#the founding thereof

[neo--queen--serenity]

Lena losing her patience and furiously berating Gwen for potentially endangering the staff members of the OAIR is quite literally the opposite of how Elias ran the Archives.

Elias used the Archival staff—as well as his Archivist—as pawns that can be readily replaced as needed. His patron offered them minimal protections at best (the Archivist’s privileges notwithstanding), and even then, he would never actually intervene to save any of them if they were in danger, much less take precautions to protect them at their headquarters. They are used as bait, as sacrifices, as currency, as objects. The listener knows, eventually, how easily he could discard them if his plans called for it.

But Lena. This episode showed us that Lena keeps her entire organization running through keeping her subordinates hidden, safe, and unnoticed by the Externals. It’s quite clear through her conversation with Gwen that such a safety risk has never happened before.

As far as we know, Lena has successfully kept all of her employees alive, watched them come and go, bemoaned the turnover rate, and then got them to look the other way while they documented and dutifully filed the horrors.

But most impressive of all, she’s kept her real work hidden from her subordinates, and her subordinates hidden from her real work—a feat Elias had no interest or desire to accomplish.

[starry-bi-sky]

on a completely separate note; shizun luo binghe with a disciple shen yuan who fell into the abyss??? *thinks about LBH canonically stealing SQQ's corpse for 5 years* he'd hallucinate i think. like, like visual and audial hallucinations.

Keeps thinking he's seeing SQQ in the corner of his eyes, or wandering between the trees, amongst a group of disciples. Thinks he hears him calling for him, but its just the wind or another disciple.

Gets Xiu Ya reforged but patently fucking refuses to make a sword mound. Because his disciple Is Not Dead :))) There was No Body. He's Not Dead. And If You keep Insisting That He Is, He's Gonna Skewer You :). He's holding onto Xiu Ya so he can return his most favored disciple's sword when he returns. It's on his hip right next to Zheng Yang where it's supposed to be.

Also this motherfucker?? does not sleep btw. He has the image of SQQ, wide eyed and hysterical and standing at the mouth of the abyss burned into his fucking eyelids. Can't use the dreamscape to escape it either because he keeps trying to save him and either he does and it's an incredibly cruel trick to wake up to, or he doesn't and he gets his heart broken in several different pieces again.

There is no convincing this man that Shen Qingqiu is dead. Absolutely nothing at all. He is buried so deep in denial that moles would be jealous of how deep he is. He keeps making tea for two in the bamboo house only to remember that it's just him. SQQ's fans are hiding everywhere, little reminders of his presence. He goes to wake up SQQ on the mornings he sleeps in-- only to find the room empty.

[wreckedhoney]

i don't know what flavor of obidala lucas had in mind when he was considering it and i know there are different vibes to go for. but i adore an obidala that's treated as a narrative foil to what we have in canon - not just in regards to anidala but towards what makes us call these films the "skywalker saga" as a whole.

obidala would be coming from a story that has anakin as a central point for other characters' motivations and conflicts - and even interrelations with each other outside of him. ahsoka is viewed as anakin's padawan, ahsoka knows padmé as anakin's love interest, and both of them view obi-wan as anakin's mentor and friend. obi-wan and padmé begin aotc as friends or having the potential to be friends even when in conflict, but in short time that deflates. they regard each other through anakin; obi-wan knows anakin adores her, padmé knows anakin admires & resents him, and their perception of the other is clouded through that filter, even if they both know it's not the whole picture, and it isn't even accurate.

but aotc padmé is still young and brasher, and obi-wan hasn't settled into a more stable relationship with anakin yet - and thus, people he knows primarily through anakin. time passes and they develop. obi-wan struggles in the clone wars but is more comfortable and mellow in his own skin. padmé's competency grows but she alienates herself from most of her friends and community outside work to keep her marriage a secret, to keep the tusken massacre a secret, because love is worth it. she is still in the trenches of clinging to her ties with anakin for years.

