#am i as bad at it as i feel like i am? and any praise i give to myself is just a lie?

[plethorawrites]

TW: Mentions of dub con/non consensual intimacy or coercion. (From his past lovers, not reader) (A/N this is my favorite thing I've ever writtenreader

TW: NSFW content.

2.5k word count

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Okay, this could be a bit of a hot take, but I am a firm believer in soft Jason Todd during sex.

Especially at the beginning of a relationship. He died young and his only sexual experiences were with Talia, who groomed him, Essence, who he believed betrayed him for the longest time and maybe Artemis, (Idk if that's canon? Can someone confirm or deny?) who was probably pretty rough given her arrogant, abrasive, and violent personality.

So, when he dates you, he's more than just hesitant. He's pretty much terrified. But he's used to hiding his feelings because they make him feel vulnerable and weak, which he hates. When you start tearing down his walls, he starts to panic. He likes spending time with you, thinking about you, kissing you. Especially that last part.

But it never goes very far because he always pulls away when things get more heated. Like, you in his lap, him nearly fully hard before quickly picking you up by your hips and moving you to the other side of the couch before standing up, clearing his throat and leaving.

It takes over two months before he feels comfortable enough to even tell you the reason he doesn't want to be intimate and the only reason he did is because you started to feel like he wasn't attracted to you or you had something wrong.

He rushed to reassure you that wasn't the case and finally told you the —partial— truth. He had scars he didn't want you seeing, he had bad prior experiences, he felt like he was being used almost every time he slept with someone and couldn't stand that feeling because it made him physically ill.

It took several weeks after that to slowly adapt to that realization and discuss how to make that feeling go away. Taking things slow, making it last, keeping it gentle, seemed to be the best way. And it was somehow perfect and tortuous all at once. He let you ride his thigh, at first. That was the first time he'd ever allowed any form of intimacy between you too. Partially because you looked desperate and he felt bad and partially because he genuinely wanted to see what you looked like while doing that.

Not to mention, he was still too afraid to be the one doing anything. So, it was best if he just helped.

His grip was firm, his eyes glued to you. You whispered more praise in those few minutes than he had heard from anyone in months all together, maybe even the year. He felt good. He was helping you. You appreciated it. You appreciated him. He was attractive. You were thanking him for giving this to you. Practically begging for his help.

And it made his heart clench, not to mention his teeth. There were other forms of physical intimacy after that, still only to you, because he didn't want to risk showing his scars or get that nausea in his stomach again during sex. You'd allow him pretty much anything and everything, if it meant he was more comfortable with you and your body. Sliding his hand under your shirt while you slept over (quite literally just falling asleep after eating dinner together) brushing his knuckles against your breasts, hesitant to touch them, but finding comfort in it all at once.

You assured him three different times—before he did it, when his hand was just barely under your shirt, and when his fingers first tugged at your nipples. It's when he's finally a bit more comfortable, pressing his lips to your shoulder blade that you hum and roll over. Your hair finds his hair, stroking it and he presses his lips to your neck, almost on instinct. You let him kiss lower and lower, gently guiding his head towards your breasts, all while repeating more and more praise, reminding him he's under no obligation to do anything, ever, if he doesn't feel comfortable.

But he does. With you, he does.

It leads to him kissing and sucking at your chest until he loses track of time and you're painfully wet. That was plenty, you promised. He doesn't need to do anymore than that. But he does, because he doesn't want to take his hands off your soft skin. So you gently drag his hand down, keeping the other firmly on his shoulder while you stare into his eyes, as his fingers slide through your slick. A sharp inhale makes him hold his breath. The other women he'd been with only ever wanted the most physical part of sex, never to do something like this. You were so soft and warm, assuring him he was doing fine while guiding his hand until you eventually couldn't keep looking at him and had to close your eyes. He liked that. A lot.

The way your hand moved, letting him do what he wanted while you gripped the sheets. He listened so well, trying to make you happy or just keep making those sounds—his name falling from your lips. If you wanted his fingers to move faster, they would. If you said deeper, they were. If you said to curl them, they'd curl. You were so... captivating, he had found. Usually, he was too in his head, so focused on how long until it was over that he never even considered being able to enjoy it.

But he wasn't rushing with you. He didn't want you to stop saying his name. When you finally came down from the high he'd brought you, your first words were a question, asking if he was alright. When he nodded, you started telling him how perfect he was, how good that felt. He liked that almost as much as your moans.

Yet, you felt guilty, never taking care of him. He never asked. In fact he repeatedly denied the offer until you chose to stop asking rather than upset him.

Until one day, when you were on the couch, leaning against him as he read, your hand perched on his thigh. He didn't know if it was the fact that you were wearing such a low cut tank top or how you'd been absent mindedly rubbing circles around his sweatpants while reading over his shoulder, but he was worked up. It took twice as long to finish a page with your motion making his mind go to places it shouldn't.

He was worried, about you rejecting his desires, or something like that. Something mocking or doing something that was uncomfortable. People had done that before, eliciting physical reactions he didn't want to feel. But he wanted to try, to feel you on him the way he'd felt you.

His hands grabbed yours and when you looked up in confusion, he just gently and silently slid your hand a bit further on his leg, towards his erection. He'd absolutely taken care of himself, and often, because it was a quick stress relief that left him tired before bed. But lately, the more he did it, the more his mind wandered to you and that, for some reason, made him finish a lot harder than usual.

Your hand brushed against it and you asked if he was sure before pressing a kiss to the side of his shoulder and sinking down to the carpet below, on your knees in between his legs. Running your hands up and down his thighs in a soothing sort of gesture both calmed him and felt like torture all at once. But it only lasted a little bit, while you promised him he was in control, because that's what he needed to hear.

That he could say no at any time if he was even the slightest bit uncomfortable. When you slid his boxers down, his heart jumped in panic. Of course you noticed the scars on his thighs instantly. But ignored them, because he still hardly ever showed them aside for occasionally wearing short sleeves. You were silent and he was scared but all you'd said at last, was that he was pretty.

"Pretty."

That word had never been used to describe him. Not before his death and certainly not after. Even the feeling of your gentle kiss on his skin and your thumb swiping over the top had him gripping the pillows, still stressed. Your hand took his, squeezing it when your lips finally enveloped him, his length disappearing into your mouth. His breaths were shaky, his hold on your hand getting painfully tight.

