Omnivorous fan fiction reader. Queer Feminist Chonk. Kind as often as possible. It's always possible. I drink and paint my face. #What is cheese if not milk persevering? (Ms. Scumptious (She/her but sometimes They/them)
Getting really tired of how all the anti porn censorship posts going around are like, "I don't like porn but I will defend it" or "it was bad for me to see porn young but it's better than the alternative." I like porn. I want to see porn. I was not damaged by seeing porn as a young person. Porn and erotica are valid and fun vehicles for artistic expression and completely normal expressions of human sexuality. We gain nothing by being squeamish in our support of porn, erotica, and nsfw content.
This is so silly but I'm watching a short video essay on sincerity in cinema and the creator is talking about how he watched Lord of the Rings for the first time at 17. He explains that he'd grown so used to the 'ironic' meta style commentary in the movies of the 2010's that as he was watching the opening narration of LotR, he spent the entire time waiting for the joke to come. For someone to take it all back with a zinger line. He listened to Blanchett describe and explain the backstory, and he waited for the other comedic shoe to drop.
And he kept doing it. Scene after scene.
He spent the film expecting someone to make a joke about how unserious things were or to break the fourth wall or do some other self referential type thing.
Now, maybe I'm just at that point in my cycle or maybe I'm too delicate in general, but I literally teared up hearing that. Straight up cried a bit. It is so fucking sad that sincerity and genuineness is being bred out of people.
People say all the time 'this generation can't take anything seriously!' and really, is it any wonder? Younger people have been trained out of it. You are no longer encouraged to be genuine or show emotion or be honest. You are actively punished for it. In fact, you are almost guaranteed to suffer for it.
That is so fucked up. I'm sorry to go on a bit of a random ramble rant but it's so fucking gut wrenching to see younger people lose that element of themselves. You can't express your passion without being told you're 'crashing out' or 'cringe'. You have to live in this neutral state of fear of perception, and god forbid anybody step outside of it!
You're told you should only consume and succumb and be ironic and emotionless and cool.
Listen, if you're following me and you're like.... 25 or under, let's say. Please. I beg of you. Do not fall for this rhetoric. Please, for the love of all things, feel. Feel and create and be honest with yourself. Indulge in things that make you happy. Be sincere. Wear your heart on your sleeve. Do not let this hyper-capitalistic, hyper-consumerist, self-centred, individualist culture take that from you.
Bleed yourself into the work you create. Live. Don't fucking let anyone tell you different.
I try not to fall into the "I never liked their work anyway" ditch when an artist/creator reveals themself to be a terrible person
BUT
a feeling I do have and will stand by is "While I enjoyed their work overall I did have some gripes that I overlooked out of affection and whimsy, but now that my loyalty is gone and my affection tainted there is nothing holding me back from enumerating my many grievances, to which the revelations of the creator's shittiness may or may not provide a new and infuriating context."
#such a good summation of this actually#because yeah there’s usually things that were always present#but which were easy to overlook or give the benefit of the doubt#that suddenly become relevant after a revelation about the creator#and it’s really not the same thing as the self-defensive “’I never liked it anyway’
A link to my Masterlist is HERE
Summary: There's only one way to end a night on the town with Loki. (w/c 2.1k)
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Heavy smut. Dirty talk. Drunk Loki (reader not specified) A/N: Thank you to @earlgreydreamreplies for popping the mental image of club bathroom shenanigans with L in my Askbox and gave me the green light to run with it :) You're wonderful. I hope this further fuels your daydreams.
Every beat of the bass shook your chest. Strobe lights pulsed behind your eyelids as your face turned to the ceiling. The DJ slipped into a new sound, euphoria bubbling beneath your skin as you let your head fall back to Loki’s chest.
All I need,
is your love tonight…
He was looming, waxy curls wafting against your forehead. You knew the look that would be swimming in his eyes. The fire. The need. Completely entranced in the hedonism of the night.
All I need,
is your love tonight...
The god’s hands balanced on your hips, grinding you deeper against him. Against the insatiable demon that lay in wait, concealed in luxurious fabric and impeccable tailoring. His hips moving against your spine so close that you were sure his buckle would bruise.
