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#sage writes
sagesolsticewrites · 2 months
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religion's in your lips, the altar is my hips
in which Steve takes care of you after a bad day
- including but not limited to: praise kink, hair pulling, oral (f receiving), Steve lowkey being a service dom 👀
(this is. very self-indulgent. very veryyyyyy self-indulgent. you have been warned <3)
a/n: huuuge shoutout to @upsidedownwithsteve's (aka Emmy, Queen of Smutty Sunday <3) most recent smutty Sunday event for giving me inspiration to write my very first smutty fic! Obligatory disclaimer that yes, this is my very first smut fic ever, I am an ✨asexual virgin✨ please manage expectations accordingly, yada yada yada. Also so many hugs to my bestie Kenz @fangirl-imagines for looking this over before I posted it ☺️ Kenzie has some incredible fics, go support her y'all!
Word count: 2870
Warnings: THIS IS SMUT. MINORS BEGONE. 🔞
Please like/rb if you enjoyed! 🤍
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You let yourself into your apartment with a sigh, shoulders relaxing the tiniest bit as you step over the threshold into your home and finally toe off your heels.
Bypassing the darkened kitchen and empty living room, you open the door to your bedroom, where you knew you’d find a shirtless Steve in the middle of his post-work ritual of playing some game on his computer.
He looks up as you enter, face brightening with a smile as he greets you.
“Hey baby, how was—”
In lieu of an answer, you flop face first onto the bed with a groan.
You can hear the smile fade from his voice as he hisses sympathetically, “That bad, huh?”
You lift your chin so it’s propped up on the pillow as you explain your terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day.
“You know that project that Marie was working on? She asked me for help on it, and I gave her some pointers, but she said she still wasn’t really understanding it so I ended up having to do all of it for her. And she’ll probably take all the credit for it, too.” You grumble, rolling your eyes, “And we had that meeting with our new clients, and my boss basically volun-told me to take notes for it, even though that’s really the liason’s job, and then she criticized me for not taking as detailed notes as Lauren even though that’s literally Lauren’s job! And she was there, she could’ve taken the notes, I don’t even—”
You shake your head in exasperation, shifting topics, “And then I didn’t even have time for lunch because Sara wanted me to help train the interns, and…” You end your rant with a groan, letting your face drop back into the pillow. “‘M just. So tired.”
“Sweetheart…” Steve’s voice turns soft as the pillow underneath your head, and he gets up from his spot at the desk to climb onto the bed, pulling you into his arms.
You curl into him instinctively, your head finding that space in the crook of his neck that feels like it was made for you personally, one hand coming up to toy with the curls at the nape of his neck, tracing patterns along the freckles and moles dotted along his skin.
“What can I do to help, honey?” Your boyfriend asks, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.
“Jus’ wanna… I dunno, just. Stop.” You mumble against his shoulder, shrugging and curling further into him.
He hums in understanding, grabbing the hand that’s currently drawing invisible hearts around the moles near his collarbone and pressing a kiss to the back of it.
“You’ve been doing so much for everyone today,” he murmurs, voice layered with understanding and adoration as he leans in and peppers tiny kisses over your forehead, your nose, your eyelids, and you relax even more as his voice washes over you, “Worked so hard.”
He pulls you closer, scattering kisses all over as you finally release all the tension you’ve been holding, letting out a sigh and shifting in his arms to face him. You don’t realize you’re straddling him until you’re pressed nearly flush against him, his arms wrapped securely around your waist.
His lips brush over every part of your face, down to your neck and then back up as you become putty in his hands, murmuring soft words of praise to you the whole time.
“You just need to stop working now, huh? Need to stop thinking,” His lips draw a path to your ear, where he whispers, “need to let someone else do all the work, huh, baby?”
A shiver runs down your spine, constantly in awe of the power just his voice has over you. His hand settles on your hip, a comforting, grounding weight while his other hand brushes a strand of hair back from your forehead. His lips work their way back down over your cheek, stopping to hover just over yours, mouths brushing together as he murmurs in a voice like silk, “Is that what you want, honey? Want me to take care of you?”
Warm chocolate eyes meet yours, soft, caring, always ensuring he has your consent before he does anything.
At your near-imperceptible nod, he drags his hand up to cup your chin, thumb dragging along your bottom lip.
“Need your words, pretty girl.”
“Yes,” you breathe, and that’s all the confirmation he needs to surge up and capture your lips with his.
As you brace yourself on his shoulders, his hands move to the thin strip of exposed skin where your shirt has ridden up. Your kisses become hungrier, ignoring your need for oxygen in favor of Steve’s plush, kiss-swollen lips, and he slowly drags up the hem of your shirt, breaking the kiss briefly to get your permission.
At your eager nod, your shirt is off and tossed to some corner of the room, his mouth eagerly on yours once more.
You can feel exactly how much he’s enjoying this through his sweats, and you instinctively begin to rock in his lap, dragging your increasingly damp core over his.
His hands grip your hips, the familiar feeling sending a thrill through you… but rather than guiding your movements like he normally would, he holds them still.
You pull away, brow furrowed, but before you can voice your confusion, he flips you onto your back, moving to hover over you in one smooth movement.
“I told you,” he murmurs against your lips in a tone that sends a pulse of scorching heat to your core, “I’m doing all the work, sweetheart.”
The whimper you let out is muffled by his lips on yours once more, his wandering hands and hungry kisses making short work of turning you into a moaning, gasping mess.
“Steve,” you whine out his name as his lips travel down to your neck, and you can feel his smile against the hollow of your throat before he returns to licking and sucking dark patches into your skin, the occasional use of his teeth making delicious shivers shoot up your spine.
“What is it, sweetheart?” He mumbles against your skin, trailing his lips along your collarbone. His eyes meet yours, a mischievous twinkle mixed with the searing heat in them turning you molten as he asks, “What do you need?”