He felt like he was in pure bliss, his mouth falling open to pant as his head fell back against the couch practically begging you to keep going. The feeling of your hums had done him in. And his moans, loud and tough, getting whiny towards the end as the euphoria wore off assured you he was fine. He slid his boxers and sweats up quickly, his cheeks red, from the act not embarrassment (he'd say and lie) but you just laid your head on his knee, staring at him, asking how he was.

Good was an understatement. Great, too. Incredible. Amazing. None of those compliments came out. He couldn't speak, just looked back up at the ceiling as his breathing came back under control.

All you'd done in response was tell him he didn't have to say anything if he didn't want to, climbing back into the couch and wrapping your arms around his midsection, resting your head against him. You stayed like that—silent. The only question you dared to ask was if he'd want that again and his response was a kiss.

He realized after that, how truly deeply he loved you.

A feeling he was so unused to, he couldn't pinpoint it for the longest time. You felt safe. Maybe that's what made him want to finally seal the deal with you. Or maybe it was the way his body physically ached in a way that no amount of help from his own hand or your mouth could fix.

Something about it was missing.

He wanted the lights off. You had accepted that, but told him you'd really rather see him. He caved almost instantly, because as afraid he was of you seeing him, he wanted to see you too bad to care enough. You were undressed first, naturally. He'd seen that before, in bed while touching you, or just as you changed it got in the shower. He wasn't any less smitten, still obsessed with every inch of exposed skin. It took a few deep breaths and reassuring words before he was willing to unbutton his shirt.

In fact, he couldn't. He'd asked you to do it.

That felt oddly more intimate to him. Your fingers moved slowly, undoing them one by one, a bit more of his chest exposed with each button undone. You had seen a lot of his scars, after he got more comfortable wearing shorts or shirts that showed his arms. He still never revealed his chest and when you did, he looked away, his teeth sinking into the inside of his cheek to keep from tears brimming in his eyes as he heard the small gasp leave your lips.

He almost jumped when you touched one, your fingertips feeling light as a feather. Tears kept pricking but he refused to let them fall. He was being vulnerable but he couldn't allow himself to be that weak. Your other hand found his cheek, pulling his face to look at your face, brushing your thumb over his bottom lip as you pursed your own, tightly to keep from any strangled sounds escaping.

Your voice was equally as emotional when you eventually spoke, telling him in a shaky voice that he was still pretty. Those words or perhaps how your voice cracked when you said them, broke him. A tear slipped down his cheek and you were quick to brush it away with your thumb and kissed his cheek softly, confessing that you loved him.

He couldn't stand it anymore.

He wrapped his arms tightly around you, burying his face in your neck letting himself breathe for what felt like the first time all over again. A real breath. One without any heaviness attached to it because you'd stolen all the stones from his walls one by one. You repeated it, so he knew it wasn't a mistake or accident and he started peppering short kisses to your neck, all the way to your lips, which he kissed deeply, his bare chest pressed entirely around your own.

Your arms were around his neck, in his hair, pulling him closer and his hands started to wander, desperately craving to have you without any barriers anymore. He stared at you, or at least tried to, when he felt your velvety walls surround him, clenching tightly when his hips were finally flushed with yours. His jaw was locked tightly until you started running your hand up and down his spine, telling him he could take a moment, if he needed it.

He did.

Not because he was nervous, since for once, he wasn't, but because he wanted to stare at you in this state and revel in your feeling for a moment more. He did, until it became painful for both of you and every thrust he made was slow and deep, staring into each other's eyes, taking full breaths in at the same time for several moments until his pace was quick, along with your breathing.

Your praise never stopped, even when it wasn't fully coherent and ended in a moan or whine. His own praise for you wasn't lacking either, telling you how perfect you felt, how badly he wanted you, how much he appreciated you waiting on him because he really was enjoying it, probably more than he'd enjoyed anything in his entire life.

When you're both a mess, panting and quiet from the feelings that washed over you both, his body goes limp, laying on top of you. Your hands rub his shoulders reassuringly, although slowly and his hands hold either side of your head, fingers threaded into your hair as he pressed his forehead against yours, feeling your breath on him. It was silent, until he eventually lifted his head to admire you, your stray hairs sticking to your face, your puffy lips, your blown pupils.

He said it back, at that moment.

He loved you too and couldn't stand letting you think anything else for a single moment more.

You didn't respond, but your lips curled into a grin and a heavy sigh left your chest, your hands moving from his shoulders to cup his face and lean up to kiss him.

He rolled you over, causing a slight squeal from you, letting you lay on him so he wasn't crushing you any longer. You rested your head against his chest, silently tracing his scars as he messed with your hair, the moonlight streaming in through the window.

His voice eventually broke the comfortable silence when he whispered to you, asking you to "Say it again."

You didn't hesitate to tell him you'd "Say it as many times as he wanted to hear it."

With his lips twitching, the slight wit he always possessed came back, questioning what you'd do if he "Wanted to hear it forever."

Like before, your response was immediate when you replied, telling him you'd "Say it forever, then."

[endykelopaedia]

This does still ignore that we don't have to choose one avenue or another when it comes to the intersectionality of this topic.

This post is about misandry being a bad "avenue" for sociopolitical analysis, not about "choosing one." you'd know that if you read the post.

I recognize in my experience as a latino that latina women don't experience the demonization that i do simply because of my gender.

and thats your fucking problem. First Of All you aren't even black so why are you here on my post on anti-blackness like this (and i did notice how you replaced all discussion of black people and anti-blackness with "poc" to get your nasty foot in). And second of yall YES THEY FUCKING DO. You really think being a woman of colour saves you from the racism you experience for their race in any meaningful way? You obviously a misogynist but you might actually be stupid too. Idk how long u lived as a woman or man but maybe go ask your grandma or sumn if being a woman made being latine easier. My exact problem w this misandry shit is how easily it becomes for you people to simply not think abt the women in your community and how obviously misogynistic it is to think their experiences of discrimination and violence must be softer than yours bc shes not a man. choke. moving on.