what lucas and tcw wanted to convey without having to hammer it in is that they're in love, they're friends, the love is there but that doesn't make the situation right, and not just because it was a lapse in judgement to dive into this attachment in the first place, but more so because after some years' long opportunity to rectify it, they still don't. they choose to stay despite the strain of living against codes and principles, despite never learning to communicate through conflict past someone-is-right-and-the-other-was-wrong, or unwittingly enabling distance between themselves and the rest of their loved ones. meanwhile, what does obi-wan look like to padmé while she goes through all this?

a foil. obi-wan adores anakin to moments of blindness, but she's yet to see him do any of the things padmé's felt the need to in order for anakin to safely stay. obi-wan reprimands anakin openly, he does not choose him or any individual over "order" as an entity - be it the council, the jedi order, the republic, democracy. through his overall canon narrative, he does not choose to lose himself or his principles for anyone, including anakin, even if it hurts him or others, even if it hurts himself. he is still with anakin without the same trappings of attachments that the marriage has - he is with anakin, and the jedi order, and the council; he still has his community and whole social sphere. and if ever padmé gradually came to perceive obi-wan as this alternative to how she and anakin have loved, wouldn't she start to question why she chose to compromise herself all this time when she now recognizes someone who doesn't, and he is still loved?

and i feel like it would start with some mild resentment, at least - less at any one person and more at the situation, but she can't help but aim some of it at obi-wan just for being the one to lead her to see, for being a contrast. but it wouldn't take long for admiration to overshadow it, and for the friendship that they have, however tepid it's been, to serve as an open door for padmé to eventually approach him - for guidance, or comfort, even if engaging more closely with him starts with just curiosity at first. she's begun to see him as obi-wan kenobi, and he sees her as padmé amidala naberrie, without the "anakin's" attached. and it's at this point, perhaps regardless if an outright romance blooms, that obidala becomes some narrative foil; a strong relationship between them without or outside of anakin is an inherent defiance to an anakin-centric narrative and storyline. with romance in mind in the backdrop of a hidden marriage, it can become some tainted glimpse of adoration without the star wars concept of attachment. does an obidala romance have to happen for both characters to gain this sort of independence and clarity? no, but it's part of what the pair on their own could be indicative of, almost symbolic of, if taken in this direction.

it rocks the boat of the narrative, it creates contrast and encourages themes of growth even and especially when that growth is painful, it's based on support and admiration and trust even through the bitterness and betrayal. there's potential for it to be both tainted and genuinely healing. and i am here for it, i'm here for this flavor of obidala, star wars' little ship-that-never-was impacting the tone of the saga. obidala is good and This Flavor of obidala can be so, so good.

[mirrorofliterature]

the star wars fandom is really a hellfire send help

if people could stop vagueposting me I would appreciate it

someone talking about how they have a different interpretation of a ship than me, probably spurred by my post because of the timing and wording: sure go nuts!

someone dismissing my 'tusken massacre is not a genocide because Words Mean Things and that is, objectively, not it' by stringing together screenshots and a clearly misunderstood google definition: can I leave?

it's just not fun to randomly stumble across digs about you on the internet about serious topics you actually know stuff about

like it's the silly pew pew movies if you have a different interpretation to me that's fine but like. what is with all the hostility? it's really tiresome and not fun

[petorahs]

what is it about avenday that makes me snap and go crazy with my art i wonder

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

you ever think about how amy pond had more agency in birthing the TARDIS and the Doctor than she did River and want to chew drywall?

[gccdstories]

*screams GIMME THIS WISHLIST PLOT NOW as loud as humanly possible*

[marietheran-archived]

What is the "Lenore" folk song?

Take what I say with a grain of salt because I've only read a few of the ballads and one paper about them (which I would love to link, if only it was in English), but, in general it seems to have been a folktale/folksong widespread in the area of Germany and Poland that the Romantics in both countries latched on to and made their own versions of.

Tw: slight horror and implied demonic activity in the summary.

