warnings, warnings: steve harrington breeds reader! he's mean and honestly not super ic of him but in a world where hes a typical 80s freak with 1980 values, plz dont read if youre very sensitive to 70s-80s misogyny or dont like ooc
A socially traditional Steve Harrington who pretends to be as free spirited and accepting as reader.
Like, of course you can go out with your friends without a man beside you.
Of course he'll respect your independence and let you get a job
Of course he'll let you get on that new birth control.
But if he were to be totally honest, he didn't care that you didn't agree with him right now, because you will eventually, you just needed to come around to it. To his life. To what it means to be a married woman.
"Birth control makes girls a bit, y'know," he'd warn while you got ready for your appointment, "Save it for the pornstars who delude themselves into thinking life has no consequences, cause that's what it is. Avoiding consequences."
You don't say anything.
But you don't catch his grimace either, the way the corner of his lips curl repulsively at the mention. Makes him sick, the thought of you wanting to keep something so sacred from him.
It didn't make sense to him, why you wanted part in any of it. He's fully aware, though, that you didn't need it to make sense to him, because you're an independent woman yadda yadda yadda.
God
What would his family think? If they caught you tossing back these pills like candy?
You don't need that in you, is what he tells himself, not when you have a man already.
You're just lost.
But he's just making a joke, you think, albeit not a good one. Didn't make you crack a smile let alone make you laugh. But he's not being serious, you know that.
He can't be.
So you do nothing, you ignore him, and head to your gynecologist to prep for your second month.
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday...
And then the night he wants to have you, Thursday, it feels different.
You're delirious, drenched with need.
He kept your knees bent over his shoulders, a hand placed near your head, that occasionally strokes away the strands sticking to your sweaty forehead.
Your pussy fluttering around the thick stretch of his cock every time he drove himself home. Every time his balls pressed against your underside.
"Steve..." you're puffing out, low and greedy.
"Yeah," he leans in to press his forehead against yours, agreeing with your lust, doesn't still his hips as he does so.
Your lips touch without meaning to, a flurry pleasure washing over you. Hot electricity shooting down your abdomen, warming your full belly, and to your aching calves. It's enough to make any woman dumb, your jaw going slack.
He swallows your moans anyway, slips his tongue into your mouth, humming lowly as your lips wrap around the thick muscle, sucking.
"Don't forget to pull out," you're panting against his wet lips, staring into his eyes.
You can tell he's close because his thrusts stagger, sporadically chasing their own release.
He doesn't say anything, but he's looking at you while his thumb rubs slick arousal over your puffy clit. You're a wet mess under him, eyes squeezing shut, you almost forget to remind him again.
"St..." your voice dies out as he times his thrusts with the flit of his thumb, like a synced dance while your achy walls cry around his cock. Your legs tremble around his head and they only grow weaker by the minute, stuck in your perversion as you go completely lax.
"Oh, Steve," You sigh, your hands blindly flying to grab onto him, whatever they can greedily hold while groomed fingernails dig into skin.
His hips stutter once and your eyes fly open, the palm of your hands digging into his bicep, "Of-off, Steve!" You wail.
But then he's pinning your weakened wrists above your head with one hand, his thrusts quickening while another hand works your clit. Lazily rubbing, pad of his thumb pressing down on you. And the tip of his cock pushing against that one spot, over and over.
And oh, you hate him.
You hate him. You hate that he knows you like the back of his hand.
Because you're forced to watch him as he buries himself, as he bullies his cock so deep you can feel him in the back of your throat, trapping the noises that bubble, that want out. As he gets to moan and pant from above, his cock hauling against that sweet bundle of nerves with every drag.
"Be good," He whispered, and he's got you in such a rigid position, you can't escape his grip. Your bottom half practically curls into you, all the blood rushing to your head, that it dizzies you and steals what's left of your sanity. He's folding you so nicely your pussy froths, it tingles, accommodates his girth while he defiles you, like you're liquid glass being shaped any which way.
It makes you hungry for more but when you feel it, the throb of his cock as it empties a thick load, you come undone alongside him without meaning to.
Your hips buck and writhe pathetically at the delicious stretch, and if he didn't know any better, he'd think you were begging for it.
Your head is thrown back and arching off the mattress, quietly unraveling beneath him while he soaks it all in. Draws out those wanton moans he loves so much.
He knew you'd like it. You just needed some time.
"By the way," he speaks the second your breaths died down, "you've been taking sugar pills."
i made the gay hockey show gayer and u can all thank rae and karfy for once again encouraging my madness 😘
Rose had been to hundreds of black tie galas and benefits since her rise to fame, but it was her first time going as a plus one for Shane Hollander.
Shane looked stiff and uncomfortable in his tuxedo, as he always did when he was expected to be in formalwear, but he still smiled at Rose, told her she looked beautiful, led her inside on his arm. He was a model boyfriend, for all intents and purposes. Him not always being able to get hard was, at most, a minor inconvenience.