The darker you are, the more pronounced the fear surrounding you becomes, but it is also amplified by how masculine or feminine your gender expression is. I don't quite agree that "projected hypermasculinity" is the only cause of this.

i think its awesome that this non-black dude thinks he's in the position to explain colourism to me now. Also, I didn't say it was. You'd know that if you Read The Post.

for many poc, they are often in the cross hairs of white-enforced gender binaries. Many people in positions of power [even other poc] will use gender as a violent means to police us, often seeking to turn our own expression of gender against us.

you ever notice how in turning our gender expressions against us, there might be a pattern of projecting violence and aggression (traditionally masculine traits often praised in non-black people), that isnt actually there? This is masculinisation. This is racism. You'd know that, if you read. the post.

This intersection is important to acknowledge and I think very overlooked when poc trans macs like myself have been begging people to listen to us.

Ok. I'm a black i mean poc transmasc. Listen To Me! you are actively talking over what im sayin and barely listening bc it challenges the validity of misandry, a word that has apparently done soooo much for you, and me too obviously, given the nature of this post that you definitely read.

Also the section on adultification is sound. But very strange claim that "black people aren't actually masculine!"

Didn't say this. In fact i also very explicitly said black i mean poc adults also experience adultification. Try reading the post again, and applying my logic that you say is so sound.

Like???????? What about those who are? I have black transmasc friends who have extremely different experiences than my black trans femme friends and I can tell you that it absolutely is about gender there.

thats crazy. you're gonna bring black i mean poc transfemmes into this when the murder statistics for black transfemmes look like this? i wonder what happened there... i thought femininity was supposed to protect femmes from racislised violence...

Everything intersects with race in these conversations of course but there are those of us who are trying to communicate more nuanced experiences.

so sick of yalls "but my unique experiences!!" whinging. fuckin grow up n read a book. you arent the main characters. there are socio-political forces above you shaping our oppression and i am talking about those! i'm not your mother!!! think abt society outside of your feelings for 5 seconds n then get back to me!!!

ALL men benefit from patriarchy just as ALL white people benefit from white supremacy just as ALL cis people benefit from cisnormativity just as ALL rich people benefit from poverty. you think you're being intersectional but you aren't! you're just absolving your ability to perpetuate or benefit from a certain system in your own mind because you too are marginalised. being a man does not create a unique intersection with your race because men, unilaterally, are not oppressed for being men, no, not even sometimes, no, not even when you're black i mean poc or gay or broke or trans. and you can still benefit from misogyny against the women who are just like you.

Masculinity does not equal power.

Yeah ok. neither does whiteness or cisness or money or nun. nothing equals power cuz anyone can be oppressed for any reason. get fucking real.

There is the similarity of not equating feminity with powerlessness.

erm actually... you're the real misogynist for noticing how women are systemically disempowered by men instead of uplifting femininity (by refusing to acknowledge that women are systemically empowered by men) I Am Very Smart.

And Finally, lets talk about these tags a mo.

"white" "american" and i am very explicitly neither white or american. easy to guess from the way i write this post. easier to confirm from looking at my god damn bio. and thats how i know you arent serious bc you really think only white americans utilise male privilege as a concept? yk the feminist you haphazardly snatched "intersectionality" from was a black woman explicitly naming the way that the misogyny she experienced from black i mean poc men and the racism she experienced from white women was rendered invisible by both groups failing to acknowledge the intersection she had of being both black and a woman? of course not. you're an idiot.

"black people are seen as hyper-masculine and face a lot of violence for it, so yes you can be oppressed for seeming or being masculine"

AHT!! lets talk! black people are not actually hyper-masculine. hyper-masculinity is a projection by people trying to justify anti-black fear and violence. it is not a true and then demonised observation about black existence. the hyperfocus on the masculinity of black people is itself racism!

when you call this issue of racism anti-masculinity or misandry or whatever, you are obfuscating the bigotry at play. ESPECIALLY given that it is overwhelmingly just white women's fear about black people's supposed hyper-masculinity that actually gets listened to & acted upon.

in addition, there are other addendums people tack onto their anti-blackness that completely cause this logic to fall apart when applied. Namely, adultification! black people, black children get adultified by white society.

We are assumed to be older & more independent, and thus less in need of the safety, care, sensitivity, accommodation one would give to a child, and this results in violence and neglect. it is directly observable in the way black children are more likely to get detention, suspended or expelled for the same behaviour as their white peers, s/a rates for black youth, and the arguments that 40 y/o cops give for brutalising & murdering black 20, 16, 12, 8 year olds who so much as breathe in their line of sight.

Given this then, following the misandry logic, we can say being recognised as older or as an adult is a form of oppression.

"black people are seen as older/more mature and face a lot of violence for it, so yes, you can be oppressed for seeming like or being an adult"

we can for the sake of this post name this oppression adultery.

i kid. but do you see the problem. being recognised as an adult is obviously, not itself a form of oppression, in fact quite the opposite, being recognised as adult can grant you a lot of privileges that children do not have.

and black kids are evidently, not adults or people who act like adults. they dont mature faster. black 18 y/os will also face the problem of adultification to justify violence against them. black maturity is not a true and then demonised observation about black existence. the form of oppression is racism, and adultification is the deployed means of enacting racism.

the means of combatting the adultification of black people would not come in creating adult positivity or "advocating" for adults or telling children not to fear adults. it comes in the form of learning about anti-blackness, unlearning anti-blackness, and actually directly combatting anti-blackness.

similarly the means of combatting the hyper-masculinisation of black people comes in the form of learning about anti-blackness, unlearning anti-blackness, and actually directly combatting anti-blackness.

Racism explains both of this phenomena far better than "misandry" ever could.

[l0relaii]

LORELAIIIII!!! i crave experienced!josh w/ inexperienced!reader so bad... like the way he would fuck you though it and be so kind to you and so sweet and do everything you ask. HE DEFINITELY IS A MUNCH OML

sam omg?? i love this idea sm!! <33

in my head josh is either a virgin or he fucked a lot of people. A LOT

either nothing or a concerning amount there's no middle ground 😔

and when he finds out that you're inexperienced he's more than glad to teach you everything he knows :D

he'd take it easy with you when you first start dating, only some gentle kisses and touches that eventually turn into make out sessions

and during one of those make out sessions you suddenly blurt out between kisses while on top of him

"i think i'm ready-"

"hmm? ready for what?"

"you know.. to do.. it.."

"it? you're gonna have to be more specific baby"

he's teasing you, you know that, you can see it in the sly smirk on his face

"oh quit teasing me josh, you know exactly what i mean"

"you want me to fuck you pretty girl?''

