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romysradio · 3 months

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Look How Far We've Come - J.S.

summary - Y/N recalls the time she told Jake he was going to be a father

warnings - fluff, language, pregnancy, near-labor, use of Y/N

wc - 2.3k

A/N - Sorry about the wait! Here is part 2 of this. I am open to doing a part 3, or basically anything with the two of them "telling" the rest of the group. Leave a comment or send something to my inbox if there's anything you want to see from me/with these two! Also Bradley isn't even in this technically, but in this au he is a major himbo if that wasn't obvious already, but we love him. Okay, happy reading!!!

The mini fan Jake had packed was propped up on the side table, blowing a weak stream of air your way but doing absolutely nothing to lessen the sweltering August heat. Huffing loudly, you stopped bouncing on the exercise ball and used your forearm to wipe the sweat from your forehead.

A hum of satisfaction drew your attention to Jake, who was lounging on the hospital bed eating a sandwich he packed before you guys left. Another noise left his mouth as he took another bite, completely oblivious to the murderous glare you were sending his way.

“Ya know, you have an awful lot of trust in the idea that I won’t come over there and smother you and that damn sandwich with a pillow.” Jake’s eyes widened and his chewing halted at your threat, before a smug grin took over his face.

“Now darlin’, I don’t know about the pillow, but I’ll let you smother me with somethin’ else if you want,” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. You stared at him, your face deadpan, before pulling a hair elastic off your wrist and slingshotting it at his forehead.

“Hey! Don’t damage government property!” He whined, rubbing where the elastic hit him.

You rolled your eyes, “Whatever. Come help me up so I can go sit on my hospital bed.” Jake quickly placed the sandwich on the table next to the fan before rushing over to your side. Grabbing your outstretched hands, he slowly pulled you up off the ball before helping you waddle over to the bed.

With Jake’s help, you eased yourself onto the bed, sitting cross-legged rubbing your rounded belly. Your stomach growled, hunger overtaking your senses. You hadn’t been allowed to eat anything since you were admitted that morning, but seeing as you had been in labor for eight hours since then, you were absolutely starving. Moving ever so slowly, you reached over to the side table, picking up Jake’s half-eaten sandwich as he dug through your hospital bag.

“Here, I got you–Woah, woah, woah. Hand over the sandwich, little lady.” Damn it.

You froze, sandwich halfway to your mouth. Jake’s outstretched hand motioned for you to give it up, and you sighed, placing the sandwich in his palm. “But Jaaaaake, I’m starving.” You whined irritably.

“Hi, Starving, I’m Dad.” He winked.

If looks could kill, Jake Seresin’s body would be unidentifiable, yet the look on your face did nothing to wipe the goofy grin off his face. His green eyes sparkled with mischief, absolutely delighted with himself. You hoped your son got his eyes. And that sweet Seresin smile. You fought off a small grin, and groaned, “Can you please just tell your son to stop taking his sweet time so that I can finally eat something?”

Jake pulled one of the chairs up to the edge of the bed before leaning over and gently cradling your bump. Nine months in and you still got butterflies at the feeling of his big, warm hands on your stomach.

You always knew you wanted children someday, and while these were certainly not the circumstances you had always envisioned, the thought of a little tiny baby, half-you and half-Jake Seresin, made your heart squeeze.

As he pressed kisses and mumbled words to your hospital gown-covered belly, you delicately carded your fingers through his soft blond hair. Everything about your pregnancy felt like a whirlwind. The past nine months had flown by, riddled with anxiety about motherhood and what life would look like after the baby arrived, but right now, with Jake right next to you, you felt oddly at peace. You couldn’t help but think back to how stressed and anxious you had been to tell him you were pregnant.

—--------

You paced the living room anxiously, your mind running a mile a minute. You could hear the clock ticking slowly in the kitchen, reminding you that any second, Jake Seresin’s truck would be pulling into your driveway.

The knot in your stomach was getting tighter with each passing second. What if he got mad? What if he didn’t believe that the baby was his? What if he didn’t want anything to do with the baby? What if he didn’t want anything to do with you?

You knew it was unfair to assume the worst about Jake. People could say whatever they wanted about Hangman, but Jake Seresin had never been anything but sweet and genuine with you. A little cocky, maybe, but he’d never given you any reason to believe he’d leave you hanging.

Selfishly, you also wondered what this would mean for the two of you. You’d always had a thing for Jake, and you were secretly hoping after the two of you hooked up, it would become something more, but a baby just complicated all of that. You wanted him to want you for you, not just because you were having his baby.

The slamming of a truck door pulled you from your thoughts. You tried to psych yourself up as you went to let him in. It’s gonna be fine. You’re just gonna sit him down and rip the bandaid off. It’ll be fine. Everything’s gonna be fine. What could possibly go wrong?

“Hi,” You breathed out, “Thanks for coming over.”

“Of course.” Jake grinned, stepping inside. You internally groaned as you took in his appearance. His dark blonde hair was messy, yet somehow looked perfectly styled. His navy blue jacket was pulled off, revealing a tight white t-shirt underneath, paired with lighter wash jeans which covered his toned legs. How was it fair that he looked so good all of the time?

You shook your head, trying to get rid of the dirty thoughts that were quickly filling it. You waited as he toed his boots off and hung his jacket on a hook by the door before leading him to the couch.

“So,” You started, “I asked you to come over because I need to talk to you about something,”

Jake watched you carefully as you went on, “Do you remember that night we spent together, about a month ago?”

A knowing smirk took over his face, “You know I do, honey. Is that what this is about?”

“Well, yeah, you see–”

“Darlin’, I know we agreed on it being a one-time thing, but if you wanted it to happen again, all you had to do was ask.”

“Ok, but Jake, that’s not–”

“Y’know, I’ve actually been thinking about it too and–”

“Jake, I’m pregnant.” And off comes the bandaid.

His face was frozen in place. You felt like you could see the gears turning inside his head. The blonde carefully got to his feet, slowly pacing in front of the couch.

“O-okay, so,” He glanced at you, an unreadable expression on his face, “So you’re pregnant?”

You nodded gently, getting to your feet. You stood in front of him, halting his movement. Your hands wrapped around his strong, muscular biceps, the tanned skin beneath your–No. Him and those damn muscles are what got you into this situation in the first place.

He stared at you wide-eyed, “And I’m the father?”

You nodded again. The sound of Jake’s quickening breaths engulfed the two of you for a moment. You were about to explain to him that you didn’t expect anything from him when he opened his mouth again.

“B-but, but, we– I mean, I– and the– oh god, and you’re–” His breaths were shallow as his knees buckled. Your grip on him tightened as you tried to hold his towering frame upright, but you could feel him becoming dead weight.

“Alright, down we go, cowboy.” You muttered as you eased the two of you back onto the couch. You quickly reached for your untouched glass of water on the coffee table before handing it to Jake.

“Here, drink this.” He gratefully accepted it, bringing the glass to his lips as you reached your hand up and pushed a few soft, blond strands off his damp forehead. The two of you sat for what felt like hours, but was probably only a few minutes as Jake absorbed the information.