Unable to find the words, your hand finds his hair instead — God, that hair — and begins pushing him down towards where you really want him.
“‘M gettin’ there, honey, I promise,” he grins, pausing your efforts to press a kiss to the valley between your breasts, “Lemme take my time and I promise it’ll be worth it, ok?”
He reaches up to toy with the strap of your bra— a simple nude thing you could get away with wearing under a white shirt at work— a questioning look in his eyes answered by a furious nod from you.
He makes short work of the clasp, and that really should not be as hot as it is, but— oh who are you kidding, even his breathing is insanely hot right now.
You throw your head back as he presses kisses all over your chest, mumbling against your skin the whole time about how pretty you are, just gorgeous sweetheart, God, I can’t believe I get to do this for you…
Your head goes deliciously fuzzy with the praise, and you can’t quite form words so all you can do when he takes your nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it for good measure, is let out a keening “Ohhh” and instinctively tighten your grip on his hair.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” Steve groans, the noise sending heat racing through your body, and you grin knowing you were the one to elicit it, “You sound fucking incredible.” He murmurs more praise as he turns his attention to your other nipple, giving it just as much attention and eliciting more gasps and moans and whines from you before he continues his journey south.
You lift your head and watch as Steve Harrington fucking beams when he reaches your stomach, your pouch poking out slightly more than you’d like over the waistband of your jeans.
He meets your eyes, his own swimming with sincerity as he begins to scatter kisses over your midsection.
“You”
Kiss
“Are”
Kiss
“Fucking”
Kiss
“Stunning”
Kiss
When it seems like he’s covered every single inch of your exposed skin in kisses, remaining stubbornly focused on your torso when what you really want is for him to be significantly lower, he meets your eyes as he plays with the waistband of your jeans, once again wordlessly asking your permission.
And once again, your furious nodding is all the consent he needs to peel your jeans off and toss them away.
“Sweetheart.” He breathes, wide eyes on where your jeans once were, “Honey. Baby. Are you trying to kill me?” He says in a strangled voice at the sight of your simple lacy panties in a deep, wine-purple color— a color Steve once drunkenly confessed was his favorite, though he told anyone who asked he preferred red.
You bite your lip in an attempt to contain your grin, “I thought you might like those.”
“Like them?” He murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to your inner thigh, looking up through lidded eyes to meet your gaze as his own darkens, “I never wanna see you in anything else again.”
Your toes curl, and your breaths become shallow in anticipation as he scatters slow kisses all along your inner thighs, carefully spreading them apart, stopping when he gets to the edge of the purple lace.
He holds your gaze, gauging your reaction as instead of pulling them down over your hips to toss to yet another corner of the room, he simply…
Pulls.
The lace.
To the side.
You barely have time to let out a quiet, shaky, “Oh my God,” at the ravenous look on Steve’s face before his mouth is on you and you forget how to think, you forget how to breathe, you forget everything except Steve.
Let it be known: Steve Harrington knew how to eat a girl out.
He licks a thick, fat stripe up your center, gathering the moisture collected there before darting up to flick at your clit, an action that has you gripping the sheets like a lifeline, a stuttering moan that sounds vaguely like your boyfriend’s name escaping from your lips. His arms hook around your thighs, pulling you close in an attempt to keep your hips grounded, and he continues a few more passes of the same lick, flick pattern until you’re a writhing mess underneath him, his current strategy both too much and not enough.
He pauses just long enough to meet your eyes, pressing a single kiss to your clit that sends a jolt of pleasure up your spine, before diving in.
His tongue finds your entrance with ease, the way his nose pushes through the thatch of wiry hair to nudge at your clit providing extra stimulation as he makes short work of making you fall apart. His tongue swirls through your folds as he lets out a languid moan at your taste.
“So fuckin’ good for me, sweetheart.” He mumbles against your core, “So perfect, lettin’ me take care of you. This is all you needed, huh?” His eyes flick up to meet yours as you shudder and moan underneath him, struggling to keep your eyes on him.
He licks another languid path through your folds, savoring your taste, before continuing, his voice muffled as he licks and sucks at your entrance “Jus’ needed me to give you a break, needed me to tell you it’s okay to turn off your brain and jus’—” Steve punctuates his last words by wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking gently “—be a good girl for me.”
The combination of stimulation to your clit and Steve’s words has your hips arching off the bed, despite your boyfriend’s best efforts to keep you still. You can feel him grin against you and let out a dark chuckle at the moan you let out at his last words in particular, the way your hand tightens and pulls at his hair all the evidence he needs.
Still, he asks you, though he doesn’t quite expect a coherent response.
“Aw, sweetheart. You like it when I call you a good girl? You like bein’ a good girl for me?” He purrs in a voice like syrup, lips still brushing your folds.
“Fuck, I— yes, Stevie,” you whine brokenly, gently gripping his hair in an attempt to bring him closer to where you want him, whimpering softly, “Stevie please.”
“I know, baby, I know,” he murmurs, scattering kisses frustratingly just outside your core, “Jus’ trust me, I gotcha.”
You resist the urge to move, to just grab him and put him where you want him, even as you let out a frustrated whine.
Just as your patience is about to run out, you feel him smirk against you before diving back in, holding your legs apart as he sloppily licks and sucks at your entrance, his tongue diving deep inside you.
You let out a gasping moan as he attacks your core, practically clawing at his hair in an attempt to pull him impossibly closer, your brain going fuzzy and then melting entirely when you hear the endless praise falling from his lips as he eats you out.
“So good for me sweetheart, just perfect— shit, do you have any idea how good you taste?” He groans against you, his thumb coming up to gently circle your clit as his other hand moves to splay flat over your hips, holding you as still as he can, “Could do this all fuckin’ day, god you’re amazing sweetheart—”
Then he clamps his lips around your clit and moans, and you’re fairly certain you’re going to die of pleasure, both your hands flying to grip his hair and yank as your back arches off the bed, your head falling back against the pillows, mouth open to let out a high, keening moan.