"...yes"

"yes what?"

"..yes..please-"

"now that's my girl.."

you can feel his hard cock under you, have been feeling it for a good amount of time now poking at you through his jeans

"should i uhh- lay down or something?"

"mm no, why don't you stay right here on top of me? that way you can control everything babe"

"oh, okay-"

he can see how nervous you are, how often you bite your lip anxiously and how you grip his shoulders when his hands caress your skin under your shirt

he begins undressing the both of you until you're both left in your underwear. he leans over the bed getting something from his nightstand.

when he opens his palm bringing it towards you, you see what it is. a condom.

"need any help with this?"

"i think i got it.."

you take it from his hand reluctantly and stare down at the proeminent bulge in his boxers, a damp spot forming where his tip supposedly is

his hands unclasp your bra taking it off before admiring you his lips slightly parted in admiration

"you're so beautiful baby.."

you don't respond though, too caught up in your own thoughts. what if this was a bad idea?

he finally takes off his boxers and your eyes widen at the sight. it's.. big.. bigger than you expected

"will it uhh.. hurt?"

"if we don't get you ready before, probably"

"oh, get me ready, yeah that makes sense.. how.. how will you do that?"

"i dunno baby, what d'you prefer? my fingers? my tongue?"

oh, oh-

"you really wanna do that?"

"why wouldn't i?"

"i thought guys don't really like doing that-"

"i want you to enjoy yourself too"

his hand cups your pussy through your soaked underwear and his fingers sneak under the material rubbing through your folds

you gasp a bit feeling his cold touch on your hot skin and you lean on his chest letting his fingers thrust up into you

he coos soft praises into your neck while stretching you out and your hand mindlessly wraps around his length pumping him slowly

"good girl.. just like that honey.."

you fidget with the forgotten condom wrapper in your hand until you manage to pry it open

with shaky hands you put it on him hearing a soft hiss escape his lips

"you ready baby..?"

"umm yeah, i think i am"

"good.. you're on top, you control everything, okay? go however fast or slow you want to"

he holds his cock upright while you lift yourself a bit to position him at your entrance

once you sink down on him all the way you close your eyes concentrating on how he feels inside you. you don't see it but he does the same thing

after you get used to the feeling of being so full you begin moving slowly bouncing up and down in his lap

he's so gentle, not at all what you expected from what you heard about him when you first started dating

his hands grip your hips, not to hurry you but to comfort you, his thumbs rubbing soft circles into your skin

he looks at you with such adoration uttering hushed praises to you between breathy whimpers

"ca-ahh can you uh- rub my cl-"

you don't even get to finish your sentence because he immediately starts moving his thumb across your puffy nub

all while encouraging you to continue your movements until you cum around him with a drawn out moan of his name

ohh and the aftercare??

jesus he's the sweetest. he cleans you up, offers to watch a movie with you while cuddling, he brings you snacks, water whatever you need 🫠

[milfharkness]

honey, on your knees (when you look at me) | part two

pairing: agatha harkness x fem reader

summary: agatha wasn't lying when she said she's an incredibly generous boss.

contents: g!p agatha, dom agatha, sub reader, dirty talk, degradation, praise, oral (reader receiving), fingering (reader receiving), vaginal sex, spanking, talk of breeding

part one

You scramble to get on your feet, practically jumping to get to her black leather couch. You don't care in the slightest how pathetic you must look, you've never needed—or wanted—someone more than this woman.

Agatha's still wearing that smirk when she stalks over to you, a predator seizing up its eager prey: "So needy...take off your skirt."

You obey mindlessly and slide it down, letting it fall on the floor so you're left in your lace underwear, grateful that it's black so the wet spot wouldn't be as visible.

It really, really doesn't help when Agatha lowers herself to the floor in front of you and bites her lip. You squirm on the sofa, whimpering under her gaze.

"I fucked your throat once and you're already like this? God, how are you gonna act when I finally fuck your cunt?"

Still untouched (and painfully aware of it), you moan.

"Fuck, please just...God, anything."

Agatha takes pity on you. With a quick motion, she moves to unbutton your blouse, unnecessarily careful in not just tearing it off as if you cared about any piece of clothing at this point.

Once it's unbuttoned, you push it off your shoulders, much to Agatha's amusement: "Someone's eager."

"Agatha, please, I am so-...this is torture."

And it is. You can feel yourself throbbing, and you're not sure you've ever been this turned on in your entire life.

She ignores you, instead moving to unclasp your bra and taking it off you. Cold air hits your nipples and you inhale sharply when she finally touches you again, caressing your breasts with soft hands. Veiny hands. Fuck.

"So pretty, such a pretty girl," she mumbles more to herself than you, watching your nipples harden under her touch. You don't stop squirming, your hands making their way into her hair, trying to guide her lower where you so desperately need her. She chuckles at your attempt, sending vibrations through your body and making you whine.

"Agatha, please, I need you so bad..."

"Mm...beg."

Isn't that what you've already been doing? Whatever.

"Agatha, please just fuck me...need your mouth, your fingers, your cock, anything, need you to fill me up and make me yours."

Agatha releases a low growl at the last part and you bite your lip in anticipation—her next touch is soft, caressing your bare thighs. When she finally pushes your underwear aside, not even bothering to take it off, you gasp at being exposed to the cold air—she actually moans at the feeling of you on her fingers, dragging them through your folds lightly before circling your clit.

Your eyes flutter and your head falls back against the back of the couch, mouth opened in a silent scream, eyebrows knitted together. You've been so turned on for so long, you're certain it won't take long for Agatha to make you come undone.

"Good girl, y/n," she coos, face contorted in pleasure.

When she finally pushes a finger into you, you feel like you're ascending to heaven. She curls it immediately and doesn't hesitate to add another.

"Fuck," you call out, breathy and high-pitched, "Harder, please."

She obliges, thrusting into you (much too slowly for your taste), hitting a spot that made you see stars, and leaving you gasping.

You arch your back off the couch and just when you really think you're gonna die, she closes her lips around your throbbing clit and sucks.

The moan you let out is borderline pornographic and she chuckles against you, the vibrations driving you even crazier than before.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!," you exclaim, nodding your head vigorously.

She replaces her lips with her tongue, drawing small circles around your clit before flicking it—your hands are still fisted into her hair, trying desperately to pull her towards you, craving more pressure.