To recount the story (I'm roughly basing it on the polish ballad by Adam Mickiewicz which I know best), it begins with a girl (in other versions named Lenore), who receives news her lover is dead in some war or other. Her family wants her to get over him; the girl fights this. First she mopes, then she blasphemes, then she meets up with a witch of sorts, who promises to being her lover back.

Cue a rider with horse arriving at the gates in the dead of the night. The girl runs away with him. They ride a long whiles (at this point several comments tend to be made on how "the dead ride fast", or asking the girl if she's not afraid), the rider three times asking Lenore to throw away her prayerbook, cross/crucifix and rosary (I think these three, in the polish version at least, but anyway, religious objects) because they impede him in some way. In a striking display of lacking in genre-awareness (or even awareness of basic spiritual realities, I'd say), the girl sees nothing alarming in this, and follows through with his demands. Pursuant to which, they arrive at their destination, which to her surprise turns out to be a graveyard. Fire flashes from inside the rider and he takes the girl into the grave.

[shuruzy]

oh hell nah look who made it into Zandy's ocverse in a legally distinct manner

[that-crazy-five-foot-two-chick]

Quick, somebody think I'm funny for the sections on my Genshin Pinterest board

[radiaking]

On the subject of fucking the ghoul (idc if no one else is on the subject, I sure as hell am) I love seeing posts in the tags talking about how realistically fucking dirty and dusty that old man must be. Like forget the debate over whether his jizz will give u radiation poisoning, what other fucking diseases is he going to give u with that 200+ year unwashed dick!?!??!?!!

[oh2e]

If anyone asks why I don’t use tiktok it’s because the very first thing I watched was this. I then went ‘I have marmite. I have bourbon biscuits.’ and toddled off to the kitchen to test it for myself. Result: it was actually quite nice. The sweet and salty complimented each other nicely. I have done it since though only twice.

[thegirlwholied]

last night I finished The Scandalous Confessions of Lydia Bennet, Witch & finally watched Mr. Malcolm's List -

only to learn that today, January 28, is Pride & Prejudice Day, aka the anniversary of its 1813 publication, so I feel the universe has led me to celebrate appropriately

[semiferalstreetcoyote]

many such cases

funniest thing about the thing (1982) is that the titular thing is both a master manipulator who can perfectly replicate anyone but also a big bundle of nerves who flips out and starts screaming and turning into 5000 meat parts at once the INSTANT it’s found out

[hollowwhisperings]

it's getting harder and harder to distinguish between authentic art and ai generated theftcollages.

it's the worse evolution of the photoshop plagarism question

that is, "is this artist truly blending photorealism with neoclassical elements and handrawn vibes in their digital paintings? or are they using photos verbatim then filtering it?"

photoshop manipulation of public figures into fictional characters is not new. when the images are credited properly, it's harmless. heck, art schools have been instructing students to paint classical works in their original styles for educational purposes for as long as art schooling has existed!

artists use references all the time! sometimes we genuinely don't even realise we're mimicking something we saw once!

THE POINT IS PROPERLY CREDITING YOUR SOURCE IMAGES!

that's the difference between a fun fancast gifset and "is this ai generated" existentialism.

most people have never been taught art in a professional setting: i certainly wasn't.

anyone can become an artist by making art.

we can never be sure of how old any given person on the internet may be and there are plenty of highly valid reasons for a person to be ignorant: we can't always be sure on "when" suspect art was made nor if the person responsible has since learned better.

it's obviously wrong when money gets involved (it devalues copyrighted works and is misleading to consumers).

it's obviously wrong if generative ai was used (it's inethical to use it idly when its environmental impact is actively harming people & devaluing the work of real people living under capitalism).

likes and follows may be indirect but they CAN be commercialized: you don't gave to sell prints and merch to profit from exploiting other people's labour (that's the whole premise of generative ai).

i have and will never support ai-generated images.