When you come back to your body, Steve is back to gently licking through your folds, and your hands claw at him, needing him to be closer.
“Steve,” you whine, “Stevie please, ‘m so close, I jus’— I need— please, baby.”
As your words turn into incoherent moans and pleas, Steve is quick to assure you, thumb returning to playing with your clit as he mumbles against you, “I know, honey, I know what you need and ‘m gonna give it to you, I promise. Been so good for me today, taken such good care of everyone, now it’s your turn, ‘m gonna make you feel so, so fuckin’ good, baby—”
He dives into you once more, thumb rhythmically circling your clit as his tongue hits every spot inside you in a pattern that has you turning to liquid underneath him, your legs hooking together behind his back to keep him right there, and your vision goes white as Steve brings you towards your release.
You let out a cry as you hit your climax, and Steve dutifully guides you through your orgasm, murmuring soft praises the whole time.
“Such a good girl for me,” he murmurs as he pulls away, mouth glistening and pupils dilated wide. Your hand cards through his soft brown waves, chest heaving as you catch your breath. Steve brushes gentle kisses to your inner thigh, your hipbone, your stomach, following a path up to capture your lips with his own, swallowing the contented sigh you let out.
He pulls away, meeting your gaze with a smile as he pecks your nose.
“Feelin’ better?”
You hum contentedly, “Much.” Your thumb comes up to stroke his cheek as you pointedly glance down, “What about you?”
Steve lets out a mock-annoyed groan, forehead coming down to rest on your shoulder.
“Baby, we just went over the whole thing about you not needing to take care of everyone.”
He lifts his head, meeting your gaze, “Seriously, though,” he presses a kiss to your cheek, rolling to lay next to you and pulling you into his chest, “I’m fine. This was about you, and I’m so glad I could help take care of you for once.”
You cup his cheek, turning his face to yours. You hope he can see every sincere, tender thought in your expression as you simply say, “Thank you.”
“Anything for you, sweetheart. You know that.” He murmurs in response, lips quirking up into a small smile as he turns to press a quick kiss to your palm.
“So,” he says, fingers stroking through your hair, nudging your eyes closed, “nap time and then appetizer dinner? We’ve got mozzarella sticks and some chicken tenders I can throw in the oven.”
You grin, despite already being half-asleep, “That sounds perfect.”
You can feel his smile as he presses a kiss to your forehead.
“I love you.”
“I love you more.”
“I love you most.”
“I love you infinity.”
“I love you infinity plus one”
“I love you—”
“Alright, let’s call it a tie, babe.”
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Tagging a couple friends! Hi besties @austin-butlers-gf @sassy-ahsoka-tano @dontbesussis
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minlvrpage · 5 months
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get you - k.mg
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“every time i look into your eyes i see it, you’re all i need.” (get you - daniel caesar feat. kali uchis)
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genre: fluff with an angsty beginning
afab!reader. some kissing, but pg-13.
lowercase intended.
word count: 580
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a.n.: this is my first post ever on here so i don’t really know if anyone will see this but if you do, enjoy this very self-indulgent little mingyu drabble ^^
feedback in any way is appreciated!! :]
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thinking about coming home to your boyfriend, who had been extra excited to see you today after his long dance practice had finally ended. he had even cooked your favorite pasta dish for you which you could already smell when you closed the door behind you.
as you mindlessly kicked off your shoes and mumbled a “i’m home” into your shared appartment, you could hear him put down cutlery on the table in your living room, and then there he was, walking toward you with the brightest smile that anyone had given you today.
but it didn’t stay on his face for long as he took in your frown and sniffle.
you classified yourself as one of those ‘stupidly sensitive’ people because what other reason could there be for feeling like crying only because your boyfriend had cooked for you when he had had a long day himself? and to make matters worse, you weren’t even really hungry right now, admitting that to him with a small voice.
“that’s alright honey, it can wait”, mingyu said as he opened his arms and looked at you expectantly. that made a small smile sneak onto your face. even after being together for more than two years, you still couldn’t fathom how you had ended up with someone who had so much love to give.
then, he asked softly, “what’s wrong, tough day at work?”
“mhm”, you whispered into his shoulder as he moved your arms around his neck to lift you up and began carry you to where your night always seemed to end lately.
“wanna shower it off?”, he asked you, already knowing the answer from the way you nuzzled your head deeper into his strong shoulder, breathing him in.
there was something so intimate about taking each other’s clothes off without the intention of sleeping with each other, but to simply feel the comfort of the other’s skin on your own. as you got into the shower, the warm water already seemed to ease the built up tension in your body from dealing with annoying clients at work all day.
mingyu stepped in behind you and let his arms come your waist, pressing tiny little kisses against the side of your face that made you giggle slightly.
“there’s my girl again”, he murmured, hugging you tighter against his chest.
when you reached for the shampoo bottle, your hand brushed against your boyfriend’s bigger one, who had already opened it and poured some of it on his palm.
“let me take care of you”, he whispered, “please.”
the soft look in his eyes made your insides feel all liquid-y and you complied, leaning your head back so it could lightly rest on his shoulder while he gently cleaned your hair. you knew that there was no point in trying to reject mingyu when it came to caring for you, even if it always made you feel slightly guilty about not being stronger on days like this one.
but to mingyu, that didn’t matter. not when you turned around after he had rinsed off the shampoo and placed a soft kiss on his lips.
“i love you. so much”, you said, running your hands through his hair and beginning to clean it with the soapy foam.
“i love you too honey, more than you will ever know”, he answered; and oh how lucky you were to have gotten him because when he smiled at you, dimples appearing and eyes crinkling, there was no doubt in your mind that he would always be all you needed.