They were at the bar when Rose spotted another familiar hockey player across the crowded room -- Ilya Rozanov, accompanied by his own date. They made a striking couple; he was tall, broad, pale, with neatly arranged tawny curls. She was equally tall, but lithe and dark, with tight coils of hair spilling out from an updo. They were both dressed all in black and standing side by side in silence, seemingly cataloguing their surroundings.
When the woman's eyes landed on Rose, then flicked to where Shane was leaned against the bar, she tapped Ilya on the shoulder. He followed her gaze to Shane, and Rose watched his jaw clench. He turned and muttered something to his date, and she shook her head in response.
All Rose really knew about Ilya was that he was a fantastic player, a bit of an asshole, and was theoretically her boyfriend's rival. Shane never talked about him though -- actively avoided the subject when it came up. And having been subject to several media-driven "rivalries" of her own, Rose doubted it was as serious as anyone said it was.
"Here you go," Shane murmured, holding out a bottle of beer. In his other hand, he held a glass of what appeared to be a Shirley Temple.
She accepted the offer and nodded across the room to where Ilya and the woman seemed to be in a heated argument. "Did you want to go say hi to Ilya?"
Shane looked in the direction she gestured and his expression soured for the briefest moment before smoothing into something flat and expressionless. "Sure," he said tightly. He held out his free hand, and gripped hers tightly as he led the way.
Ilya saw them coming first, and his mouth snapped shut as they drew near, cutting himself off midsentence. The woman beside him finished her sentence, the melodic Russian words offset by the sharpness of her tone, before catching sight of them. She looked down at their joined hands, then up at Rose. One thick, dark eyebrow lifted, and her lips twisted into an oddly curious expression. Rose felt herself waver under the woman's gaze.
"Mister Hollander," Ilya drawled, dipping into a mocking bow. He straightened and wrapped one arm around his date's waist. His other hand held a tumbler of what appeared to be straight vodka.
"Rozanov," Shane grunted. His hand tightened around Rose's. "Who's your...friend?"
"Svetlana," the woman said, before Ilya could get a word out. She handed her champagne flute to Ilya, who grumbled something in Russian as he tried to maneuver both glasses with one hand. She didn't seem to notice his struggle as she extended a long, elegantly manicured hand to Shane. "Just friends. Don't let him tell you lies."
Ilya hissed something to her, but a placid smile remained fixed on her face as she turned to Rose. "Rose Landry, yes?"
Rose liked how her name sounded in Svetlana's accent. It had been shaped into something more illustrious than it ever was when she said it. It took her a beat to catch up, to free her hand from Shane's grasp and extend it. "Yeah - yes. Sorry. Lovely to meet you."
"You are lovely," Svetlana said smoothly, her grin widening as their hands met. "How did Hollander get so lucky?"
An attempt at a polite laugh came out as something stuttered and strangled, and Rose swallowed harshly before trying to form full words. "I like to think I'm the lucky one," she managed.
Svetlana's eyes narrowed. They were deep brown, framed by thick lashes, and accented with shimmering eyeshadow. "Do not diminish yourself. You could do better."
Rose didn't know what to say to that, but when she turned to Shane for a reaction, maybe some support, she found him locked in a silent staring contest with Ilya. Shane's eyes blazed with a heat that she hadn't seen in him before, and Ilya matched him easily. She turned back to Svetlana. "I'm not," she tried. "He's wonderful."
Svetlana looked pointedly between the two men, then back to Rose. "Oh, yes," she drawled. "He seems very taken with you."
A 'loss for words' couldn't fully describe the disastrous tangle that Rose found her mind in, but she didn't get the chance to respond. Svetlana reached back to where Ilya had both their glasses in a claw grip and plucked hers free. He didn't even look over as she tipped it back, draining it one go.
"I need a drink," she said to Rose, waving the empty glass. "Come on."
"But-" Rose glanced at Shane again, whose eyes flicked back to her, unseeing, before returning to Ilya. "...Okay."
Svetlana's hand was markedly different from Shane’s; soft where his was calloused, slim where his was broad. Their hands fit neatly together, and Rose found herself staring at them as she let herself be walked back to the bar. "They need to talk," Svetlana explained, turning over her shoulder to address Rose as they walked. "And it doesn't involve either of us, so I don't see why we should be wasting our night as arm candy."
Rose simply nodded in response. Then she was sitting at a barstool, Svetlana on the one next to her. Her legs were crossed, and the slit in her dress revealed a well-toned thigh that Rose was having a difficult time looking away from. Whatever she was feeling was starting to feel uncomfortably akin to attraction.
"So Rose," Svetlana said, leaning one elbow on the bar. "Tell me about yourself. I want to know everything."
And Rose found that, even as her boyfriend disappeared down a hallway with Ilya in her peripheral, she wanted nothing more than to tell Svetlana everything and more.