All I need,
is your love tonight...
He swayed back and forth, guiding you. Fingertips dug into the dip of your hips, thrusting against the curves. More strands of his hair fell against your cheek as he skimmed his skin to yours.
All I need,
is your love tonight...
The beat dropped, just as Loki’s parted lips fastened to your neck. His tongue swathed across your skin in messy circles, ravenous. Teeth scraping against moist skin. Licking.
He was drunk. On you. On liquor. On everything.
Your hand raked past his temple, combing through sweat-damp hair which stuck to your fingertips. Pressing him closer to the curve of your neck, you felt the vibrations of his growl through tight shirt cotton. His cologne stung your nostrils, warm cedarwood that had been overrun by the tang of cheap vodka and second-hand smoke. Heat from his skin pulsed against your neck, a thin sheen of sweat coating his own as he worked his lips over yours in a swallowing kiss.
Bodies shifted all around you as one.
It was tight. And hot. Loud.
But when he spoke. There was only you.
“I want you,” he rumbled hot and wet in your ear. Loki dragged your hips to the side, colliding against the thick cock snaking against his thigh. Hard, of course.
All I need,
is your love tonight…
An unseen smile tugged your lip as you slid your hand over his delicious cheekbones, spinning to face him. You wrapped your arms around his waist, tugging with a jolt. It shrugged him forwards, catching him off balance, perfectly timed as you leaned in to his ear. “Come on then big boy,” you hissed playfully. There were barely a pause as your fingers intertwined with his, leading him the well-trodden route of your youth to the bathrooms.
God, this place was a fucking dump.
You smouldered back to him as the music thumped, bodies parting like smoke to let you and your god through. Even intoxicated, even dishevelled and sweaty and mute and flushed; Loki Laufeyson was a titan among men. Your stomach fizzed as you watched each set of eyes in the heaving mass track his approach, and his departure.
They devoured him hungrily, from the endless depths of his transfixed stare, to cut of his jawline under the strobes, to the open buttons of his shirt, to the pull of cotton against taut flesh as he followed your lead. Black spindles stuck to his cheekbones, curls winding down his neck and cast over his shoulders. They spread against the white shirt like splattered ink.
They all wanted him.
Every single fucking one of them.
There was no need for pretence in a place like this. Better to be bold. And tonight...who cared. Loki’s free hand wandered to your ass as you emerged from the crowd, grasping needily beneath the hem of your dress as you walked with purpose towards the bathrooms. The approach was littered with loo roll and discarded cups, your heels sticking more with each step.
His arm shot out in front of your face, pushing the door ajar.
Smeared lipstick kisses coated the mirror, the smell of cheap perfume and fake tan. The place was windowless, tiny; a set of four cubicles that had seen far too much lined against the wall. Music from the main room seemed to shake the air.
The hand holding Loki’s was suddenly yanked backwards, pulling you to his chest. And then, he was upon you.
The god’s palms cupped your jawline firmly, pressing your lips to his. His tongue invaded your mouth, uneven pants and murmurs of desire sliding down your throat as he walked you backwards into the end stall. The door flew closed, locking of its own accord.
“You look so fucking...uhm, incandescent? Uh,..g-gods, in that dress I cannot,” Loki slurred between kisses as your fingers grappled with his belt.
He released your face, starting to undo shirt buttons.
“Don’t take your shirt off!” you giggled, as Loki’s eyebrows rose apologetically. “Wha- I’ve never done thish before,” he scoffed, fumbling with a button. A lazy smile flexed the corners of his mouth, eyes sparkling with life.
It was too much.
You launched at him, pressing him against the wall. Fingers tangled in hair, a violent hurricane of tongue and teeth clashing. With a gasp, the flat of your back pressed to the tile as he switched your places.
Loki’s forearm was flush above you. His brows knitted together, piercing you with the trademark smouldering eroticism that made your thighs tremble. “This place is filthy,” Loki growled, lowering his zip with painful slowness, “but darling, we’re filthier,” he winked. It was slower than usual.