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Please don't forget me. I lived. I had billions of thoughts and hundreds of dreams. I listened to songs so many times that the lyrics are imprinted into my brain. I've wondered what I'll become. I have no idea what I'll become.
But please don't forget me.
We look up at the same sky. We might read the same poetry. We might hum the same tune to ourselves as we remember the ones who begged to not be forgotten.
Please remember me. I shiver when I'm cold and I gulp down cold water when I'm hot. I sing until my mum tells me to shut up, and I laugh until the next joke, then laugh again. I read books like I breathe air, I run when I want to run, and when I don't, I walk and watch every leaf as it crushes beneath me. I've given hugs and been hugged and I've felt so loved and I've felt so hated. I've witnessed humanity, and inhumanity. Both are shocking. Both are wild and desperate. I've been hopeful and hateful and I've screamed to the sea on an empty beach. I'll remember that feeling forever. I've danced badly and told lies and I've wished for life to accept me as I accept it. I haven't died yet, so immortality is next to me. I've seen death and fear and I've noticed how courage is kind, and kindness is rarer than a first edition of an old book my grandparents might have heard of. I have courage anyway. I've written and shared so many thoughts, but I have so many more. I'm going to do so much more.
Please don't forget me. Please remember me.
I'm scared of fate. I'm scared of hopelessness.
No one will ever know the version of myself that I know.
But the version you know...don't forget her.
Please don't forget me.
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This is a new game. Reblog with things you've done that you don't want to be forgotten.
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Summary:
Gem is trying her best to not get too attached to people. She's heard stories about how the other games have gone, with their death and betrayals. Allying with Impulse and Scott was just a strategic move, it was all she could afford. However, a crush on a certain friend of hers threatens to upend those boundaries Gem had set for herself.
Meanwhile Pearl is just worried about Gem.
(Fic for Day 1 of MCYT Yuri Week: Dance/Break!)
A/N: ough women <3 very excited about this week hehe!! also i'm aiming to have all of my fic titles be from girl in red songs this week haha. anyway, enjoy!
@mcyt-yuri-week
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The Shifting Mound is an abrosexual pangender entity and uses all pronouns though favours they/them
They are married to The Long Quiet who is a pansexual agender creature and uses he/it/they pronouns
They’re both DID systems.
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I don’t usually explain my headcanons but this explanation is a headcanon in of itself so here I go! When the Narrator split them, The Shifting Mound took all the gender and being everything and anything, they’re all the genders, while the Long Quiet has no gender at all. The Long Quiet loves The Shifting Mound in all their multitudes, regardless of what gender they are, which is ever changing and shifting just like them, straight, gay, bi, ace, they’re all and none of those things, containing each in their multitudes.
And then the DID part should be pretty obvious lol
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non-un-topo · 10 months
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Axis | bluetigerlilies
Fandom: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Rating: M
Words: 29,671
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Andy | Andromache of Scythia & Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Nicky | Nicolò di Genova & Quynh | Noriko
Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, POV Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Team as Family, Flashbacks, Memories, Tense Switching, it's deliberate don't worry, Post-iron maiden, Animal Death, Grief/Mourning, Liminal Space, Mythology References, Mild Sexual Content, Angst, Catharsis, Horror, Nicky + horror. So nice I did it thrice., Pathetic fallacy
Summary:
Andromache whispers into the silence, “You don’t remember, do you?” Nicolò is still looking at Yusuf as his mind begins to take him back. It’s the feelings first. The shift in gravity, then the all-encompassing bitter cold. No deck beneath his feet, no tether to hold. A great nothingness for eternity. He flexes his toes against the wood floor. Solid, still, stagnant. “No,” he says.
--
Decades into their relentless search for Quỳnh and shortly following a disastrous event that threatened their numbers, Andromache, Nicolò, and Yusuf rest in Iceland where the seasons seem to be moving backwards and forwards at once.
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orchidbreezefc · 7 months
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it's not weird to write fanfic poems
i don't know what this story is about how long do you think you can keep me here? my shift ended long ago; i'm clocking out the page's worshiper, you're too devout i'll burn that precious script you hold so dear i don't know what this story is about your hold on me's complete, you have no doubt that hubris will end you. let me be clear: my shift ended long ago; i'm clocking out am i a piece your game can do without or is it time i gave you a new fear? i don't care what this story is about an oasis of ideas, drained by drought mirage dispelled, the truth can reappear my shift ended long ago; i'm clocking out this time we ought to take another route-- we both could use a change in our career you don't know what this story is about our shifts ended long ago; we're clocking out
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vampacidic · 2 months
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hiiiii i posted my fic for @enstarsbb !!!! you can read it here :)))) and the partner art is over here lalalala !!!! thank u to the mods and everyone who participated everyone has been so nice :))))
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lemontongues · 1 year
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hohohohohohoho. Number 11 please. Timkon.
HI THANK U FOR THE PROMPT ♡♡♡ there were two number 11s so i just combined them :] i posted it over here on ao3 too if u prefer to read over there!
(no real content warnings aside from some suggestive/bdsm themes due to the setting)
**
Conner hates being undercover. It used to be that he had too much baggage for it—lying to himself, struggling to understand who he was supposed to be, the discomfort of forcing himself into a secret identity. These days he’s past a lot of that, but he’s still always worried he’s going to screw it up. Too easy to let something slip by accident and blow his cover, or… well, maybe Ma is right about needing to trust himself. 
He's here because Tim needs him, after all. There’s been something haunting a club in downtown Gotham, Tim had explained to him, something disappearing young men and women from back rooms without a trace. Tim hasn’t been able to find anything but rumors—no cars in and out of the alleys behind the club, no secret doors into hidden basements, no traces of blood or of drugs that might be used to subdue victims. By all accounts, young people found their way into the private rooms, in pairs or with older partners who later had no recollection of anything between entering and leaving, and simply vanished. 