"Please, Agatha," you sob, "I need more, please give me more..."

Agatha hums: "How bad do you want it?"

"So fucking bad, holy fuck, I'll do anything."

"Anything? Jesus, you're a slut."

"Your slut, Agatha!"

"Mm...I guess you do deserve it," she smirks.

So Agatha gets to work. Drawing circles, flicking, once more closing her lips around your clit and sucking, all while thrusting into you and curling her long fingers inside of you, God, just the thought of her hands is-

"Come on, baby. Be good for me, cum for me."

It's like time stills—at her command, you immediately come undone, slipping into a state of bliss from one second to the next, a stage you never imagined someone would be able to put you in in a matter of minutes, not even in your bed at night with your hand between your legs, to some magazine with Agatha on the cover.

You don't know how long you lay slumped against the couch, brows knitted together, eyes closed, panting heavily—it might be minutes, might be hours, you don't know and you don't care.

Only once you hear shuffling around the room do you open your eyes, and the sight makes your heart skip a beat. Agatha stands by the side of the couch, her blazer and her blouse torn off and somewhere on the floor behind her. Her pants are still on, but like before, zipped down with her hard cock on full display, one hand on the arm rest and one stroking herself. Your eyes widen and you look up at Agatha, just to be met with that signature smirk of hers.

"Oh, did you think we were done already?"

You get up immediately, legs slightly wobbly when you walk towards her and cup her face to do what you've been wanting to do since the first time you saw her—you kiss her.

It's not heated, but soft and warm. She tastes like you. When you slowly pull away, Agatha is smiling puts her hand over yours.

Your hands move from her face to her neck, collarbone and finally, her chest. You hesitate, but Agatha nods: "You can touch."

And you're planning on taking full advantage of that. You unclasp her bra with one hand, running your thumb over her nipple and leaning down to put your mouth around her other one. She inhales sharply, fisting her hands in your hair and pulling—a whimper escapes you, and she chuckles, head thrown back as you continue to suck, lick and kiss.

A gasp tears itself from her throat and you smile to yourself, proud to be able to get such a reaction from the big bad lawyer.

"You're so beautiful," you murmur against her skin, "I wanna do this forever."

"Fuck, I might let you."

You look up at her—disheveled hair, wide eyes, mouth slightly agape, she looks like a fucking dream.

When she meets your gaze, her tongue darts out and she licks her lower lip.

"Bend over."

You don't dare disobey and bend over the side of her couch, propping yourself up on your elbows. A blanket is thrown over it, warm and soft, keeping your skin from sticking to the leather.

With way too much self control, she slowly slides a finger inside. Agatha bites back a choked little groan, pumping her finger in and out of you before adding a second. You just whine, still sensitive from your first orgasm, letting out jagged breaths every time she curls her fingers inside you.

"Jesus fuck."

"Such foul language for a pretty little girl like you, hm?"

You'd be rolling your eyes if you had the brain capacity left to think about what she said. It's like your brain is cotton candy, all inhibitions lost, with only thing on your mind being Agatha Agatha Agatha.

"y/n? I asked you a question. I expect an answer."

"Yes," you reply shakily, just praying that that's what she wants to hear.

The stimulation is not quite enough, you think desperately to yourself, with nothing on your clit, but you still roll your hips, trying to force her fingers deeper.

"Little slut," you can hear her hiss.

Without warning, her free hand comes down on your ass with a sharp smack. You yelp and squeeze your eyes shut, face contorted with pleasure.

"Please, please fuck me."

"I am fucking you," she responds coolly, accentuating her sentence with a particularly hard thrust and curling her fingers.

"Your cock, Agatha, I need your cock!"

"Greedy little girl."

"Yes, fuck, I'm so greedy, need you inside me so bad..."

Agatha chuckles, shaking her head: "I should've called you into my office and fucked you on your first day. Bet you would've let me."

"I would've," you nod vigorously, "Would've let you do anything to me."

She pulls her fingers out of you suddenly and you let out a sob.

"Would you have let me used you? Stick my dick in you on day one?"

"Yes," you admit. You want to cry from how empty you feel without her fingers inside of you—fortunately, Agatha has another idea on how to fill you.

Her fingers dig into your hips; she arranges them so that the head of her cock drags slowly along your pussy. You gasp and grind yourself down against her.

"Fuck!," she throws her head back, "You're so fucking wet. I know how bad you need it, baby, all you have to do is say 'Please, Agatha.'"

"Please—," you cry, voice rough, and she flexes her hips upward, pleased, nudging the tip inside of you. "—Fuck. Fuck, Agatha. You're fucking big."

She stills and her fingers dig into your hips, stopping your movement. "You can take it," she says, "You will take it."

You close your eyes, squirming around the intrusion, and try to shift your hips, to fuck yourself further on her cock, but her grip is like iron: "You gonna be a good girl for me?"

Speaking is so, so hard, but you manage to gasp out "Yes, Agatha".

She sucks air through her gritted teeth. And then, she slams you down onto her cock.

The stretch is intense. You clench around her, feeling so fucking full, before she withdraws and pushes in again, groaning loudly.

You're still sensitive from your first orgasm, as you imagine she is, so you know it's only a matter of minutes before you'll come again.

Her hips jerk upwards, driving her deeper than you thought was possible. There's no room inside of you for anything else, nothing, not even thoughts. Just Agatha and the way her cock is splitting you open.

"Perfect little cunt, so fucking tight and hot for me," she groans, "Knew you fucking would be, knew you'd feel so good around me."

You whine your agreement in cute little whimpers, ripped from your mouth as she rolls her hips. Agatha's fingers dig themselves impossibly tighter into your skin, leaving marks—the thought of her leaving marks makes your eyes flutter open—as she grinds herself into you.

"Gonna cum inside you," she growls raggedly, "gonna fill you up and breed you."

She tears a hand away from your skin to reach underneath you and messily rub your clit with two fingers, reveling in the way you spasm around her, moaning loudly.

"You're all I think about," she growls, thumbing roughly at your clit, "At work, at home, always want you so fucking bad. Wanna keep you, do anything I want to you."

"Yes," you gasp, "Yes, anything you want, I'm so close."

"Already? I should train you to last longer for me, make you my perfect little toy...come on, toy. Beg me to let you come."

"Please, Agatha, fuck, please let me come. Oh, please," you whine, pushing yourself back into her, spreading her legs further to give her better access to your clit.