Not nearly far enough to start producing accurate drabbles but i had a vision on the drive home:
Hans struggling with not being able to dote on Henry publicly and coping by bestowing increasingly elaborate gifts as “tokens for loyal and true service.”
The parcel of land Henry expects but its the endless stream of wine, exotic fruits and jewelry that’s overwhelming him. Hans won’t take no for an answer and only seems to get more extravagant when Henry relents and starts drinking the vintages and wearing the brocade around him.
Eventually, Hans commissions a set of armor for Henry that looks like it must be worth half of Rattay. Frankly, it's gaudy as shit and would probably dent from a stern bat on the back. The set is swimming in so much scrollwork and gilding that looking at it makes Henry's eyes water. But wading through the visual thicket he keeps finding birds nesting in the filigree. Perched over crossed antlers stamped into the pauldrons. Cast into the gorget, its wings encircling his throat. And nested right in the center of the cuirass. Directly over his heart.
"It's quite fashionable in Prague for retainers to have parade armor that matches their lord." Hans shrugs when his uncle presses him over the expense.
Henry just smiles softly to himself. That evening he goes to his lord to ask for help donning it for the first time.
— Taylor Jenkins Reid, The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo via @letsbelonelytogetherr
Loving plainly
Louder than the hum of the AC, the silence in the office was deafening.
2.00 A.M.
Puffing out white smoke, Shikamaru flipped through another folder of documents to analyze for the big meeting.
It felt endless.
After grueling hours of meticulous scrutiny and deliberation, he craved for tranquillity.
His mind eased away to the drifting clouds in the azure sky. Then, a hand – her hand, rough but gentle, resting on his forehead.
So serene. So simple. So plain.
If he’s at home now, he’d be in bed spooning her to sleep.
Love does not have to be grandiose. It is the plain, almost unnoticable force that anchors in a steadfast, infinite embrace.
Head heavy, shoulders sore, eyes burning. Lethargic and sleepy, his mind reached home way before his body did.
Screw it.
Grabbing his jacket and locking his room, he decided that paperwork and strategy can wait. Something else was more important.
His steps hastened. He could already feel the shuffle on the cotton bedsheet and her soft skin in his fingers and lips. The scent of honey that lingered in her hair. Her dozy eyes when she turned to search his. A warm exhale, her hazy smile, and the quiet yearning kiss that followed.
If you love Myst as much as I do and are as intrigued about the possibility of the Stoneship, Channelwood and Mechanical Ages having at least a few survivors that we just didn't get to see, consider taking a peek at this little writing project I've started!
Part 1 / Stoneship
Part 2 / Channelwood
Part 3 / Mechanical
Or you can read all of them in a row on AO3!
And now you can also see some crude doodles of the characters here!
I intend to potentially write more as just this series of very short drabbles.
I will be dropping them over here so yeah, let me know your thoughts and all that.
I love who you cast as Paul! Whats Paul's over all opinion on Luke(if he's heard the whole story) whats Sallys opinion(for me Sally feels sorry for Luke but also wants to kick his ass for almost killing her son several times)
Well, Pedro did a great job with baby!Grogu, so I'm pretty sure he can handle Percy too 🤣
As for Paul and Sally... I’ve got a few WIPs here and there. One of them sums up what happened from the moment Percy left New Rome to the whole new!Luke mess, as seen through Sally’s perspective.
Right now, I’m just writing whatever comes to mind or after listening to a song that really sparks something in me. I’ve been struggling with writer’s block for over a decade, and I’m honestly terrified of getting stuck again—having all these amazing ideas swirling in my head but not being able to get them onto paper. It’s hard 🥲. I don’t want to force myself and make it worse, and I get it if my drabbles seem all over the place. But I’m trying. Maybe one day I’ll rewrite them in order. Please bear with me.
Back to your question! Paul is a potato 😁. He knows there was a friend of Percy’s named Luke Castellan who did some bad things, but that’s pretty much the extent of his knowledge. He has no clue that that Luke is this Luke. Right now, his biggest concern is Percy having a crush on a Bible Boy.
Sally... Sally’s a bit trickier. She’s the one who suggested the "meet the other parents" dinner, mainly to see and understand. She’s trying to keep an open mind about everything: different religion, different species (does the nephilim thing count as a different species? Not sure 🤔), and of course, Luke. She gets the gist of the blonde being "born again," but she needs more information.
Over the years, Percy’s told her many things about Luke Castellan—angry things, sad things, scary things. So Sally has a lot of mixed feelings about him. Is she angry about what Luke did? Absolutely! Is she sad about how he died after such a lonely life? Yes, but what scares her most is knowing that Luke’s actions spared her son a very different fate.
And, well, she needs to know if this boy deserves her son’s love. Sally isn’t fooling herself: her son is in love... even if he isn’t ready to admit it to himself, or anyone else, yet.
From time to time I start thinking about Btas Scarecrow again and each time I start falling more in love with him and feel like a schoolgirl thinking about her crush.
Anyways thats enough of me being down bad for Btas Scarecrow. I think-