Tim’s working theory is that it’s the handiwork of a metahuman or, more likely, a demon. Conner really hopes it’s not a demon. He hates magic even more than he hates being undercover, and he really hates being undercover right now. 
Right now, Tim is curled up beside him on a leather couch tucked into a corner of the club, sharp eyes scanning the past the crowd mingling in the open space in front of the bar, locked on the hallway leading to the private rooms. Conner himself is having trouble keeping his gaze in the same place—the club that Tim had dragged him to is a very particular kind of club, and Conner is finding the juxtaposition of the casual chatter between some patrons and the public paddlings taking place between others… distracting. 
“You’re supposed to be my eyes and ears,” Tim reminds him, slipping one gloved hand up Conner’s bare chest and leaning in so that his lips are nearly pressed to Conner’s ear. It drags an involuntary shudder out of him, a wave of heat rolling down his front, and Conner ducks his head, trying to put space between them. It backfires spectacularly when Tim slides that gloved hand up to his jaw and turns Conner’s face into the crook of his neck, letting his head fall back as Conner’s lips brush his throat just above the black leather of the collar fastened there. “Acting, Conner. Try.” 
“Fuck you,” Conner mutters, trying to ignore the way his face is heating and his pulse is pounding rapidly. 
“I doubt we’re going to have to take it that far,” Tim replies, and Conner gets a sinking feeling that the tiny, subvocal noise Tim makes when Conner sighs heavily against his neck is the only victory he’s going to wring out of this night. He’d lost from the moment Tim had held up the heavy leather collar to him and he’d balked, and he hasn’t recovered since. It seems pointless to argue when Tim continues, “just put your hand on my hip and focus for me.” 
Following those simple instructions is harder than Conner cares to admit. Several deep breaths are necessary to settle him to the point where the hand Tim has snuck into his hair fades into the background, shifting from distracting to grounding as Tim strokes slowly from the crown of his head to the back of his neck. 
His awareness of their clothes, their bodies, starts to go next. It’s an achievement, really—it’s been nearly impossible for him to get his mind off of Tim’s outfit. There are the tight black pants tucked into knee-high combat boots and the intricate harness he’s layered under a tank top so loose and shredded Conner doubts it even qualifies as a shirt anymore, and that’s bad enough for Conner’s heart and his fraying self-control. Worse, though, are the accessories: bracelets and cuffs layered over long, fingerless gloves, fake—definitely fake, he insists to himself—jewelry glinting on his half-exposed nipples, and the collar, the stupid collar around his neck, the heft of it somehow emphasizing the elegant curves of his throat and collarbones, attached to a leash that’s been wrapped around Conner’s fist since they entered the club. The makeup artfully smeared around his eyes and the messy tousle of his hair softens his face, transforms him from sharply handsome to alluringly pretty, and Conner has to force himself to let go of the image of Tim’s soft, pouty lower lip caught between his teeth as they’d walked into the club, the way he had glanced up at Conner from under his lashes as he suggested they find someplace quiet to start. 
Only slightly easier to forget is the vague embarrassment of his own disguise. Tim had gone with a play on his old leather jacket, this time sleeveless and involving leather pants tucked into a pair of combat boots less decorative than Tim’s. The leather vest hangs open, revealing the musculature of his chest and stomach, and his only other accessories are a pair of short leather gloves and two wide leather bands hugging his biceps. He feels, frankly, slightly ridiculous—he’s positive he’s seen this outfit on the cover of an old porno before—but it seems to have worked well enough, more people ogling his arms and abs than bothering to glance at his face. 
Tim was right, as usual—as he settles further, it gets easier to tune out what’s actually going on, let his senses widen. He can forget that he’d put his hand on Tim’s hip as he’d been told to, how they’re pressed together, that Tim is half in his lap by now. When his pulse stops pounding in his ears, he can filter through the chatter on the floor, the conversations mingling oddly with moans and wails. What he catches, eventually, isn’t so much a sound as… the lack thereof. 
“It’s quiet,” he says, and he feels Tim’s hum more than hears it, a low vibration in his chest that spikes Conner’s pulse all over again. 
“Conner.” Tim taps the back of Conner’s neck lightly with a polished nail, pulling his attention back, and Conner suppresses the surge of unfair irritation that Tim somehow always knows even though Conner is the one with superpowers. 
“It’s too quiet. There’s no sound in the back rooms, no voices, no heartbeats, not even bugs crawling. Either something is blocking my senses or there’s something very wrong with those rooms.” 
“We need to get closer,” Tim says, easing himself out of Conner’s lap and back onto the couch beside him. Conner’s fist tightens reflexively around the leash, pulling Tim up short, and Tim’s pretty eyes narrow at him, unimpressed. “That part is pretend, Conner. I don’t have time to renegotiate our relationship right now.” 
Flushing hard, Conner loosens his grasp, lets the leash slip nearly all the way through his fingers before giving it a light tug. When Tim looks at him again, Conner sets his jaw, determined not to let Tim run roughshod over him. “You need to be careful. Something isn’t right.” 
Tim looks ready to make a snippy remark, snatch his leash out of Conner’s hand and march himself over to the private rooms without a backward glance, disguises and danger be damned. When Conner doesn’t flinch, holds his gaze, something seems to shift between them, and the line of Tim’s shoulders softens. Rather than taking off to confront whatever’s been lurking at the back of the club, Tim eases backwards, a controlled, languid fall into the arm of the couch that invites Conner to follow him. 
Conner isn’t quite sure what he’s doing as he leans in over Tim, props himself up on an elbow against the arm of the couch, bracketing Tim’s head. His free hand rests on Tim’s knee, and Tim’s eyes are steady on him, open and curious despite the faint flush that rises to his cheeks as Conner’s hand trails upwards, his fingers splayed wide and possessive across Tim’s thigh. The sweep of his thumb across Tim’s inner thigh would be impossible to mistake for friendly even before Conner squeezes once, hard enough that he hears Tim’s breath hitch and his pulse spike. 