...but it's becoming harder and harder to distinguish art from ai.

while some giveaways remain reliable (an artist's backlog only dating back to the release of chatgpt; wildly different styles in every piece; obvious resemblance to existing works without any creditation), users have learned to avoid previously obvious tells and have become better able to disguise their plagarism.

can a person be faulted for believing a person's art is genuinely their own? is it up to an artist to prove their wiork is their own? is it up to audiences to identify ai?

what can we even do in response to seeing gen-ai?, other than disengage and inform whatever artist has been stolen from (assuming we can identify said artist/s at all)?

we can't just bully suspected users (who could be wholly innocent) into better behaviour and few platforms consider genAI to be a reportable offense.

there is no way to win, beyond defunding the champions of generative AI and supporting legal efforts against them.

it would be so much easier if we could just sic wonder woman or robin hood or godzilla on tech companies.

it's depressing to face this existentialism even on tumblr, a platform universally recognised as being unprofitable and not at all prestigious. this is where people can post their laziest, unholiest fan sketches of never mainstream series! this is where bad art is CELEBRATED, with varying sincerity! WHY ARE PEOPLE RESORTING TO GEN AI ON THIS SITE????

[ilikeevilblondes]

Wide Open

18+ MDNI!

Summary: After a long day of work, Joel expects nothing more from the evening than getting some shut-eye. Fate has other plans, however, because the daughter of the family next door forgot to close her blinds again and is putting on quite the show.

TL;DR: Joel gets off watching you get off.

W.C: ~2.8k

Warnings: pervyneighbour!joel x reader, he's a tiny bit of a creep, accidental voyeurism (kind of…), mutual masturbation, dildo usage, lowkey a tiny breeding kink, implied age gap as per ushe (late-40s, early-20s), (no outbreak!)

Note: this is your daily reminder to close your blinds, y'all. unless joel miller is your neighbour. then maybe don't, and fuck with him.

Part One | Part Two

Joel always said he’d retire ‘soon’. 

Though as the years flew by, ‘soon’ remained ambiguously distant.

Presently, he had just come home from an unnecessarily hard day at work where some Einstein had misread the blueprint and cut every single piece of lumber half an inch too short. 

Joel was pushing fifty now. If asked toward his earlier adulthood, he’d have claimed that fifty-years-old balanced right on the precipice of retirement. And by sixty, he’d be golfing daily, attempting to read something other than the backs of DVDs, and not worrying about stupid shit like redoing an entire section of framing because of Romero’s shitty-fucking-eyesight.

“Fuckin’ Romero,” Joel mumbled to himself as he locked the door behind him and tossed his keys onto the kitchen counter.

With heavy footsteps, he ambled toward the fridge, praying he had the foresight the night before to leave a can or two of Modelo for his future self.

The unwelcoming sterile glare of the fridge light greeted him as he yanked open the door. Worse, it greeted him with its contents, or lack thereof.

No Modelo. 

Not even a lone, pitiful can of Keystone Light that Joel may have bought in desperation as a crappy substitute for literally any other beer.

Making a mental note to pick up a six-pack sometime tomorrow and, further down the line to maybe cut down on the beer, Joel trudged up the stairs to his bedroom.

His bedframe whined with a metallic creak as he sat on the edge, rubbing his hands down his face and feeling the scrape of his overgrown stubble on his worn palms.

Joel was more than ready to call it a night, he thought, as he leaned over to draw the curtains.

But he froze upon seeing you.

The two-story craftsman next door, formerly a ‘fixer-upper’, had been home to you and your parents ever since you moved in from the city a year ago. Your parents were mild-mannered neighbours who sent the street Christmas cards and kept the porch light on and took part in the neighbourhood watch patrol.

And you? You never made your bed, always had a book in your hands before sleeping, and more importantly, had a very noticeable habit of neglecting to close the blinds of your bedroom window.

Joel knew this, of course, because the bedroom of the two-story craftsman facing his house just so happened to belong to you.

“Shit,” Joel heaved a heavy sigh, still clutching the drawstring with notable tenseness.

Your cream-coloured blinds were slanted completely horizontally, allowing a direct view into your bedroom. And Joel found himself helplessly entranced, watching the back of your silhouette pull your shirt over your head and fling it across the room.