Kids were something Jake Seresin had never given much thought. Sure, growing up in a conservative Texas family, the idea wasn’t unfamiliar to him, but he’d always known he wanted to be in the Navy. It wasn’t that he didn’t want a wife and kids, he had just assumed it would be something he would have to forgo in order to achieve his career goals. He had accepted that it wasn’t in the cards for him.

“You’d make a great mom,” He spoke quietly, placing the glass back down before turning to you. “I’m sorry, I-I didn’t mean– that was just…a lot to take in.”

You snorted, “Oh, trust me, I know.” The energy in the room shifted as the two of you sat gazing at each other. A deep silence settled between you and Jake as you both searched for the right thing to say.

“I just want you to know that I’m not, like, expecting anything from you or whatever,” You cringed at your bluntness and lack of articulation. “Sorry– I just mean, you can be as involved or not involved as you want. This is a huge surprise for both of us, and I won’t force you to raise a baby if you don’t want to.”

Jake’s expression was unreadable as your words hung in the air. The ticking of the clock in the kitchen was practically deafening as you waited for him to say something, anything.

“You were right in that this is definitely a surprise,” He chuckled.

Jake could never have predicted this. He never even considered the possibility of an unplanned pregnancy, and he couldn’t even imagine what his grandmother would say if she were here. But Jake didn’t care. Right now, one of his favorite people in the entire world was sitting in front of him, literally growing his baby. He was being given an opportunity to have at least a little part of the life he never thought was possible, and he’d be damned if he didn’t take it.

“But if you want to do this, I’m gonna be right there with you. I wanna be as involved as you’ll let me be.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, it was like a floodgate had opened. Your vision blurred as fat tears spilt over, dripping down your cheeks.

“Hey, hey, hey, what’s wrong?,” Jake cooed comfortingly. He gently lifted you so you were straddling his lap, before pulling you into his arms. You let the tears flow, emptying your head to focus on nothing but the warmth of Jake’s embrace.

You weren’t sure how long the two of you stayed like that before you pulled back slightly, wiping your eyes with the sleeve of the gray hoodie adorning your frame. “Sorry,” You sniffled, “it’s the hormones. One month in and they’re already all out of whack.”

One look at the shoulder of Jake’s white shirt, now littered with stains of mascara and teardrops, had your eyes welling up again. “Shit, your shirt…” You frowned, quickly tried wiping it off, knowing full well your actions were useless.

Jake chuckled, gently grasping your wrist and pulling it away from the stains. “Hey, don’t worry about it. I should probably start getting used to it. I mean, think about it, eight months from now and you and I both will be getting far worse stains on our clothes.”

You let out a watery laugh, a smile making its way onto your face as you realized Jake would probably be the first person to make baby spit-up look good.

—--------

“What are you thinkin’ about, hm?” Jake’s soothing voice drew your attention back to the present.

“When I told you I was pregnant.” You laughed lightly. You watched as Jake smiled fondly, reminiscing about that day last December.

“We’re ready for this, right?” You whispered, unsure if you were really asking Jake or yourself. The blonde lifted his head, hands still glued to your stomach, and met your misty eyes.

“Course we are, darlin’, are you kiddin’ me? We were born ready.” He grinned again. You gave him a pointed look, “Okay, maybe not born ready, but I feel like we have more than enough experience since we basically parent Rooster.”

You giggled at that. Jake wasn’t really wrong, considering how one of Bradley’s terms for letting Jake move in with you guys was that one of you had to pack him a lunch for work everyday.

“Well then, let’s just hope–” The words were stolen from your tongue as pain jolted through you. You closed your eyes, grabbing and squeezing Jake’s hand as your stomach tightened. With his free hand, Jake massaged your neck gently.

“Breathe, baby, breathe. Do you want me to go get the nurse?”

You nodded, eyes still pinched shut. Jake squeezed your hand and kissed your temple before quickly going to find the nearest nurse. He came back 30 seconds later, a red headed nurse trailing him. She smiled warmly at you, pulling on a fresh pair of gloves.

“All right, Miss L/N, let’s check how many centimeters, shall we?”

You took a deep breath, leaning into Jake’s side as he sat, perched on the edge of the hospital bed. The blonde began stroking your hair with his large hand as the nurse stood back up, “Well, it looks like it’s time to head to the delivery room.”

Your eyes widened, “Wait, seriously? This isn’t a joke, right? You’re serious?”

She chuckled at your reaction, “Yes, Ma’am. You’re ten centimeters dilated. You’re about to become a mom.”

You lifted your head to look at Jake, chest tight with a mixture of anxiety and overwhelming happiness, “We’re about to become parents.”

The signature Seresin smile found its way to his face, his green eyes shining with excitement. Jake pushed a stray hair behind your ear, “Yes, we are, honey. Yes, we are.”

Taglist:

@mamachasesmayhem

@eloquentdreamer

#jake seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin #hangman x reader #tgm fic #jake seresin fluff #glen powell #jake seresin fic #jake seresin x you #top gun hangman #hangman fic #towtls #the one with the longhorns shirt #look how far we've come #lhfwc #romysradio

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octuscle · 6 months

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Hey, I'm new to Chronivac and want to try out becoming a musky himbo jock. I'm not exactly sure how to do it well though, do you have any presets?

Dude, the catalog is full of premium matching presets. If you want, I'll just pick something. A little younger than you are now. A little more lower class than the Upper East Side where you currently live. And definitely no more Yale education. You bet your ass.

You're sitting on the sofa of your Park Avenue condo reading the New York Times. Damn uncomfortable. You put your feet up on the coffee table. You might as well clean up again…. On the table, a mess of pizza boxes, protein shake canisters, old issues of FLEX. Your mother calls from downstairs for you to go with the dog. Fuck, you were in the middle of a Call of Duty fight. Do you have to do that now? "ZAC! IMMEDIATELY" You know the tone. Better you don't lose another second. And an hour of running before the gym might not be a bad idea. So you put on your running shoes and head out with your dog.

When you're done with high school, you need to get out of the suburbs as soon as possible. Next year is the time. College, your own fitness channel on YouTube, a penthouse in New York. You already see your future right in front of you. But first your buddy has to take a shit in the park. When you've made your rounds, you still have an hour and a half before dinner. Enough for a short workout. You grab your bag, which hasn't been unpacked since the last work out, send your gym buddy a quick message, get on your bike and hit the road.

Your mustache is really coming nicely. And after the workout, as always, you'll have a mighty boner. Your buddy wasn't there. His bad luck. You send him your selfie. "Caption: "U missed a sicc workout and a big gulp of himbo proteins. Bj after dinner @ ur place"

Posted your selfie @testoster0ne

#male tf #muscle tf #reality change #chronivac #male transformation #muscle transformation #age reduction

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buckychristwrites · 9 months

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hello my love, im here again to request for licking their lips for our favourite himbo jamie. no one can keep me away from this blog for too long, they will have to pry it from my cold dead hands 🫶🏼

You’re too kind 🥺🥺💜💜

“Keeley? Where do you keep your extra towels? I need one for my hair.”