Tim’s head drops back against the couch, eyes fluttering closed as Conner hears him breathe a careful pattern. His hands find Conner’s shoulders before he opens his eyes, and the way his fingers twine at the nape of Conner’s neck is almost as intoxicating as the look on his face as his gaze drops to Conner’s lips. 
“Maybe we do need to renegotiate,” he concedes, and Conner’s heart leaps, a wild, soaring sensation filling his chest so fast it leaves him giddy. His thoughts scatter, leaves in the wind, and it’s all he can do to grin down at Tim, bite his lip to avoid kissing him with the kind of gleeful, giggling overexuberance that would definitely get them noticed in here. Tim grins back, but then schools his face into something more sultry, glancing towards the private rooms again. 
“Let’s go get this taken care of, alright?” There’s a wicked sparkle in his eye when he looks back at Conner. Arching off the couch until he’s close enough for Conner to feel the heat radiating off him, he puts his lips to Conner’s ear, the low rasp of his voice sending a happy shiver down Conner’s spine. “I promise I’ll stay close.” 
“I—okay,” Conner says, agreeing before he quite computes what that’s going to entail. Tim smiles up at him, soft and fond again for a moment, and Conner feels dazed and only faintly annoyed at how easy it is for Tim to turn him to putty in his clever hands. The annoyance fades entirely when Tim tilts his head up, jaw angled so that all but the last inch of space between their lips is gone. Conner feels his breath catch in his chest, silly and thrilled at what Tim is offering him, and tries not to float right off the couch as he closes that final gap and presses his lips to Tim’s. 
Their first kiss is a slow, careful thing. Under the circumstances, it would be easy to get carried away—there are plenty of things much raunchier than this happening around them, and Conner certainly wants to push his hands under Tim’s pathetic excuse for a shirt, to toy with the metal glinting at his nipples, to grind down against him and hear him gasp, but… there will be time for all of that later. Right now, what Conner wants more than anything is to savor the way Tim sighs against his lips, wraps his arms around Conner’s neck like he’s finally, finally getting something he’s been waiting for and isn’t in any hurry to let go. Conner hasn’t often felt that way, like he’s treasured, deeply wanted, and he lingers in that sweet, glowing feeling for as long as he can, lets Tim keep kissing him for as long as he wants to. 
Then Tim is slipping his fingers under Conner’s palm where it’s still resting on his thigh, pressing the leash back into Conner’s hand as he pulls back with a smile that’s downright radiant. Conner basks in it until Tim tugs lightly at his hair, looking sly. 
“Stay in character, sir,” he says, voice husky and eyelashes fluttering. Conner rolls his eyes as he wraps the leash back around his fist, reeling Tim in until Conner’s knuckles brush his throat and Conner can claim his mouth in a deeper, rougher kiss, more for show this time. Show or not, Tim is flushed and breathing hard when they break apart, and Conner finds himself looking forward to Tim making him regret his smirk later. 
“Come on,” Conner says, tugging the leash as he backs up, pulling Tim up with him. 
He’s having fun teasing Tim with the leash, but as they rise, picking their way out and across the floor, he’s careful not to yank or keep much pressure on it, holding it loosely in his fist so Tim will be able to break away as he needs to. Tim stays a half step behind him, letting him lead, but Conner knows where to look to see that there’s absolutely nothing submissive in his posture—he’s eagle-eyed, ready to act at a moment’s notice, letting Conner tow him along only as a convenience so that he doesn’t need to flirt and tease his way across the room to keep the act up. Conner doesn’t mind. He usually prefers to have Tim in charge, easier to follow Tim’s orders than to summon up the confidence to lead, but he’s eager to finish the night, so he keeps his stride quick and confident, pulling Tim along behind him into the dark. 
**
It turns out to be a magician who summoned a demon, because of course it would be. Conner hates Gotham. His only bits of luck in the fight are that the people who had been kidnapped are still alive and that the magician hadn’t collected enough of them yet to summon the master of the first demon, which would have rocketed the whole ordeal from “huge pain in the ass” straight to “minor disaster.” 
By the time they’ve ousted the demon, subdued the magician, gotten the missing patrons to the EMTs, and ensured that someone is helping them get in touch with their loved ones, the club is empty of all but a few of the staff and a unit of police officers. Tim and Conner slip away a bit worse for wear—Tim has a new bruise blossoming on his jaw and a shallow cut that stretches diagonally from his collarbone to his ribs, and Conner is thoroughly singed and favoring his left side as he floats Tim to the top of a tall building several streets over. 
“You have to admit, that could have gone worse,” Tim says, eyeing Conner as he limps towards an edge of the roof less visible from the street. 
“Easy for you to say. You got to fight the dweeby magician while I kept the scary fire demon off your back.”  
“You’ll feel better in the morning,” Tim assures him as he follows Conner across the roof, settling himself next to Conner. He sits closer than he usually would, Conner thinks, their shoulders brushing as he situates himself, and Conner has to stare at the place where their dangling ankles bump for a moment before he can find the thread of the conversation again. 
“Yeah, I’ll be fine once I get out of your home sweet hellhole and get some actual sun again.” 
“It’s supposed to be clear tomorrow,” Tim says, a note in his voice that Conner can’t place. Cocking his head to try to get a look at Tim’s face, he finds that Tim’s hair, still longer these days than he ever kept it when they were kids, obscures his expression. 
“Oh yeah?” he asks, unsure if Tim means what Conner wants him to mean. His pulse is rising even though the action is long over, and he wishes, not for the first time, that he could use his x-ray vision to see inside of Tim’s head, read the words that he won’t let himself say. 