Fuck, you were very possibly wearing his favourite bra. The lacey ones that pushed your tits up real nice–

No. No, Joel, didn’t have a favourite bra of yours. What kind of neighbour would keep track of the family next door’s daughter’s bras? 

You turned around and, to his delight, confirmed that you were wearing the exact pair.

Him, evidently.

Joel squeezed his eyes shut and leaned back, running a hand through his greying hair and letting out a deep exhale.

You continued undressing, seemingly oblivious to the state of your blinds and the lack of privacy that state entailed. And further, oblivious of the old man next door watching intently as you unzipped your jeans and stepped out of them.

A thong. You had chosen to wear a thong that day. Because, of course, you had.

Bright red and stringy and covering virtually nothing, which left no part of your lower half to the imagination and Joel was able to see most of your perfect fucking pussy from the house over—

“The fuck am I doing?” Joel mumbled to himself and decidedly tore himself away from his window.

What was he doing? 

It wasn’t like you were strangers. He knew you. He came over to barbecues hosted in your back garden, fixed the leak in your kitchen sink when your dad had called, and watched the Superbowl in your living room that one year.

And, as much as he may have indulged in watching you before, he had never lingered as much as just did. Usually, he’d be sated with a few seconds of your half-dressed state, and would only later conjure up that image in the shower to fuck his fist to.

The tightness in his pants seemed to disagree with that plan, and Joel was overcome with an overwhelming need to settle his problem down south immediately.

Joel turned back to his window, determined to draw the curtains shut once and for all and then quickly jerk off to the mere thought of you (not that that was a noble action in and of itself), when he, for the second time that evening, froze at the sight of you.

Your bedroom was furnished in a way that had your bed facing your window. So, your wonderfully respectful neighbour could easily have direct views of you lying on your bed chatting on your phone, or reading, or spread out and running your fingers through your slick folds.

If Joel thought he was hard before, he was definitely, painfully, rock-hard now.

As careless as you may have been in the past, you have never forgotten to close your blinds to this degree before.

And, owing to that logic, you would never slip up like this again.

So, one would be incredibly stupid to not take advantage of this rare opportunity.

“Fuck it,” Joel inhaled sharply.

He scrambled to undo his belt and unzip his jeans and pull them down just enough to tug his raging erection out of his briefs, all while desperately keeping his gaze set on you.

Bracing one hand against the wall, he let the other wrap around his cock, fisting it leisurely as he watched you take open-mouthed breaths while your fingers traced up your seam to rub at your clit, your thong haphazardly pushed to the side.

You looked so pretty like that; lying on your bed and touching yourself as if you had pent-up emotions of need you desperately ached to satisfy.

You went slowly, dragging your fingers down along your wet cunt and against your throbbing clit, likely savouring the intensity.

Joel matched your pace, his fist sliding in a lazy tempo around his aching member.

Fuck, he’d do anything to grind his cock against your pussy; feel it shiver and clench around nothing and coat his length with your seeping slick. He’d bet all his money he could make you come without even putting it inside, too. Needy fucking slut.

And then you dipped a finger inside. 

Then another. 

God, with the way you seemed to be shaking around two of your own slender fingers, Joel was sure you’d be a mess riding his. 

Fuck, he’d even give you a third just to see you lose your fucking mind.

Maybe you’d beg him to stop, crying prettily and gasping in pitchy breaths that you just couldn’t take any more. But Joel believed you could, and he’d tell you so as he slipped his index finger to join the other two, feeling you clench around them—

Joel’s dick twitched in his hand and it was all he could do not to come early and let the show go to waste. Instead, he adopted a faster tempo, trying his damnedest to follow yours, however erratic it was.

Your mouth opened in a silent moan and you tossed your head back against your pillows as your fingers sped up in their ministrations.

Shit, you probably sounded real fuckin’ sweet, all overwhelmed with pleasure.

Again, your mouth parted, letting out a syllable of something Joel couldn’t hear, your tongue flicking out momentarily as you sounded it out.