He slid you up the wall, making sure that the ascent of his hands caught every curve of your body in that tight dress he loved so much. His fingers worked beneath the fabric, snapping the band of your underwear.
You sank down, the walls of your adrenaline-soaked pussy gaping for him. All of him. The tip of his furiously hard cock squeezed inside, making you wrap your legs tight around his hips. He bottomed out as wide palms held your ass tight, spreading your cheeks. Sometimes with Loki, all there was to do was hang on. So you slid your fingers over his shoulders, dug in, and did just that.
Loki threw his head back, ruined curls falling away as his face scrunched to the ceiling in pained pleasure. “Ah...f-fuck,” he gaped, “Norn-s, urghhsh...feelsh so good,”
There was something primal about this. Something that drilled right down to your core; past your pussy and your feelings and Loki’s pretty words and your fragile little future hopes and dreams.
Something dirty, filthy. Something animal.
Raw.
His stumbling curses of approval rang around the empty bathroom, your soft little moans that he adored spurring him on in the haze. Like a dog, inflamed by the dying cries of a rabbit. His open buckle clanged with every messy thrust, sopping cock squelching deep inside your little cunt.
“Why..does t-this feel so..good,” he slurred into your open mouth, half-lidded eyes boring into yours. “Because-we- shouldn’t-be-doing- it,” you replied though winded breaths.
“Ohhhh...thas it,” Loki chuckled, before another groan ripped from the back of his throat. You ran a hand through his hair, gathering a clutch in your fist. “Yeah, that’s it...fuck me baby;” you moaned; bucking against him, “fuck me like... an a-animal, all I need...yes...yes...f-fuck me, King-”
Loki’s grip tightened on your thighs, bruising tips sinking into hot flesh. You tugged his hair, a wet snarl erupting from his lips. His breaths were ragged, eyes flashing dangerously. There was no blue in them. No green, either. Just wide, lust-soaked darkness.
Beads of sweat had gathered at his hairline, his hot breath misting against your cheek as he took his pleasure. And yours.
“You’re mine, aren’t you-” he murmured, punctuating the rhetorical question with a wicked smile. You gasped, feeling stars begin to blossom in your centre. “Mmmm,” you managed, tightening your grip of his hair. “And you’re mine,” you hissed.
Loki’s lazy smirk of approval almost sent you over the edge. You were surprised you even heard the gaggle of women stumble through the bathroom door over the blood thundering in your ears.
Immediately, Loki’s palm pressed against your mouth. He winked again, even slower than before. You clenched around his cock in response, a soft ooo wisping from his lips as his eyes narrowed. He stepped in closer, torso pressed tight against your own. You heard the stick of his shoes against the grimy floor, the smacking of toilet cubicles and locks and laughter making you dizzy.
And then, slowly, he began to thrust.
It was shallow. Tight. Devastating. His public hair scratched against yours as he took you deep with shallow rolls of his hips. Sharp, jagged inhales and exhales through your nostrils were all Loki would allow as he fucked you deeper against the wall. His fingertips sank into the curves of your thighs. Hair fell around his face, sticking to his forehead in tangled threads.
He was panting.
So soft and low and wet.
“Uhh-h-h,” he gasped, catching in his throat as his lashes fluttered closed.
The fingers of the hand holding your body to his pulsed against your skin, spasming with the pleasure building inside him. Over the girlish chaos now filling the bathroom, you hear the increasing speed of Loki’s balls slapping against your wetness, the slurp of your arousal welling against his cock with every buck of his hips as he got faster. Greedier.
His eyes rolled back, mouth hanging open. He began to moan softly to the ceiling.
“Wo-ki…” you chided, muffled by his hand.
He focused back on you, pupils blown wide. In a flash, the world changed again as he gracefully moved you from the wall with the force of a gust, spinning your body. Your hands flew out, gripping the cistern as the toilet lid slammed shut. A gasp rattled the air. You didn’t know if it was you or him as he sheathed himself to the hilt.
Fingers gripped the porcelain, rattling suspiciously with each mind-bending fuck that sent shock-waves to your depths. The orgasm bubbling inside you reared with renewed intensity as you realised Loki’s fingers had slid from the back of your neck to rest over your lips again.