"Okay, okay, fuck, come now."

With a last thrust of her hips, you come, biting down on your lip so hard you think you might draw blood as pleasure ripples through your body once more, and you seize up.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, baby," she chants as you clench tight around her, "Feels so fucking good, fuck."

You gasp out another moan as hot cum floods your cunt.

Agatha groans, long and loud, pumping through her aftershocks. Her skin is hot against yours and the warmth inside you makes your eyes roll back in your head.

Agatha doesn't pull out. Minutes pass with her inside you, not a single word spoken, as you both calm down from your highs. Sweat clings to you, you're hungry and you could really go for a shower—but you don't want to leave this moment. You think you could probably live in it.

That is, until Agatha does eventually pull out. You let yourself rest fully against the couch, still silent as she cleans the both of you with more wet wipes. You vaguely hear her getting dressed again, before she takes a seat right next to where you're laying on the couch—still bent over its side.

Her hand makes its way into your hair and she strokes it, more slowly and carefully than you would've expected. She even lets out a little laugh at the sight of you: "Baby, c'mere. Let's get you dressed."

Your response is a long groan. Even just the idea of standing up is so far away. The only thing close is Agatha's voice, her touch.

She hums, enamored smile and soft gaze, when she stands up again and collects your clothes: "You'll get cold, darling. Come, sit up, we can—okay, you're probably gonna have to...throw out this pair of underwear, wow."

She sounds almost impressed.

"I'll just—I'll buy you new ones. Do you like Thai? I'm getting kind of hungry. We can eat here, people'll start leaving soon, anyways."

You crack open an eye to look at her. She's straightening out your blouse, and you smirk: "Domestic."

"Hey, aftercare's important," she snorts.

"Thai food in your office is aftercare to you?," you slowly peel yourself off the couch, inhaling sharply when your legs touch and you're reminded of now sensitive you still are, and probably will continue to be for the next few days.

"Oh, sorry, would you prefer Italian?"

"Just get over here, Miss Harkness," you scoff as she hands you your blouse and skirt, putting them on carefully, "Jeez, are you like this after fucking other interns, too?"

"Like what?"

"Just come hug me, my God."

Agatha, despite looking slightly irritated, walks over to you and lets you wrap your arms around her, even going so far as to pull you slightly onto her lap.

"You okay?," she mumbles into the crook of your neck. The slight hint of concern in her voice melts your heart.

"Yeah. Just...so tired...I don't think I've ever cum so hard, twice, within, like...twenty minutes?"

Agatha looks pleased with herself: "You got any plans for today?"

You shake your head.

"Come over to mine, then. We'll order food there."

You perk up, raising an eyebrow with a grin on your face: "Oh, is that what it takes to be invited to yours? Best blowjob of your life and my pussy?"

Agatha huffs, unable to hide a genuine smile, and tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear: "You're just assuming that was the best blowjob of my life?"

"Am I wrong?"

"No. Still bold, though. Want me to get you a coffee?"

"Can you just...stay here for a bit?"

"Yeah," Agatha nods. If you weren't completely spent, you might've wondered if this is what she looked like nervous. Her free hand now rests on your thigh with the other one still stroking your hair, and you feel a strange sense of comfort.

"Anything you want, honey."

[platypusisnotonfire]

In one hour I'm gonna be 30.

I never thought I would see 20.

I text my brother, "do you feel young or do you feel old?"

we have orbited the sun the same amount of times. We have gone around the sun so many times apart that I'm not sure who either of us are any more. We have gone around the sun so many times together that I know we are only two halves of one person.

I am 4 years old I am 22 I am 17 I am 1000 years old and Oh so tired I am 6 and oh so scared and I need to know what the other half of us makes of the situation that we are experiencing in two different countries but together.

"I've felt old for years." he responds

Me too.

But also

I don't know if I'll ever be older than 7 and figuring out how to make us toast.

[somnus-lucis-caelum]

He was lucky she was so patient with him. Other nobles surely wouldn’t have shown this kind of sweetness leading him around by his hand. And Somnus was grateful for it. This was all so different from home. The only thing that could make this feel even stranger was if the farmlanders would talk in a different tongue. And yet the Lucian soldiers only had praise and awe for their accommodations. They were used to more rustic barracks back in Lucis. This here seemed like a dream to them. Oh, they would easily pledge themselves to the farmlands. Any grudge or hesitation for having been picked to leave their homelands quickly dissipated here.

The Queen was as graceful as ever – and yet she seemed to mellow in a more familiar tone with him. That embrace was still a surprise and yet this time Somnus was able to return it in a half-hearted attempt. Not to insult her, but because it still felt so unbecoming to simply hug the Queen of an entire nation.

Though Aerith had little mercy with her poor mother.

Somnus felt like a child being led around. This was her home. Plain and simple. She knew everything in this castle. Everyone. This was her golden cage – though seemingly she had spent a lot of happy years here, too. Loved and protected. The guards for sure were smiling at her a lot, whenever she dragged him through a new room.

The door they finally reached was thrown open and… it was a sunlit room with an amazing view right ahead. Branches of trees almost reaching inside through the windows as if they were curious giants. It was… almost too perfect. As if the Queen had afforded him the most beautiful room here. For a moment Somnus wanted to question that, though Aerith seemed pretty sure, pulling him inside. To Somnus’ surprise his meagre chest and bag had already been brought here and it made his heart leap a little. He knew his things were there, something that he could hold onto when all else changed.

The clothes surely still would smell like Lucis.

“This is all… ours?”, he wanted to make sure, finally letting go of Aerith’s hand and looking around. How strange this was. This would be his new home. Somnus stood there, trying to imagine his life here. Years upon years - hopefully. Would he one day sit by the window playing chess when his hair was grey and his eyes turned bad?

There were doors leading away from the room, but Somnus only looked at them curiously. Was one a bath? He sorely wished to bathe himself clean, but he did not want to… overstep? Could he overstep if this was supposed to be his new home?

Maybe to try and overplay his own uncertainty, he gave Aerith a little smirk.

“Well, I am disappointed… you promised me your chaotic cluttered pink bedroom. I see none of that.”

Aerith exhaled a contented little breath, watching Alba with a small tilt of her head. If only it could feel that easy for them... to just, join in, happily, without any fear. Lucis had been full of excitement at first but then she found herself feeling daunted by so much, so soon.