“You could get your sun here. If you wanted to,” Tim says. Conner hears him swallow, realizes that it’s not just his own pulse pounding in his ears—he can hear Tim’s, too, thundering along beside his own, and a jolt of exhilaration almost sends him floating off the building and into the damp, starless Gotham night. “You wouldn’t have to go home.” 
Taking a deep breath, Conner reaches down between their bodies, feeling along the concrete until he finds Tim’s hand. Tim is holding his breath, Conner can tell, and he stays frozen as Conner coaxes Tim’s hand into his own, lacing their fingers together. 
“If it was just—if you don’t want to, I get it,” Tim blurts out before Conner has a chance to say anything. “If it was just… being in there, the atmosphere, you were in character, and you don’t actually—it’s fine. I’ll understand.” 
“It wasn’t just the atmosphere,” Conner says, quiet, and when Tim turns to him, there’s a look of such naked hope on his face that it makes Conner’s chest ache. Curling in towards Tim, he ignores the dull protest of his ribs as he lifts a hand to Tim’s jaw and presses their foreheads together. “It wasn’t for show, Tim. I—can I kiss you?” 
“Yeah,” Tim whispers, and Conner can feel Tim’s hand shaking slightly where it curls around his wrist. “Please.” 
It’s just as good as that first kiss in the club—better, Conner thinks, because this time Tim has dropped the easy, flirty confidence. It’s a little clumsier, and the sincerity when Tim leans into him fills him with a sweet sort of warmth. He can’t help wrapping his arms around Tim, pulling him in tight and cupping the back of his head as he deepens the kiss, and Tim rewards him with a soft, needy noise, sounding almost wounded as he buries his fingers in Conner’s hair. 
“I don’t wanna go home,” Conner murmurs when they part, and he loves hearing the skip in Tim’s heartbeat, feeling Tim’s fingers tighten in his hair. This close, he can only catch the edge of Tim’s smile, but his eyes scrunch the way they only do when he’s really happy, and that tells Conner everything he needs to know. 
“Then don’t,” Tim suggests, and leans in to kiss him again. 
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hvenandhellrwords2me · 8 months
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hiiii i have a question for my spidey!will au (the story is call lost in new york on A03)
as always thank fo voting! love u!
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sagesolsticewrites · 6 months
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“I think I deserve a kiss” from the prompt list with Rooster?
Thank you so much for the request, nonnie! I haven’t really gotten to write for the TGM characters before, but it was very fun to get back into the swing of things and I hope I did our boy Rooster justice!
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Starbucks Run
Rooster dragged himself through the front door of the house you shared, tired and aching down to his bones, though he couldn’t help a small smile at the sound of your morning alarm abruptly being shut off.
He closed the door as quietly as he could, and crept up to the bedroom, where he knew you’d be just rolling out of bed. Peeking through the doorway, he called softly:
“Good morning, my love.”
You jump at his voice, but he sees you soften the instant you recognize the figure backlit by the hallway light.
“Good morning, Roo.” You smile, blowing him a quick kiss as you grab your work clothes, “How was your run?”
“It was good,” he replies, though he makes no move to shuck off his sweat-soaked shirt as he normally would.
Instead, he reveals the surprise he’s been hiding behind his back.
“I brought back some goodies.”
You pause in putting in your pearl earrings — a birthday gift from Bradley the first year you’d started dating — and turn to him, eyebrow raised at the eagerness in his voice.
Bradley just grins as he sees surprise and gratitude take over your face at the sight of your favorite pastries and coffee of choice waiting in his hands.
“Honey, you didn’t have to do that!” you insist as you take the wax paper bag and cup.
“I wanted to,” he assures you, brown eyes sparkling, “You’re always doing so much for me, and I know you’ve had a busy week, so I thought you deserved a little something special.”
You let out an awwe at his explanation and thank him, taking a sip from your coffee and getting ready to turn back to your morning routine.
“Though…” he continues, and he knows the unamused look on your face is just for show as you take in his cheeky grin, “I did stand in line at Starbucks for half an hour at 6am so… I think I deserve a kiss.”
You sigh, as if you’re extremely put out by the suggestion, but Rooster knows how happy you are by the way you’re smiling into the kiss.
You pull apart, one of Rooster’s hands cupping your cheek and one of yours playing with the curls at the nape of his neck.
“Thank you,” you say genuinely, with a smile on your face that has Bradley’s heart soaring.
He’d stand in a Starbucks line a mile long every day if he knew it’d make you smile like that every time.
“Now go take a shower,” you say, playfully swatting his chest as you step away to apply your makeup and continue your routine.
“Yes, ma’am,” Bradley replies with a mock salute.
He shucks off his shirt and struts past you to the bathroom with a satisfied grin.
But before he closes it, he peeks through the crack to watch you fuss with your hair and adjust your jewelry, taking sips of coffee every so often, your smile growing with every one.
Yeah.
He definitely wouldn’t mind getting up a little earlier for his run if he got to come home and put that smile on your face.
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Welcome to Sage’s Birthday/I’m-Still-Alive Celebration! Find more drabble prompts here!
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I'm not dead yet.
Anyone can tell me that I'll go to hell, or that I deserve to die. Anyone can tell me that I'm useless and unlovable and hopeless. Anyone can tell me that I'm not worth anything.
But I'm not dead yet. I'm still kicking and fighting and yelling and I won't stop. Anyone can say anything about me and I won't stop.
I'm not dead yet. I could be immortal. I could live forever. I could die tomorrow. I don't want to. I'm not done yet. I'm still working. I'm still fighting.
I'll be breathing and moving and living and feeling for a long time yet. I'll be in pain and out of pain and in love and out of love. I'll grieve each minute that passes and I'll hope they somehow come back to me. If my life ever flashes before me, let me be happy with it. Let me have made connections so deep that no one could find the bottom.