You walked out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped snuggly around your body as you made your way down the stairs. The house had grown quiet in the time it took you to take a shower. Before, music had been blaring, your best friend’s voice on backup vocals adding to the noise.

Rounding the corner, you walked into the dining room to find a new figure sitting at the table.

You let out a loud shriek, startled so badly that you lost your footing and crashed to the floor.

“Fuck!”

“Sorry! Sorry!”

Jamie Tartt scrambled from his seat, increasing the distance between you, with his hands in front of him to show innocence. Your grip on the towel turned your knuckles white.

“Jamie,” You said angrily. “What the fuck are you doing here? Where’s Keeley?”

“She let me in before runnin’ out,” He explained with his hands still up. “She thought she’d be back before ya got out.”

You relaxed only slightly as you brought a hand up to fix your hair. Hands slowly lowered back down to his sides. His eyes never left you, trailing up and down your just barely covered body.

“Don’t look at me like that,” You said as your heart skipped a beat.

He licked his lips.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re seeing me naked.”

“You’re not naked are ya?” A beat passed. “Wouldn’t complain if ya were, though, would I?”

You swallowed hard as the heat rose in your cheeks.

“I’m gonna go put some clothes on,” You said slowly. “And you’re gonna stay here.”

He raised his hand in a one finger salute. “Yes ma’am.”

Though he stuck to his word, you were too aware of his eyes never leaving you as you made your way back up the stairs. Even worse, you were also aware of the fact that you loved every second that he couldn’t look away.

#jamie tartt #jamie tartt imagine #jamie tartt headcanon #jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt fanfiction #ricciardhoe3 #answered

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cannibalgoldfish · 1 year

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Unavoidable

Paring: Price X Trans male reader

Summary: Waiting out a storm with the unit was one thing but waiting out a storm alone with the Captain was another. Reader's crush on Price leads to an offer he can't refuse.

Part two

Word count: 1,359

Warnings: NSFW- so minors DNI- (AFAB parts mentioned but no use of feminine language or gendering for reader)

This is my first x reader so let me know how I did lmao

The low level static of the radio, being continuously left on for any signal that the pickup was on route, faded into the background. You sat on the couch adjusting your position every few minutes, the stupid old ass couch the safe house provided felt like it was a cardboard box rather than having actual cushions. A beat up old book sat on the coffee table by the couch, with the well used houses soldiers would leave behind little things for entertainment. It became a sort of morbid tradition, little pieces of those who came before you and that would be there after you whether they where alive or not.

Picking up the book, some cheap action and romance filled Sci-fi, you opened it grateful for some distraction to your current dilemma. The dilemma, leaning his 6' 2" muscle bound self on the counter waiting for the kettle to boil, was unfortunately and unknowingly causing a set of not so pristine ideas.

There was almost no privacy back at base and even if there was, the unit traveled for 90% of missions leaving you to have to keep a bag packed and prepared to leave at a moments notice. Besides it was nearly impossible to sneak anything travel size in your duffle without the rest of the team knowing about it. (Gaz was less of a worry, Soap on the other hand could sniff out contraband better than the dogs he disliked, and where's there Soap there's Ghost.)

Price wearing those tight ass shirts didn't help, either he knew what he was doing (whore) or he was extremely oblivious which made it even better. (himbos are popular for a reason right?)

"You seem restless."

You looked up from the book, realizing you had been staring at the same page for the last five minutes. ".... just excited to get back I guess..." Glancing up you saw he was directly facing you, back against the cabinet. The kettle let out a small whistle breaking the silence, he turned to fill the cup with water.

You move again, this time not from being uncomfortable but from being too comfortable. God, the things he made you feel from just a look. Taking up the length of the couch you attempt to go back to the five dollar fiction.

I really need a vacation, a long nice fun vacation.

Sensing movement you glance up again, standing at the edge of the couch was Price, leaning over he lightly taps your leg. Shifting your feet to make room for him, you sit up readjusting yourself for a better "reading" position. Occasionally peering over the top of the book you'd glance at Price, almost sleepily drinking his tea and zoning out in his own little haze. Once he had finished he set down the empty mug, crossing his arms forming his signature pose.

"What about you?" you ask, setting the book on the table next to his cup. (Making a show of book marking a page to make it seem like you where actually reading)"I'm going to get some rest.", he states laying his head against the couch. "Boring." you retaliate, seeing the small smile he has as you pick up the book.

Another round of chapters does nothing for your issue, in fact the book itself seems to be a factor in helping lead you back to certain thoughts. Not to mention that the periodic movement of his leg, slightly twitching in his sleep, would bump against your foot reminding you how close he was. Going to get up to make yourself a cup of tea, you see it.

To be fair you weren't originally looking in that area but when someone (a someone who has great thighs by the way) is fully manspreading and leaning back, well there isn't much there to hide it. Especially when it's on "high alert".

Throwing your weight back into the couch, shoulders purposely hitting the back cushions for extra movement, you look at him. Price, opening his eyes and slowly turning his head, stares back at you silently waiting for a reason for the disturbance. His face turning from slight annoyance to confusion as he sees the smug smile on your face.

"Seems you're.....excited too"

Eyes widening a split second before breaking eye contact he turns back to facing forward rubbing a hand over his face,

he shifts.

Not getting up.

Not leaving.

Not even moving to sit up.

"Should I help a soldier out?"

He turns back to you, quicker this time surprised at the bold remark. He doesn't stop you, simply watching as you move over to straddle his lap. Hands lifted avoiding touching you as you sat down, barely hovering over your thighs. Your hands resting on his shoulders, his eyes cutting through the low light of the single bulb hanging from the celling meet yours. Both waiting, you for any sign to stop as he contemplates, both knowing that it's a bad idea.

But bad ideas are the most fun.

He makes the smallest nod, nearly indictable. You begin to move pulling off his shirt, grinding slowly before reaching down to unbutton his pants once, burying your head in his neck groaning over feeling him hardening. He puts his hands over yours stopping you, you sit up looking at him. Not breaking eye contact he slides his hands underneath you, picks you up and places you half on half off the couch. Waiting for permission he silently kneels down and spreads your thighs open, this time it was your turn to nod. Sliding off everything in one motion, he leans forward the moment he was given access. You move to get motion any motion to relive the dull ache that begins to speed up as he licks your thighs.

You arch as you feel his tongue press against you, moving and tasting the arousal he caused now dripping down his lips. Fingers added to the soft suckling and massaging as his mouth moved up to the bundle of nerves screaming to be touched. Your hands in his hair, thighs squeezing him in encouragement as he finds the right places. "God- Price just- uh- just fuck me already"

He raises from his spot and stands there looking down at you and the mess he left you in, hand in his pants moving at slow pace, his formerly blue eyes now blown black by his pupils. Without a word he pulls you by your hips to him and slowly enters you, throwing his head back once he's fully in. You moan as he places a calloused thumb over your clit rubbing circles, he barley moves allowing you to adjust to him. Walls not even needed to tighten around him, as he fills every space you can handle. The slight burn of being stretched soon fades and is replaced with pleasure as he increases his movements. His deep breaths and moans fill the room as he rocks into you. He keeps his hands on you, not daring to let go for a single second, one keeping your back arched and other continuing to pleasure you as you pull him down onto you.