He curled against your back, shirt buttons cool against the flushed heat of your shoulders.
“Quiet, my temptress of the night…” he growled with a silent chuckle, powering his thighs up into another squelching thrust. Brushing your hair aside, his tongue slathered against the back of your neck. Saliva pooled, his drooling panting animalism taking over as modesty was forgotten. His dishevelled, quiet groans of desperation.
Seizing the opportunity, you captured one of his fingers between your lips. Loki shuddered against your ass. He let the finger slide on your tongue, the thick digit following the path his cock always took to the back of your throat.
“F-ffuck,” he slurred, the utterance no more than a whisper.
Another finger joined it.
And then, you began to suck.
Saliva welled at the creases of your mouth as he brought you closer to the edge, his free hand grasping in lazy handfuls of flesh. Your ass, your thighs. Yanking at the dangling sides of your dress and the pathetic last vestiges of your underwear. He was needy. Groaning in huffing exhales and shallow breaths as the ridges of his fingertips traced the point of your tongue.
“Gonna-ing to- cum,” he moaned wetly against your back.
You heard the scuffle of his dress shoes on the floor as he tried to get his bearings, the appendages dripping inside the heat of your mouth and the tight of your cunt too much for him to bear. You felt his glistening forehead rest against the slippery nape of your neck, damp hair mingling in sluttish waves with your own.
His mouth was open, saliva strands sizzling against the skillet of your skin as he tumbled over the edge with a broken cry of ecstasy. Your arms collapsed against the cistern, the weight of the god bottoming out inside you all you ever needed to feel whole.
“Nornsh…” he grunted quietly. There was a bang on the door, followed by a raucous round of laughter.
“You okay love?” an inebriated voice announced, “need anything?”
More laughter.
Loki shook his head against your back, nuzzling the skin with a shaking sigh. “I’m fine,” you said; far more composed than you felt. “Thank you.”
The gaggle of clicking of heels and sudden blast of music signalled their departure.
Loki drew up to his full height, sliding his cock out with an obscene slurp. Cum immediately began to drip in thick rivulets down your inner thighs. Usually you would clean it up. But not tonight.
You spun to face him, stepping out of your ruined underwear and pulling the dress down your hips with a mischievous smile. The underwear disappeared from the floor in a flash of green.
Loki winked, patting his heart twice with a shocking lack of characteristic rhythm. “A memento,” he explained with a flourish of his hand. A beautifully dreamy grin had begun to spread across his face.
“Home, my queen?” he postured, beginning to re-tuck his shirt and doing an incredibly bad job of it. You zipped up his fly, pausing to inhale against his collar. Faint traces of cologne wafted in tendrils up your nostrils, masked by the heavy smell of sex and the night’s vices.
“One more dance,” you purred, intertwining your fingers with his. You guided Loki’s hand to the mess coating your inner thighs, dragging a digit lightly through your plump folds, soaking with him. And you.
Loki smiled. “Filthy,” he growled, before he bringing the fingers to his lips with a gentle suck.
“This place is filthy,” Loki growled, lowering his zip with painful slowness, “but darling, we’re filthier,” he winked.
Good Lord he wasn't kidding when he said he & Reader were filthier 🥵
From the sensual dancing all the way up to the multiple rounds in a nightclub restroom, there was something so raw and visceral about this piece that you can tell this isn't their usual type of mango ride. Like nothing about this looked or felt like "lovemaking", no; they were outright fucking in this one 😳
Me reading through the literal fuckery be like:
And even still there were moments throughout the fuckfest where not only Reader's feelings bled through in her thoughts, but also Loki's. The fact alone that he went out into a space that was brimming with sweaty gyrating bodies and got drunk? There's a level of trust that he's given to her, and from Reader's perspective it doesn't seem like she knows that this is a show of trust.
Then there was his mention of "I've never done this before", meaning that this Loki wasn't a swinging dick when he landed on Midgard and just hooked up with any and every attractive woman that licked her lips and bat her eyelashes at him. Which means he didn't just choose to be with Reader out of convenience or a lack of choice; he actively chooses her and doesn't care about his abundance of options, like to him those options don't even register. It's just Reader.