Maybe it was Joel’s twisted imagination, but he was somewhat sure you had just moaned his name.

You probably didn’t, but it was a nice fucking dream, anyway.

He’d do just about anything to hear his name on your lips, whispered like a prayer or screamed like a plea as he relentlessly pounded into your tight fucking pussy. And, if given the opportunity, he’d fuck you so hard, a slurred babble of name would be the only thing you could say.

A familiar warmth began to pool at the pit of his stomach and his cock tensed even more.

Fuck, he was close.

And, he assumed you were, too, owing to the sheen of sweat on your body glistening under your lamp and the giant breaths you were heaving in.

“C’mon, babygirl.” He encouraged aloud despite being a good distance out of earshot, his voice coming out raspy and low. “Come for me,”

He watched you carefully, waiting for the moment your eyes fluttered shut and your hand stilled so he could close his eyes and imagine fucking his load into your spent cunt.

But no such series of events occurred.

Unexpectedly, however, you pulled your fingers out and flopped over on your stomach to reach for the bottom drawer of your bedside table.

What… the fuck?

Did you come already? Without Joel noticing? Shit, he definitely was too cocky in his familiarity with the female body if he didn’t clock your orgasm.

“Goddamnit.” Joel sighed, his hand coming to a complete stop.

Maybe it was better this way. 

Maybe Joel could still salvage what little morality he retained and beg for forgiveness from the higher powers above—

And no, actually, he couldn’t because, being the dirty fucking whore you were, you pulled out what he recognised to be a dildo from your nightstand.

You stopped fingering yourself to get a dildo from your nightstand.

“Filthy girl,” Joel tutted through a depraved smile, watching with hazy, lust-flooded eyes as you sat back down, spat directly on the tip of the sex toy, and positioned it in front of your weeping pussy.

Who knew that the sweet girl next door, the one who always offered to help carry groceries or to water his plants while he was away, kept a thick fucking dildo near her bed.

Not just any dildo, either, Joel realised.

It must have been his lucky fucking day, because, upon squinting at the unholy sight, Joel discerned that the shade of which the toy was painted almost exactly matched the rich tan of his skin tone.

In other words, it was now going to be much easier to imagine himself fucking you when a close replica of his cock was pistoning in and out of your pretty cunt.

“You gonna put it in, sweetheart?” Joel sighed, his grip tightening around his length as he watched your dawdling.

Fuck, he was going to get humanity’s worst case of blue balls if you stretched this out any longer.

“C’mon, baby. Jus’ put it in. ‘S not that hard,” He all but whined.

He, a man pushing fifty, basically whined. Good lord, what kind of fucking temptress were you?

Thankfully, it seemed as though you heard his words, because right after, you had slid the first few inches inside your walls, gasping at its girth.

“Yeah, there you go.” Joel sucked in a sharp inhale as he thrust up into his fist. “That all? Oh, babygirl, you can give yourself more.”

As if reading his mind, you slowly began feeding yourself the rest of the tanned dildo, throwing your head backwards and chanting that syllable that was so dangerously close to Joel’s name.

For the purpose of that night, Joel took the liberty of imagining it was, in fact, his own name as he fucked up fully into his fist.

When you finally took the toy to the hilt, its fake carved balls pressing against your ass, you started moving it in and out of your drenched seam at a steady pace.

Joel let out a string of incoherent curses under his breath, which quickly turned into strained groans as he mirrored your rhythm, practically feeling the way your pretty pussy clenched around that fake dick.

Your chest was expanding and contracting frantically now and you were no doubt releasing breathy moans from the sensation of fucking yourself with those eight generous inches.

Joel wished he was in that room with you to give you the same and then some. 

He’d kiss his way down to your tits and take a nipple into his mouth, tasting the sweetness of your skin as he bent you in half and made you see stars.

He wouldn’t even have cared too much if you passed out, as long as, when you woke up, he was still driving into you and kissing your cervix with each thrust, sending you barrelling into orgasm after unbound orgasm.