"We shouldn't- ah- We shouldn't be doing this." He growls into your neck, the taboo sending a rush down your spine.

we shouldn't but I want to

The forbidden thought adds more life into him as his thrusts begin to speed up and grow more aggressive, the couch and you now nearly shoved back and forth across the floor. "Price I'm close keep-" He grinds cutting you off, pressing harder and harder into you as you finally climax with him buried as far as he could in you. His shoulders go slack after a moment you feel his lips move but not words come out. He props himself on his elbows gives you one last look, puts on his pants, and walks out of sight into the bathroom. Leaving you splayed out on the couch still sticky with his cum, you realize he never kissed you. Not once the entire time.

"What the fuck did I just do?"

I edited it after posting it (I KNOW IM SORRY BUT I HAD TO FIX SOME THINGS)

Follow for x reader stuff

I'm making a 141 x reader series (mainly x male reader but I can write for others)

Requests are open

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naanima · 1 year

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Oh dudes. I sometimes forget how not many of you remember or witnessed the whole Tyler Seguin as a Boston Bruins phase of hockey history. I gotta be honest I witnessed the whole thing from a distance because I was fully committed to the Flyers back then (all the heartbreak). The only thing I knew about him was that he was Bruins' hot young superstar who won the 2011 Stanley Cup with the team in his rookie year, and that he liked to party.

Dudes, the pics of him & Brad Marchand drunk & dancing on tables were legendary & amazing (below, you can Google for more on your own). Gods they were both so young.

But yes, from afar I couldn't help but like him bcos Tyler Seguin have personality in spades, and he just seemed so damn honest (so dumb). A young, talented, self aware himbo fuckboi ticked all my boxes, but I was starting to ease back from hockey due to some heartbreak. So I watched from afar, watched as his post rookie season didn't live up to the hype, watched him get skewered by the Boston media for being uncontrollable & a party animal, watched the rumours spread about how management had to post guards in front of his hotel room to stop him from making a run to get drunk & party.

It was a complete & utter shitshow bcos it was so public & must have been so humiliating for him. The Bruins organisation did nothing to protect him, they fucking let the rumours run rampant, let him be crucified. When the news came out that Boston traded him for Dallas I was shocked & angry, which took me aback bcos I wasn't even a Bruins fan or even really a Seguin fan. But the way everything went down, how front office decided on his trade (FOREVER curated on YouTube) , how the supposed last straw was him turning up to team breakfast late (I'm not even kidding - fucking breakfast? That fucking story kept on getting retold) left such a bitter taste in my mouth.

Despite all the shit that was said about him, despite the way the Boston Bruins handled everything, Tyler Seguin, the himbo has never publicly said one bad thing about the Bruins. My himbo prince might not be the smartest person, but he has always been receptive to feedback and is self aware enough not to be an asshole, in public at the least.

But honestly after Tyler's trade I only did a cursory look of his life there - he seemed happy, but didn't do further digging because I was on my way out of hockey completely.

A decade later I return to hockey, and I'm shocked that Seguin is still around, and still part of Dallas Stars. Looking back I'm fucking glad he got traded to Dallas. Bcos Dallas hockey fans fucking love him, and Seguin finally got a team of bros he can love & ho with proper. There will still be shits but Tyler Seguin went to Dallas as their superstar, as their great hope, they fucking love him. And in return he did everything he could - played the best hockey he could, broke his body, changed his playing style both physically & mentally - to get that team the Stanley Cup.

I don't know if Dallas Stars will win the Cup this year (🪵🪵🪵🪵🪵🪵), but the Stars are in the second round of the 2023 playoffs (be ashamed that Pavs got a Dick Trick and you fucks still COULDN'T win). And it has been almost exactly ten years since the Bruins traded Seguin to the Stars - 4 July 2013. Hockey & I love its narrative.

So, dear hockey gods, I don't even know if you all exists, and I know exactly how it is all superstitious bullshit. However, it has been almost exactly a decade since the fucking trade, the Bruins has been knocked out of the playoff, and in Tyler Seguin you have the perfect narrative. Are you gonna fucking deliver for me & my himbo prince?

Dallas Stars, are you going to show them all?

(Or we get fucked over, and hockey proves once again that there is NO god, superstition is bullshit, and the team who can effectively exploit the opposing team's weakness, and you know, play actually good hockey wins.)

I AM PREPARED. WILL I BE JOYOUS and roll around in the NARRATIVE, or is this gonna be my Villain Origin Story? (I'm gonna fucking support the fucking Leafs or the Oilers if these fucks lose).

#Tyler Seguin #dallas stars #boston bruins #text post

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badass-queer-couples-battle · 6 months

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Nico di Angelo the guy that you are <3

^Link is every identity at once. The personification of "This character is LGBT. What, all of them?" meme.

I'm so glad iconic sword lesbian Utena got so many submissions, she deserves it!

Okay listen, that was an accident. Ambrosius didn't mean to (at least the movie version of him, Nimona comic gets much darker)

...I don't know what this means but Friends at the table sounds fun

This is about Leonardo from TMNT- I barely go there but his gay vibes must be strong, he got 5 submissions after all.

I love how the fandom agrees Zoro is a sword himbo jock.

Ending this round of funny propaganda with Zhou Zishu, favourite problematic bisexual (watch Word of Honor btw)

#funny submissions tag

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reallyhardy · 3 months

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actually while i'm thinking about it, let me try and recall as much of the sweeney i saw at the exchange was like??? it was 2013 so wow over a decade ago now

youtube

this video with the director james brinning shows some of the major set pieces

it had more of like a 1980s small town england aesthetic (supposed to specifically be the thatcher era) rather than victorian.

i really liked the costuming for mrs lovett especially - from this pink lunchlady getup in the above image to the act 2 leopard print of opulence from the first image.

the actor playing pirelli was styled a LOT like borat, i assume as a little nod to sacha baron cohen playing the role in the tim burton film. he's on the right on the table further back in this photo:

EDIT: found photos of him as pirelli! borat for sure. i'm obsessed with him.

also im pretty sure his show car was a three-wheeler, which was hilarious.

the exchange is in the round but i believe this specific production had transferred from more of your traditional large proscenium stage, here's a look at the pre-show which i remember was this weird haunting tableau of people milling around to a skipping recording of close to you by the carpenters. this pre-show section was supposed to evoke a quite ghoulish psychiatric hospital.

you can see the tracks on there and that's how the barber chair went in and out after each murder...

i feel like at some point there was a super psychedelic high on drugs dance scene that made me think it was supposed to be more like set in the 60s but i guess it's anachronistic anyway since it didn't change any of the actual text afaik...

other things i remember: tobias was played by a young-ish actor, certainly the youngest of the cast but not a child, and he wore a wig as normal during pirelli's miracle elixir but it's later revealed he's got a bald head underneath, which imo is much funnier than him just having short hair, and i think i remember being most impressed by him.

anthony, beggar woman/lucy barker and tobias (at the end of the show, omg he really stole it for me at the end i was SHOOK to see him that covered in blood)

anthony was kind of a himbo. i mean he is always i think? but the actor i saw really sold it. also his costume was very much 'sailor' in the sense that he had one of those little beanie hats on.

i've also found a video from 2010 at dundee rep, put on by the same director with a similar 1980s aesthetic, though different actual costuming.

youtube

and a clip from a later version from 2015 (still the same director) of a little priest

youtube

i don't love how cavernously large these sets look in these videos, but i suppose only because i saw and absolutely adore the intimacy of the exchange's little theatre in the round. the banquette seats were apparently an actual Splash Zone when sweeney was on.