But the biggest giveaway (to me at least) that this Loki is down bad in a way that Reader is yet to fully realize? When he called her "My Queen". That's not a title he just gives away to anybody. That name is heavy for him. He wants to build a life with her. 🥹💖
Now…if you'll excuse me, I gotta go rehydrate. I decided to return to the whorish world of reading fanfic today and threw myself in the deep end with this one goddamn
Gonna go ahead and tag @smolvenger…bestie you gotta meet this horny asf nightclub-going Loki 🫡
i fucking hate the “this is the good luck post.” Girl stop contributing to a superstitious environment with ur anecdotes there’s a million goddamn notes on it it’s statistically reasonable that a bunch of people remember the good things that happen after they reblog it
Every scene is him wyrming about like every joint in his body was slathered in baby oil and every close up seems to show him approaching orgasm or ego death, and this is a visual experience incredibly in line with Cats
An 1800s court room drama involving a printing press that has struck gold by making a deck of playing cards that features quite charming illustrations of local Dames Of An Occupation, in whatever outfit, state of (un)dress and pose they wished to be painted in. Some of them are remarkably creative - one of them is easily recognised despire of not having her face visible at all, because nobody else would be both flexible enough to achieve that position and shameless enough to pose in it.
The card deck company has been taken to court by a local self-appointed guardian of public morality, who insists that despite of no laws being broken in the creation of the deck, such lewdness should nonetheless be deemed illegal. He does not care that the models were paid well for their portraits and gave their full consent to their use, nor that they are in fact satisfied with getting free advertisement from them. He does not care about the rights nor consent of sex workers, he simply wants the cards gone.
The judge eventually deems that the cards are indeed too indecent for public sale and distribution, and the artist who designed the cards agrees to re-draw them according to the limitations dictated by the court (which sadly include prohibiting the aforementioned impressively flexible pose), on the grounds that no additional limitations are given retroactively.
It takes a year for a new card deck to be drawn and go into print, and it doesn't take long before the same people are in the courthouse again. This time the Defender Of Public Modesty is suing the card print company for personal slander, as every single drawing in the new art of the corrected deck features a man who looks unmistakably like himself, harrying and bothering the ladies of the previous deck portraits, whether by judging skirt lengths with a measuring tape, covering an exposed bosom with a folding fan, or placing a tablecloth over the infamously impressive no-knickers-hand-stand.
The Morality Warrior is enraged by this distribution of slanderous images of himself interacting with any women of questionable repute. The judge agrees that drawing an entire series of portraits of this guy harrassing these women does count as spreading false accusations of him, and agrees that the second deck should also be taken out of rotation. The artist who drew both decks consents to making a third version with the same conditions as before: no additional retroactive rules. No depictions of women in lewd poses, and no depictions of the man who sued them posing with sex workers.
The third deck is once again taken to court, as it depicts the exact same uncensored themes, outfits and poses as the first deck, except this time instead of the local Ladies Of Occupation, every card instead depicts the Public Morale Defender. The print company had to hire a trapeze artist from a passing circus to pose as reference for the most famous subject, as no other man could be found who could do a hand stand like that.
The judge agrees that these cards, also, are slanderous, and before the lawyer of the card print company can start negotiating for new conditions on what counts as "acceptable" replacement, the judge announces that they should just go back to making and selling the first deck they started with. And also if he ever has to see any of the people involved in his fucking court room again, over this same damn subject, he is sentencing everybody involved to death, by hanging, including himself.
I think I’m literally never gonna be sick of this masterpiece. I think watching it on a loop for eight hours could fix me. Dancing’s what clears my soul. Dancing’s what makes me whole.
I just love that this very video is an accumulation of thousands of years worth of art made by people who have never met each other. The concept of this video was so completely unfathomable to every single artist who made the sculptures and yet they’ve all put something toward the creation of it.
romaincrisis
tangentwithtanner
theartofmadeline
origamiaround
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
areudirty
stormborns
izzy806
dailybridgerton