He’d hold out as long as it took to get you completely sated, and even a little more after. Maybe he’d even pop a certain little blue pill just to watch himself fuck his come deep inside you again and again after rounds of laborious exertion.

Joel’s dick twitched again at the mere thought.

And again, upon seeing the sight of you pulling the soaking dildo out of your tight hole and manoeuvering yourself to hover above the thing like you were about to sit on it.

Christ alive. You were going to ride your dildo.

“Shit,” Joel breathed, his eyes widening slightly. God, this would be a treat to watch.

Worrying your teeth on your lower lip, you began to slowly sink down on the toy, a silent scream leaving your parted lips as you steadily took it all the way to the fucking hilt.

Joel, he imagined you to have mewled. Joel, you’re so fucking big.

“‘S okay, sweetie, you’re doin’ real well.” Joel sighed, watching you adjust to the size. “Brave girl, doin’ so good. Now, go on and ride that cock. C’mon, baby.”

And so you did.

Bouncing up and down on the toy, your mouth opening in a steady stream of what seemed to be expletives, and your tits springing from your efforts.  

Fuck, in his forty-something years of life, Joel had never seen such a pretty sight.

And, there you were, repeating that mystery syllable like your life depended on it.

Joel, Joel, Joel, he envisioned you whimpering.

You were close again. He was sure of it. If it wasn’t already painstakingly obvious from the way you were eagerly swiping at your swollen clit.

And so, he finally gave in and began fucking up into his fist—his hips intensely chasing his hand—at the ferocity at which he dreamed to ram inside you, dragging against your velvety walls and feeling as you shivered uncontrollably around him.

He was close, too. Very fucking close.

“Come for me, sweet thing. C’mon. Be a good … fuck, be a good slut for me and come around that cock.” Joel breathed, eyes glued to the display of you feverishly riding the toy.

Then, suddenly, your mouth opened in a long scream as you nearly went cross-eyed.

Shortly after, your face scrunched up in pleasure and your body fell still on the dildo, the only movements being small rolls of your hips against the rubber length as your breathing began to even.

You came.

Fucking finally. 

Joel shut his eyes and pictured driving into your throbbing, dripping cunt, hearing your pitchy whines as he shushed you with little follow-through.

Gonna come inside, he’d tell you in between heavy, strained breaths. To which, you’d frantically alert him of the fact that you weren’t on the pill and the two of you had chosen to forgo the assistance of a condom.

But Joel’d come inside you anyway. Mark up his pretty girl with pearly ropes of his come. And he’d keep you filled up as long as he fucking could.

Before he knew it, Joel was coming hard and fast into his fist, wildly jerking in and out of his grip as he rode out his high.

It took a few more moments for him to slow down, and a good number more for him to stop fully.

“Fucking hell,” Joel sighed as he took a seat on the edge of his bed, reaching over to a nearby table and plucking a few pieces of tissue out of its box to clean himself up with.

Satisfied, he crumpled up the tissues, tossed them into a nearby trashcan and gently tucked himself back in.

His head hung low as he caught his breath and tried not to linger on the dubious ethics of what had just transpired.

While that had possibly been the best jerk in his life, it was undoubtedly very non-consensual. At least, on your side.

After all, you hadn’t explicitly given him permission to fuck his fist to the sight of you doing… whatever fucking marathon that was.

At least, he didn’t think you did.

Until, bing!

Joel angled his head to catch sight of his phone lighting up with a recent notification.

Unsure of who could be texting him at that hour, Joel took it in his hands and unlocked it with a quick swipe of his passcode.

It was a message from you.

You: you gonna keep jerking off across the street or are you gonna come over?

Joel’s eyes grew to the size of saucers. 

So, you had seen him. Possibly even orchestrated the whole ordeal; neglecting to close your blinds on purpose, wearing that bra, and, well, fucking yourself right by your window.

Shit. Well, he couldn’t just come over and fuck you silly … could he?

Then, another text came.

You: home alone.

Joel never put on his shoes faster.