#loren talks #sweeney todd #actually this reminds me too of how there was a production in manila which framed it more around like...#them running the victims over with a car?#Youtube

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longlivefanfic-net · 2 years

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Come and Get Your Love

Summary: You come home from work early one night to find your boyfriend, Steve, playing dress up. Steve x fem!reader

Word count: 5.7k

A/N: Smut requested by a friend, heavily inspired by this spotify playlist!!

God, you think to yourself, I cannot wait to go home tonight. You love your job waiting tables at the best burger joint in Hawkins, Indiana—the people are friendly, the menu is limited, and the pay is surprisingly good (and the tips even better)—but all the same, it’s been a long day. The high school basketball team has won another game tonight, edging them a little farther down their path of unforeseen victory, and the crowd of parents, teenagers, and high testosterone’d teenage boys has become entirely too loud, too raucous for your head. Three more minutes, you think, glancing at the clock, three more until I get to go home early. Your friend, famous for her missed shifts, has shown up for once and is graciously allowing you to leave at your assigned time for once. You make your rounds, bringing them change or letting your tables know that someone else will close them out tonight. After a few overly zealous “we’ll see you next time!”s and “have a great night!”s, you are finally free.

In the parking lot, you pull your apron ties from around your waist, exhaustedly tossing it into the empty passenger seat. You’ve got to remember to take it into the apartment with you tonight—when you don’t, it makes the car stink like the grease traps you spend too much time around. That wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, honestly, but Steve can’t smell your uniforms after work without immediately getting hungry. There are few things in this world you love more than Steven Harrington, but his constant desire for french fries can be a little exhausting at 7 AM. Speaking of Steve, you told him you’d be off around midnight; it’s only 10 now. Hopefully, he’s still awake and (after you shower) the two of you can crawl into bed together.

These last few weeks have been…lonely. You moved into Steve’s apartment at his insistence. “You’re already over here all the time,” he had laughed, “What’s the difference? Another drawer for your underwear and the half of the closet I already don’t use? Yeah,” he had snorted, “that’s really going to be just terrible for me.” You had grinned, wrapped your arms around his waist, snuggled your face into the side of his neck. Like always, he smelled like a mixture of his leather cologne and hairspray. There was a slight whiff of vanilla in the mix that day, a sure sign one of the Hawkins’ moms who still doted on your boyfriend had made sure he had eaten some homemade baked good that day.

But now you actually lived with Steve, and it was different. When you go home from your job every night, crawl into bed alone, and then go see your boyfriend in the morning, there’s an expectation of isolation. When you live with the man you love and are crawling into a bed where he’s already asleep, it feels like you’re missing someone who’s right next to you. It hurts, you think to yourself, mildly jarred by your own honesty. It’s worse, somehow, to feel alone with Steve than it ever was to be apart from him. But Steve isn’t the kind of guy you say these things to; it would hurt him, unfairly so, to tell him that you’re more lonely sharing his one bedroom, tiny apartment than you were on your own. Steve went out and bought plant stands the day after you agreed to move in and found the corners with the most sunlight because he knew you would have to bring some greenery into the apartment—how can you tell that man that he’s hurt you by…what, exactly? Sticking to a sleep schedule? You feel selfish, suddenly, for these thoughts. You love Steve—you love him so much it physically hurts you sometimes, looking at him while he makes you a cup of coffee first thing in the morning and your heart twists inside of your chest. You’ve never loved anyone like him before; you’ve never been loved by anyone like him before.

The kindness and care he has shown you had shocked you back in the first few months of your relationship. Once, you explained to him that, while you loved your weekly grocery store bouquet, he really didn’t have to get it for you. He also didn’t have to open doors for you. He didn’t need to pay every time you went out, either. You were just mildly shocked that he still hadn’t yelled at you—not once—or raised his hands to you. A week earlier, in the middle of a big fight about his overly close relationship with Robin (a stupid fight, you knew now), he had sighed loudly, pulling his hair, and said in a tense tone “I am very god damn frustrated. Can we take a walk and come back to this conversation in twenty minutes?” You had expected him to hit you the whole time you had been screaming at him, and this sentence disarmed you far more than a man’s hands ever had. But it wasn’t just that Steve was good to you—you loved him for himself too. He constantly brought home books from Robin and stacked them on shelves for her to come back for in a few weeks, and he always brought home a “treat” on Fridays to reward himself for surviving another week, and he had never sung in-tune once in his life, and his eyes lit up when you came home excited from your weekly class at the community college and regurgitated the entire lesson for him. You realize, suddenly, that the radio unit in the console of your car is playing Africa, one of Steve’s favorites. It’s hard not to smile, thinking about all of the times you’ve watched your gorgeous boyfriend slap the steering wheel and flop his high hair back and forth as he sings this song—a song that, notably, does not inspire “head banging” in most people. “Please be awake,” you whisper to yourself as you pull the car into an empty space outside of the apartment building.

Walking down the hallway to your apartment door, keys and apron in hand, you can hear the faint strains of music leaking under someone’s door. Must be a party, you think, if the music is that loud. You recognize the song as one of Steve’s favorites, one of the many he has sung to you after climbing out of bed and putting his underwear back on before walking to the kitchen. You can’t help but remember the way his hips have wiggled—mildly out of time—as he croons for you to “come and get your love,” a giant grin plastered over his face. You’re still replaying this image as you slide the key into the lock on your door and twist it, letting the door swing on its loose hinges. The music hits you in the face like a blast from a fan—it’s coming from your apartment, not someone else’s. Steve’s sound system—one of the few things he said he was willing to invest “big money” in to with Jonathan’s advice—is blasting the song.

However, there’s no Steve in sight. No off-key singing, either. Where the hell is he? you wonder abstractly. You set your apron and keys down next to the door, kicking your shoes off as you do. Scanning the room for Steve, you walk to the stereo and twist the knob to lower the volume. “And you’re mine and you! look so divine!” comes wailing out of the bedroom. With a grin, you turn and call, “Baby, I’m home!” while practically prancing to your bedroom. He’s awake! you think, and he’s in a good mood! At the doorway, you stop. Your eyes can’t make sense of what you’re seeing. That is…your boyfriend, right?