Somnus must have felt it too. Like it would be impossible to ever map out this new home.

She barely got to turn around when that yelling perked her attention. "RORAN!" she called, her tone accusatory as her little brother came close to bowling her off her feet. She shocked a laugh and immediately, as if reflex, closed her arms around him in a squeezing hug.

Little man was not supposed to be here. Their mother was strict at the best of times, and look at him, flying the coop! Not that she could fault him too harshly. He didn't understand the full picture. He was shielded, as best he could be, these were exciting times where good would triumph over bad in his mind.

"I'm calling the next dragon ride you little cheek, and when I find that pumpkin I'm going to shove it on your head so we never lose you again — get back inside!" she chased him playfully, right into their father's waiting arms. The look on his face when he exited the stable to see his son flagrantly going against the rules was one she would remember for a long time.

Teeth showing in a sharp little grin, Aerith calmed a little when Somnus stepped closer to her side. Her hand brushed his, her fingers gently scooping his up to hold his hand with a small, reassuring squeeze.

"Roran is the whirlwind here, we don't have to rush. First I will take you to the barracks, the soldiers who travelled with us will get the beds inside, sheltered and warm, and then we can check in at the infirmary. They're both close walks so we don't have to go far. Let's put our minds at ease and then we will make our way inside. We'll smell ripe and awful and that's fine, we'll only be seeing my mother and no one else, and she would rather receive us as we are. Then I will show you to our room. Normally I would say it's a good time to rest before the evening meal, but I think we should get cleaned up, get dressed, and I can give you a small tour while there's still daylight. Come on." she gently pulled his hand to follow, her other hand raising to give her father and brother a wave. "We will be inside shortly. Make sure Roran doesn't let the dragon loose in the few minutes we're gone~"

Aerith guided Somnus as promised. When they reached the barracks, she respectfully remained further back, urging him to check on his men and to assess the barracks for himself. Then they changed course to the infirmary. All of the injured soldiers had already been tended to, they were in beds that looked fluffier and cozier than even those of the barracks, and they were already being assessed for potions, dressings and further treatment. It made her briefly turn her attention on him, nudging to see how he was feeling. He was good, he claimed. Better than good.

Then she was guiding him to the inner-palace. Even made to pause, coaxing Gilgamesh closer so he would have no troubles with access from the Queensguard. It was immediately obvious how strict they were — a sad necessity.

"I don't know what your normal arrangements are in Lucis, but we'll make sure you aren't far from Somnus. Eeeeeven if we have to put you in my pretty pink bedroom, but I'm certain my mother has that all worked out." Aerith spoke to Gilgamesh, apparently more than comfortable with a one-sided conversation.

"Here we are." she nodded to the Queensguard, who opened up the final door. The inner-most palace, where her mother waited with an incredibly worried look on her face. While Roran escaped, she received an update about the caravan from her elite guards.

"Oh, Aerith, Somnus," Ifalna uttered, sounding exactly as she looked, a deeply worried mother. She approached them without any titles or air of royalty, simply gathering them both into a hug. Her left arm held a strong grip around Somnus, though her right was weaker where she held Aerith. "Are you okay?" she asked, looking between them.

Aerith melted immediately. Her lips pursed as she smiled, her brows creased, and she tried her best to keep herself held together. She had been standing straight for so long, but one worried word from her mother and she felt like a delicate flower again. "Mum... we'll be okay, it's okay," she reassured, hugging her back. She cast a quick glance to Somnus at her side, cleared her throat a little. "I was going to show Somnus where our room is. After everything that happened, we really need to have a good scrub and new sets of clothes. We can talk about it later, if you want, but we could also just not talk about it too. It really sucked. Now we're home."

Ifalna gave her daughter a look. Of course she would dodge the talk, her specialty was dodging the talks. But the Queen nodded her consent nevertheless. She could get the full story from her husband, after all. "Alright. Off you go. But I do expect to see you at dinner."

[alxclaremont]

had an absolute shit day at work, got off of work, remembered lando and oscar’s beef, almost started crying, went on twitter, saw that they ate mcdonalds and played monopoly on the plane back to monaco, almost started crying again, no longer feel like shit thank you and goodnight

[the-kipsabian]

be honest

is my writing worth anything

[joyflameball]

Needlemouse VHS is the Glitchtale of Sonic.EXE- widely praised fanwork with good animation that when you look at the writing for two seconds you realize that it's complete fucking garbage

[bugbxyjunk]

the only thing that keeps me going in the school year is academic validation

[just-a-mod]

I played Soul Void : Redux.

starting this off with : this is a good review and a happy thing

i am putting it under a read more for spoiler purposes uwu

about 5 or more years ago, i first played Soul Void. i found it on tumblr, and thought 'wow, that looks interesting' and showed it to my at the time GF

we both sat down and played it, me watching her at first, before deciding i wanted to play it along side her and go through the experience

getting into this game, immediately i began to see parts of myself in it. struggles i've had, words i've heard from others and from myself. i looked at the characters around me and felt them resonate with me and i felt.

feelings. sorrow, grief. the want to help, compassion and the hopeful feeling of 'don't give up, it will get better!'

i wanted to help them, and in turn by the end of the game, wanted to help myself

that was 5 years ago

i haven't played since, and not for a lack of not wanting to, just not feeling i needed to. i still remembered The Seeker, i remembered how The Leech and The Waiting were. i remembered how it felt, and i continued on.

then i began to forget, but still, i didn't go back. 'not yet', 'i don't need it yet'. it felt like

lately, it's felt like i did. a refresher, a chance to...process? a chance to acknowledge 'hey, these are struggles. these are feelings, but they can be helped. they can get better.

then i saw Redux was coming out. 3-4 months or so ago, i saw the update was set to release July 26, and i waited.

i'd forget for a few weeks, remember, check the date, and then go back to the day to day, only to repeat the pattern a few more times.

yesterday, i remembered. yesterday, i checked the date.

yesterday after D&D, i threw myself into playing again. and it was everything i remembered it to be.

it feels, oddly enough, like a medicine. a kind of salve that stings and soothes at the same time. my mental health isn't (and hasn't been of late) the greatest. victories in some places, loses in others. but progress, i believe, all the same.

going into Soul Void, i get to see all of these people doing their best. encouraging each other, the player and myself to do our best.

seeing The Waiting, The Husk, The Seeker. The Leech. all of them

new faces too, people i hadn't spoken to before! people i had yet to befriend! places i hadn't' seen!

i stepped into the game and hearing new music, reading new dialogue, having a chance to laugh and feel pain and sympathy and 'oh girl, SAME' energy.

getting a chance to stare evenly at the Grim, to find them less scary and more funny this time around.

getting to help The Seeker.

getting to HUG The Seeker.

getting the necklace. having it in the real world. the message behind it.

