caressing his jaw as you brought him in for a gentle kiss. You always brought him back, reminded him to be soft with you when he nearly forgot. His tongue licked into your mouth for a moment before he ducked his head and lazily sucked at your breasts, his hips grinding against yours. You both hissed.

“Want me to run a bath for us?” he asked, his voice thick as he mouthed at the skin of your sternum. 

“Yeah,” you whispered, nodding weakly as your fingers skated up from his beard to curl into his hair. It was sweaty at the nape, curling more violently than before. 

He hummed good-naturedly, pulling out of you with a groan before tucking himself back away in his sweatpants. Joel looked down at the mess he made of you, his come already running down the crack of your ass and dripping onto the concrete. He moaned at the sight, even the shitty porn magazines he’d found on supply runs didn’t compare to this.

He helped you back into your shorts, a fist closing your flannel around your chest as you both shakily stood. You were like a newborn fawn, knees knocking together as you leaned into Joel’s chest. He chuckled breathily, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and holding you close. A soft I love you was whispered against your temple, a gentle reply following from you.

Joel glanced over the fence as he walked you to the sliding glass door, a proud glint in his eye as he met the shocked stares of your new neighbors. He winked at them, squeezing you tighter before bringing you inside with him.