Steve is facing you, eyes wide in horror. “Oh my god,” he says. “Fuck.” His hands are covering his chest—or rather, they’re covering what’s on his chest. Your boyfriend, Steve “the hair” Harrington, “King Steve” when you were in high school together, has wrapped his wildly hairy chest in a sheer, light pink bra. Amidst your shock, you can't help but notice that the sheer fabric is adorned with tiny white flowers, embroidered around the empty cups that lay flat against his pectoral muscles. There’s no lining to what he’s wearing, and you can see his nipples straight through the fabric. Not particularly practical, some part of your brain says. As if the practicality of the bra is why your boyfriend has chosen to wear it.

“You’re not supposed to be home yet,” Steve says, swallowing. “Jennifer showed up for her shift.” Your eyes have not left his chest yet. His hands are trying to cover himself defensively, but he’s clearly unsure if he should be covering the thin straps and sheer cups or if he should be pulling the damn thing off. “I’m just—it’s—“ he stutters. You raise a single hand, silencing him. “Who does that belong to?” you ask. “Me!” he says, quickly. “It’s mine. But it’s not some—“ You interrupt him again. “Are you cheating on me?” you ask, cold and detached already, preparing yourself to remain stoic while he breaks your heart. “No! Jesus christ, no, baby, I love you so much, it’s just…well. It’s just. It’s mine, I swear. It fits me, see? It’s my size.” You’re mildly shocked that he knows his bra size, but your brain accepts that without question.

“If that’s not someone else’s bra, why do you have it?” you ask, meeting his eyes for the first time that night. They are wide, a hint of fear around the edges. His mouth is set in a hard line that you’ve come to recognize as his “oh shit, I’m going to have to fight my way out this time” look. “It’s just…for me. I like the way it feels. On me. So I wear it sometimes.” He says, eyes darting towards the ground at his confession. “Okay,” you say. His eyes shoot up to yours, hopeful and shocked. “Is it…something we need to talk about? I mean, do you want to wear it all the time?” “No,” he says, “it’s just fun. To wear it at night sometimes, and dance a little, and just enjoy it.” “You can wear it all the time,” you say, almost surprising yourself. “We can get you whatever you want to wear. I’m not going to love you less or differently if you change…some things.” As these words come out of your mouth, you realize how true they are—your love for Steve doesn’t depend on his manhood.

“It’s—jesus christ, it’s not like that!” Steve barks, a thick and heavy blush washing over his neck and face. “I didn’t want to tell you for this exact reason. I knew you wouldn’t get it, no one really gets it.” This is the angriest you have ever seen him. He’s not used to sharing things about himself that aren’t already a matter of public knowledge, and his defenses are up. Your heart is racing with the slightest touch of adrenaline as you say “Will you explain it to me?” He takes a deep breath. He takes another, and you can see his pulse throbbing in his throat from across the room. His broad hands are still spread over the bra he’s wearing, and you quickly glance down to assess what else he’s wearing—just his boxers, slung low on his hips. “It’s just…no one expects me to do this.” Steve’s voice has dropped drasticaly as his blush has receded, and his fingers fidget. “I don’t have to be…you know…Steve Harrington when I wear this. I’m not the washed up basketball player, or the fired icecream scooper, or my dads son—I’m just me.” He looks at you cautiously from across the room. You take two steps into the bedroom, stepping into the plush rug. “I think I can understand that,” you say. “I want to understand that.”

Steve is still standing with his hands covering as much of the bra he’s wearing—his bra, you chastise yourself—as possible. “Would you…Could you show me? What you’re wearing?” you ask, voice gentle like you’re approaching a wounded animal. That’s what Steve is right now: wounded. His pride, his presentation of himself has been taken from him in an unexpected moment. Your boyfriend doesn’t do well with being unprepared; he keeps a baseball bat by your bed and a flashlight in the nightstand. Passively, the thought of how difficult this moment must be for him flicks through your brain on a breeze of distraction. Right now, you know, your job is to comfort him and reassure him, no matter how hard your heart is beating or the fact that your stomach has begun to swirl with a warm, molten feeling that’s creeping down between your thighs. Slowly, his hands slip down by his sides, palms out towards you. “It’s a nice bra,” you say. “Is it as soft as it looks?” He nods, his hair flopping against his forehead. Hands now free, he reaches one up to his face and pushes his hair up and to the side—still the slick Steve Harrington move that has made your heart skip more than a few beats since you first met.

The mesh cups of fabric and embroidery laying flat over Steve’s naked torso is, quite possibly, the most attractive thing you’ve ever seen. He’s both pretty and handsome, sexy and sexual in a way you didn’t know you wanted. “So,” you say leadingly, “do you have others? Or is it just this one?” His face flinches, so briefly, like he’s deciding how much of the truth to share right now. “I’m asking,” you say quickly, “because we could get more if you want.” His eyes are still so closely guarded. “I have more.” He says. His tone makes you think of a child getting in trouble with their mother; he’s both resistant to the discipline he’s expecting and defiant about his right to be wrong. “I’d like to see them.” He disappears into the closet, reaching up to the far left of the top shelf, pulling down a shoe box. He sets it on the bed next to you and your fingers brush—this is the most physical contact you’ve had since you came home, and it sends sparks up your nervous system like embers starting a wildfire.

Steve pulls the lid off of the box, pushing aside the crumpled tissue paper. Inside the box—the same box you pushed aside when you moved in to make more space for all of your shoes, not even daring to guess Steve would have anything hidden from you—is a neatly folded stack of underwear and a row of bras laid on top of each other. You look up at him, curiosity lighting your eyes. His face is still guarded, still closed off to you and you pause in your exploration; it’s obvious to you that this is something he’s struggled with for a while. The way he’s crouched slightly since you came in, the way he lashed out earlier, the way he has tried so obviously to make this a private experience: he’s ashamed. Someone has taught him, at some point, that this is not the way Steven Harrington should express himself and he’s taken their word for it. But the thing about shame is that it lies to you; you can’t allow Steve to tell himself his shame is the right thing to feel. God, you think to yourself, my baby has carried this alone for so long.

“Steve,” you start, pulling in a deep breath. “You know this isn’t…something bad, right?” “I’m not supposed to want things like this,” he murmurs. This answer has come too quickly and you know it’s been on a loop in his head. “Who the fuck said that?” you ask. He looks at you, incredulous. “Oh, my God, I don’t know, like everyone with a penis? In a thirty mile radius?” “And that’s who you’re going to let tell you how to live?!” The urge to yell at him is rising in your chest—this is not the time to be a smart ass, not the time to raise your voice. “Baby,” you say, “remember the first time I told you what I wanted? In bed?” He blushes, a light pink sheen trailing over his cheekbones, but he doesn’t break eye contact. “Yeah,” he says. “There are people who would tell me I’m not supposed to want that,” you say. “People that think the idea of you telling me what to do and calling me what you do is the worst thing I could want.” Steve begins chewing on his lower lip and you’re keenly aware he’s still standing next to the bed you’ve taken a seat on, wearing nothing but the sheer pink bra and his boxers. This is what intimacy looks like, you think, sharing truths until you’re out. “You and the person you’re with are the only ones who get to tell you what you can and can’t do, Steve,” you say, reaching out to put your fingers on top of his. You wait, breath bated, for the question you hope will come. “And is this…can I do this? With you?” Steve asks, eyes on the floor. “Of course you can, Steve. Do you want to do this with me?” “God,” he says, face radiant, “so badly.”