(ngl i'd pay some amount of money for that necklace as merch, by the way, if not try to juts make it myself. just tell me how it looks and by golly i will figure out some kind of way)

but i sat, and i loved, and i teared up and cried. i felt an ache in my chest that was soothed the further i went in

i listened to my own words being so automatically offered

'you'll be okay'

it'll be alright'

'this will pass'

'you'll get better'

offered to pixels on a screen that held a reflective piece of something i can see inside of myself, and it reminds me to share those with myself.

Soul Void is a game that sits in a special place in my heart. along side shows like Inuyasha and games like Undertale. it is a game that changed my life in an important time, in an important way.

for years to come, i will revisit it. for years to come, i will remember how every one looks at the end of the game, when you've helped them all. when you've helped yourself.

i will be drawing art of Hugging Seeker.

(also i wish we could hug more people, like The Waiting and The Leech. im not upset we cant, i just also wish we could.)

((also also does any one else have such an emotional attachment to The Waiting because i stg i kinda wish we could just sit with him, as the veins stop pulsing? so he's just not...alone..? but idk that's me))

@kadabura from the bottom of my heart and soul, thank you for making this game. Thank you for updating it.

thank you for all the work you've put into it, and for making it a free to play game.

thank you for sharing it with the world, as this game is one of the most beautiful and cherished experiences i've had in my 30 some odd years of life.

thank you for making such a beautiful story and journey that can allow people like me to see kindness for ourselves

i was originally going to send an ask, but tumblr just does not have enough space in one ask for me to express my love for this game.

Thank you so much. i hope your days are filled with the joy and strength to keep getting new ones, and that your nights are filled with dreams of laughter and music

for any one who may be reading this and NOT know what this beautiful game is

and the beautiful soul who made it

Thank you @kadabura

Be safe and Be at peace <3

[synthville]

so what im getting is that it was absolutely unnecessary to isolate raffi on gotham city in order for her story to go on.

a story that’s so halfhearted that five episodes in—halfway to the end. btw—her motivation is yet to be explained (why go back to this sector of intelligence work when teaching seemed to be fulfilling? was she made to do this?? did she volunteer because her son now lives on this planet now apparently?? was losing elnor cris and possibly seven so painful that burying herself in work seemed like a better option??? who knows! not me!!) and it’s definitely a retreat character-wise but the fact that they still haven’t laid the groundwork to make this stick is kind of amazing lol. it’s the way they’re not even pretending to give a fuck about her or any of the other women characters for me—they said you’re a womb or a subordinate ladies pick one and shut the hell up LMAO?

the fact that the ‘real plot’ is happening on that other ship while everything raffi does is basically an afterthought with backstory slipped in between the cracks like aged caulk is so disheartening and pathetic. star trek picard make an effort maybe. she’s a polarizing character that’s been stuck in impossible situations, weighed down with retractions and stereotypes (they thread the line but HM) because the narrative continually refuses to meaningfully engage with her and a lot of fans of the show wont examine their own biases to see why they have such a viscerally negative reaction to a complicated black woman character that’s good at what she does, knows it and refuses to kneel at the foot of their hero’s :)

and if it wasn’t for ms hurd elevating this performance with sheer will, massive talent and the whip of that (sexy) ponytail? shit would be so much worse. but it’s still bad! because instead of giving her a nuanced, thoughtful send off she’s once again being made to suffer for the nth time. because why? oh right so wise man worf can guide her to the light lol give me a fuckin break.

and it’s no accident that if you cut raffi out (which they literally did in ep4 miss musiker you WILL be avenged) the story could more or less proceed as usual. that’s by design.

because legacy characters or not, im simply not buying that the main white cast members (plus two interlopers idgaf about those new guys and they’re doing nothing to make me care either. pick a random channel and their stories are being told right now live and in color like don’t piss me off) just so happen to be on the ship with the lead yet the sole woc is sent away on some underbaked adventure because ‘reasons?’ please. this season literally could not be more transparent about the audience they’re catering to and who/whose stories are of importance and consideration.

and i knew this would probably happen once the premise for s3 was revealed but i still can’t get over how obvious it is that there really was no plan for raffi and that she only happened to bypass the cull of the la sirena crew because she was romantically linked with seven at the time. which is baffling considering how things are (not) going between them (#theyareMARRIEDletthemTALKandKISSandREST)

and it’s not just them like everything about this season is quite literally happening just because. every slightly interesting or fresh development (and character it’s true) from the previous seasons has been dismissed or diminished and for what? secret sons and man pain? ew lmao. no suspense no lingering threads just excessive shots of ships, an aggressive insistence on biological families and rampant, shameless references to past glory. a mess.

[eriophorumcallitrix]

ignore this post I’m venting my disappointment in the tags abt twitter LMFAOOO

[imabiscuitinthousandworlds]

THERE IS AN ESSAY TO BE WRITTEN ABOUT THE SIMILARITIES AND DIFFERENCES BETWEEN 1984 AND THE CIRCLE JUST TO GET IT OUT OF MY MIND AND THERE'S AN ESSAY OR AT LEAST ANALYSIS LURKING SOMEWHERE BETWEEN INTERNET CENSORSHIP LEADING TO WORDS LIKE "UNALIVE" AND NEWSPEAK BUT BRAIN NO ESSAY WRITING HARDLY EVEN EASY HOBBY WRITING WHICH I'VE BEEN PRACTICING FOR YEARS THAT REQUIRES NO STRUCTURE SPECIFICALLY I AM CHEWING ON THE BARS OF MY ENCLOSURE

[mrfoox]

except that im mentally dead, i’m good

[milo-is-rambling]

I know I should be excited for my brother but this whole thing feels like it’s going to be hours and hours of me feeling like a failure while my brother is happy and it’s so hard to step out of myself and be fully happy for him without feeling like a shitty disappointment