Let me be so angry that you could see sparks in my eyes. Let me be so kind that I could melt a frozen heart. Let me help others and heal myself and rant at the things that upset me.
I'm not dead yet, you see. I'm right here. I could be left behind and I'd still be alive. I could be rejected and I'd still be able to move on. I could be broken and I'll still carry on fighting.
I exist for the people that couldn't. I exist for me.
I'm alive. There are still sunsets and the sky still fades into different colours in a way that could never be replicated. There are still friends I can laugh with until I can't breathe, but even when I can't breathe I'm not dead yet.
I'm here! I'm not gone yet! Say whatever the hell you want and I'll still be here!
That's such a powerful thing. I won't be dissolved and gone no matter what someone does. It would take nothing short of killing me to get me to die.
Whether any of this is real? If its all a lie? If it's all fake? If I'm being controlled by some god? If I'm not being controlled by some god?
I'm not dead yet. And to me, right now...that's all that matters.
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it's tough out here, being the only scottpulse shipper, but somebody's gotta do it /lh
anyway, i wrote a scottpulse hurt/comfort fic set after session 7! enjoy!
general mcyt fic taglist: @actuallymothman @corazon10000 @damiensaidno @franticfandomfanatic @gattonero17 @hetapeep41 @meowdy-pickles @river-the-rock @solsearchingnights @space-ace123 @vyeoh
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mumblingsage · 4 months
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I meant to tell you folks about my Erozine publication when it went live Friday, but I missed that because I was at work on The Novel, so...sorry not sorry.
My story, for this issue's theme of "Post-Nut Clarity," is "Aftplay." A pun, of course.
Once her breath returned, she said, “It hit me I’ve never slept with a guy who liked sex before.” His hand moved up to her stomach, following the pulse of her afterglow. “Okay, you’ve got to unpack that for me.” Grinning, she skirted her fingertips over his hip. She loved to unpack things, and he knew that. “Oh, they liked orgasming—at least they complained when they felt like they hadn’t done it recently enough. But they wanted to get there as soon as possible.” He opened his legs wider so she could reach between them, stroking the inside of his thigh. “Mmm.” Maybe a response to her touch, but also encouragement to keep talking.  “They treated every other step in the process like an impediment. The idea of exploring, drawing things out, continuing them—absolutely no interest.” His next sound seemed interested as she circled his cock, contentedly flaccid and bare—he’d stripped the condom off fast, then, in the moments before she took his hand to get herself off. He was efficient. Competent (competence was hot). But he didn’t rush the stuff that mattered. 
You can read the full piece here.
[Content warning for a brief mention of sex by deception, along the lines of the legends about King Arthur's conception, if you're familiar with that. To skip, stop at the line "“There are stories…legends, even…about a woman having sex in the dark..." and resume at "The distress left his face like darkness at sunrise."]
While I'm trying to keep up on publication news, I'm also excited to announce I'll have a Tweet-length* poem at https://twitter.com/olicketysplit next Tuesday, Dec 19!
*Still a meaningful phrase in our hearts.
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non-un-topo · 5 months
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Rating: M
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Trans Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Trans Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Gender Identity, Crusades Era Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, No actual SA occurs, Canon-Typical Violence, POV First Person, just trust me though, Melodrama, gotta tag for that because i'm a dramatic person
Summary:
At first, there were only names. Yusuf of the Kaysanites, pious and sure and cunning like my merchant father before me. Yusuf, a strong, godly name, given and taken by no one but myself. It was the name with which I carried myself to my new life, to the walls of al-Quds. I could not have predicted, at the time, the violence that would befall her. Her, that was the land that was holy, and her, that was me. A merchant’s daughter from Mahdia, who carried an old sword and a new story.
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orchidbreezefc · 1 year
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oh shit malevolent 29 went public i guess it's time to reveal my new previously-patron-only project!!!
bg for those unaware: each malevolent episode is first released on the patreon in 5 chapters. most chapters end in a decision for arthur (the first one was whether to shoot eddie in the first scene or try to reason with him, for example), and the patrons vote on what he chooses.
these choices are presented by an entity that sounds like john, whom we call booth!john because we envision him in a soundbooth handling the recordings. his bit is cut from the public episodes, but kayne has alluded to the polls and they seem to be what arthur means by the "gut feelings" that compel him to a certain course of action.
ANYWAY, WITH ALL THAT ESTABLISHED, the patreon poll for ch.143 (hide from collins in the crowd or try to trap him in the caboose and decouple it?) was so heavily debated that people started writing poetry about the whole affair, so my hand was forced aaaaand i started making limericks lmao
i've made one for every chapter since, and plan to continue doing them until i, uh, stop. enjoy my first batch of now-legally-publishable malimericks (malevericks?):
from 143:
there once was a murderer loose and some choices from voices in booths will you try to lay low or go derail your foe? because ruth wants you in the caboose  
[note: ruth is a patron who was VERY in favor of the caboose option lol]
our boys are in trouble once more (or so says the COC lore) the butcher draws near should we run or stay here? let's just hope he's not outside the door
[note: collins is a character from harlan’s previous call of cthulhu campaign!]
choose: scylla, charybdis, or circe? we could go sit back down with percy we also could try to face this murder guy but we don't know: will harlan have mercy?
lovers of violence rejoice! seems we'll get it whatever our choice do you vote for what's smart or just go with your heart? me, i just want 'caboose' in john's voice
144:
there once was a man bound for york whose options then came to a fork cut the car in the back or jump onto the track you--wait THAT'S the choice??? i can't make a limerick about that what the fuck
145:
if this little maneuver had failed arthur told john they just could have bailed good thing their attack sent the butcher off track because arthur just almost got railed
bonus:
it's not your choice or his choice, kayne said (though who knows what goes through that guy's head) the patreon poll has a big story role but it might be to leave arthur dead
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