You return to the shoe box on the bed next to you. Your eyes rove over the neat little scraps of lace, of mesh, of satin. Curiously, you reach out a hand to touch one of the pieces in the box—stilling when you note Steve’s eyes on your fingers. “Can I touch?” you ask. “Yeah,” he says. “Touch away.” There’s one bra in the box unlike the others: where the others have minimal or no padding, this one has well lined cups, covered in a white satin. It looks like the kind of bra your mom had bought you, years ago, when you first started “needing” them according to her. “Why’s this one different?” you ask, tracing your fingernail over the cup. “It’s not mine,” Steve says. “What?!” Your eyes whip up to his.

Your stomach knots suddenly, the exact fear you had felt when you first saw him tonight apparently coming to fruition. “I mean, it’s mine now,” he says, reaching his own long fingers to pluck the brassiere out of its cardboard surroundings. “But it wasn’t mine originally. It was Nancy’s.” Momentarily, you are furious at this betrayal. How could he keep his ex’s underwear? In the home you share together? But you notice the look of reverence on his face as he delicately toys with the too-wide straps and understand that he has more to say. “It was the first one I ever wore,” he says, still looking at the bra in his hands. “She left it in my car,” he pauses at the involuntary noise that escapes the back of your throat, “and the guys found it. They dared me to put it on, as a joke. That’s what it was supposed to be—a joke. But it felt good, and I felt…I don’t know. I understood what it was like to be looked at and desired for more than just your name or whatever, because that’s what it was like for Nancy. She knew guys didn’t want her because she was Nancy Wheeler, they—I—wanted her because of who she is under that. So I just…kept it.” You can understand that, you think, that need to be wanted for yourself rather than what you offer. To be desired for what’s in your heart rather than what people think they know about you.

Steve puts the bra back in the box. It’d be better if it wasn’t Wheeler’s bra, but you understand that he’s kept it for sentimentality rather than some sort of lingering fascination with the person who owned it. Turning to the small stack of neatly folded panties, you begin shifting through the options. Baby blue lace, pale yellow satin, even a cotton cheeky cut pair printed with green leaves and small roses. “Do you buy it yourself?” You can’t imagine Steve Harrington buying underwear and lingerie, asking the sales girl to ring him up in a tiny town like Hawkins. “Robin,” he says, “She buys it all for me.” There’s gratitude in his voice, gratitude for the friend who has been safe for him, and there’s gratitude in you for her too.

There’s a pink, sheer pair in the stack as well, the band embroidered with the same white flowers wrapped around Steve’s nipples right now. Hooking a finger around the band, you pull this pair out and hold it up at your eye level. Steve looks visibly nervous as you study the sheer fabric. “Would you put these on? For me?” You don’t make eye contact as you ask this, giving him the space to feel whatever is going through his mind and body at your words. Wordlessly, he takes them off of the loop of your finger, and nods in the corner of your eye, rich brown hair shining under the bedroom light. “I…I’m going to change in the bathroom.” He disappears without looking at you, softly shutting the door.

For the first time, in the privacy Steve has left you in, you’re able to acknowledge the sheer desire that has been resting in your stomach since you saw him tonight. The warmth that has burned dully in between your legs compels you to stand up, walk back into the living room, and return to the stereo. Steve has a mixtape—something you giggled at the first time you pointed out that he always puts on the same songs as he starts to undress you—full of songs that you suspect he has recorded during Saturday night radio broadcasts. You press play on the rewound tape, letting the strains of ABBA croon through the speakers softly. You turn the volume knob, slowly, and then pad softly back to the bedroom.

You’re feeling…less than clean from work today. While Steve is still in the bathroom, you run a brush through your hair and take off your sweaty clothes, replacing them with the oversized shirt you normally sleep in next to Steve. Sitting back down on the bed, you hear the bathroom door slowly swing open. “You put on my tape?” Steve’s voice is incredulous. Instead of replying, you turn to him, smiling, and are stopped still with a gasp. “Holy shit, Steve.” He blushes, hands immediately covering his pelvis. “I’ll change.” “Please don’t.” The slightest hint of a smile creeps up over his lips, eyes glinting. “Don’t go wasting your emotion,” the speakers croon, “lay all your love on me.” His hands rise up to his hips and rest softly above the light, white scars he calls his “bat bites.” You thought he was joking the first few times he said that, but Robin still blames his moments of confusion on untreated rabies and, at some point, you accepted that the white scars on either side of his hips are from being bit by…something.

Your eyes are focused solely on the sheer size of his package bulging against the panties he’s wearing. The muscles around your ribs feel like they’re tightening, and you can’t stop your mouth from dropping open just slightly. Your tongue pokes out just barely, softly tracing the inner line of your lips as your mouth dries out with desire. Eyes tracing up his torso, following the line of his body hair, you look at Steve’s face. He’s chewing his bottom lip, but the left corner of his mouth is turned up. Once you finally meet his eyes, you see how intently he’s been watching you. “Like what you see?” he asks, the same smirk you’ve seen on his face after he’s made you cum more than once in one round and he’s wildly satisfied with himself. “Very much.”

“Can I feel your panties?” You ask him. His eyebrows meet his hairline, a delighted shock on his face. Wordlessly, he steps closer to where you sit on the bed. You hold your hand out, palm up, and he presses himself against the soft flat of your hand. You push against him ever so slightly—his hips push backwards and your other hands grabs him, pulling him closer and holding him steady. Slowly, delicately, you rub your hand up and down the soft fabric, feeling him swell under your fingers. “Pretty,” you murmur, “so pretty.” His hardness is pushing against the panties now, and your breath is coming a little shallower now. The mix tape clicks over to the song he likes to spend on his knees, head buried between your legs, and your blush at the memories of his tongue in between your lips makes his eyes widen.

Steve places his hand over yours on his crotch. His hips start to wiggle, grinding against your hand slightly, as he whispers always off-key, “turn on my charm, that’s because I’m a Good old fashioned lover boy.” The two of you are grinning at each other and it feels like you’re in on a joke together. He keeps his hand over yours, rubbing your palm over his bulge, and bends down slightly, placing his other hand against your own panties. A gasp escapes his throat and his eyes glint. “Fuck,” he says, “how long have you been soaking your panties for me tonight?” “Since I saw you in that bra,” you whisper. You feel him twitch under your hand at these words, and he starts rubbing against your damp panties. A little moan slips out of your mouth and he looks so proud of himself you can’t help but lean forward and press your lips to his.

Your mouths are warm together, and his tongue fills yours like he’s been starving for you. You trail your lips down the side of his soft jaw, rubbing raw on stubble, and down his neck. Over his collarbones, you lick a soft spot before biting tentatively, delicately. He likes a little pain, but he’s always needed you to be gentle while you hurt him—especially tonight, when he’s been so vulnerable with you. “I want you to fuck me,” you say into the soft skin in the hollow between his collarbone and shoulder. “I will,” he groans. “God, I will.” “With the panties on.” His hand stills against your damp underwear and the hand over yours freezes. “Are you serious?” His voice is incredulous. “Yeah,” you moan, lips tracing down the bra strap over his shoulder to his pectoral muscles. “You are so hot,” he says, radiant joy in his voice. You pull your hand out from under his and off of his waist, reaching up behind him to unhook the bra he’s wearing and slowly pulling it down so you can graze your teeth against his nipple. “Take my underwear off and leave yours on,” you command before biting sharply.

His gasp goes unstifled, and you smile against his hairy chest, one hand pushing the other bra cup up in place over his chest as the straps slide down his wide shoulders. His broad hands find your own shoulders, lightly pushing you on to your back on the soft plush of the bed you’ve shared with him. His hands disappear under the hem of your shirt, grabbing the waist of your underwear and pulling down as you lift your hips up. He pulls your panties over your legs and holds them up, standing up. The dark spot of slick warmth covers most of the cotton fabric and he examines it carefully before locking eyes with you. “You’re such a slut for me,” he says, and you smile, nodding. He starts to slide the pink sheer panties down his thighs and you stop him. “All the way on,” you say, “push them to the side.” He shifts the fabric over to the side, using his hand to pull his thick member out from behind the fragile fabric.

He pushes your shirt up to your waist, leaving you partially exposed, and pins your hips in place with one hand. His other hand rubs down his length, thumb brushing over his tip, before positioning himself at your entrance. Finally you feel his head make contact with your body and sigh in contentment. However, he’s not quite ready to fill you—he teases the very edge of your clit with the head of his dick. You can feel the slight bit of warmth already leaking out of him pressed up and down the sensitive nerve endings. You reach up a hand, grabbing for his thigh. The very edge of the orgasm he’s going to bring you to soon trembles through your legs as he continues to tease your body with his own, and you can foresee the shaking of the earth beneath you when you finish tonight. “Please,” you moan, low and honey voiced, “please, Steve?” With a satisfied grin on his soft features and a slow, frustratingly slow, push, he enters you. The soft panties still on his pelvis are rubbing against your skin as he fills you. Achingly, he pulls back out until just his tip is still inside of you and carefully, carefully slides back in. Your core is physically aching with a lack of him. God, he looks so good. The bra is dangling loose around his torso, one strap half down his swollen bicep, and you start to beg him to go faster, imploring that you’ll “lose it” if he doesn’t start riding you hard and fast.

“Who’s in charge here?” he asks, smirking. He strokes his thumb over your hip, digging his fingers into the soft flesh of your thigh. The motion of his hips slowly begins to speed up, and the friction is driving you wild. You’re writhing on the bed under his hands, rolling like you’re crazed, as you help him find friction amongst your dampness. His hands squeeze your tits under your shirt before he eventually places both hands on your hips, raised high, so that he can keep his rhythm. He keeps one hand on your same hip, fingers tight as he helps support your weight—he has absolutely bruised you with his fingerprints by now—while the fingers of his other hand slide in above where he’s thrusting in and out of you. The rough pads of his fingers rub your clit, hard enough to hurt a little. The heavy, hard strokes are different for Steve, but you can’t stop the small cry of both pleasure and pain that escapes your mouth at the slight hurt. You can’t get words out anymore, and when you try to express how good he’s making you feel all that comes out is a whimper.

He pulls out of you suddenly, making you whine. “I want to cum with you on top,” he says. Steve gets on the bed on his back, adjusting his bra as he settles in. As you straddle his hips, you pull your shirt over your head and toss it on the floor. There is something luxurious about the lack of fabric on your body and the small pink patches of it on his. Carefully, his hand holding himself, you slide back on to his dick and he whimpers. You lift yourself a bit, sitting back down as he moans softly, lip in between his teeth. You’re already stretched to him and don’t hesitate before you’re riding him, his soft voice calling your name. Hips grinding against his, the repeated press of the embroidered flowers on his panties under your sensitive skin, you are so close to cumming your vision starts to shimmer. Carefully, you lean down over him and rub your hands over his bra. Your hands rub down to the bat bites, digging your thumbs into the soft skin in between the scars as he gasps. One hand still in place, you take the other and place it over Steve’s throat. There’s a slight line there, practically invisible except when his skin is tanned from too much time by the pool in the summer. Your fingers wrap gently around his throat, squeezing the side softly, and he moans loudly. “I’m—“ he moans, “I’m—“ “Not yet,” you command. His shock distracts him, and you take advantage of the moment to take the hand from his hip to place his fingers back on your clit.

The gift of your release is barreling down your spine suddenly, and you feel your muscles clenching and unclenching over and over. As he cums, you feel the heat deep inside of your body, pulled farther up into you by your muscles as he twitches. “Jesus,” he cries, hips bucking up into you with the force of his orgasm. He keeps pushing himself up into you as you rub over him until your orgasm has finished and he has started to soften slightly still inside of you. You sit up straighter, pushing up off his flat stomach as you pull him out of you. The trail of his cum that flushes out of you as you move drips onto his panties and you smile at the idea of leaving a slight stain on his lingerie. Falling on to your back next to him, out of breath, you ask, “Good?” “Jesus,” he says again. You sit up a little, rolling over to your side so you can lightly finger the thin strap still hooked over his shoulder. “I like your underwear,” you say. “But I think, maybe next time, I want to see you in lace.” His eyes meet yours. “Maybe you can let me pick something out for you,” you say, biting his shoulder lightly with a smile. “Maybe we could match even.”

“I’m so glad I get to love you,” Steve says, wrapping his arm around you. You burrow into his armpit, the smell of his sweat mixing with his cologne and filling your senses. “I love you too,” you say with a smile. For the first time in weeks, you feel connected to Steve. Maybe it’s just the lightheadedness of your orgasm, but you want to spend the rest of your life with him. You’re so grateful for his vulnerability tonight, and you’re also grateful for how good he looks in his matching set. “Hey Steve?” you murmur, starting to feel sleepy. “Yes, baby?” “Just don’t change your chest hair, okay?” “I’d never dream of it.”

#Spotify #steve stranger things #steve x fem!reader #steve harrington #fem steve harrington #fanfiction #stranger things fanfiction #steve harrington fan fiction #i HC that this man does not have a thought in his head

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taliesin-the-bored · 3 months

Text

Arthurian hot takes from before I joined the fandom

Funny story: the way I got into this fandom was a seventh-grade assignment to write an alliterative paragraph using the letter G. Something clicked (or snapped, however you want to look at it) and though I’d never given much thought to the Round Table before, I wrote a paragraph about Gawain, which spiraled into a chapter, which spiraled into an attempt at a novel, which spiraled into a neverending research wormhole and long term fixation. Older and at least a little wiser, I give you ten of my original takes on the characters and how they seem in retrospect.

Guinevere doesn’t really do anything. In my defense, my knowledge of her mostly came from watching the first half of an amateur production of Camelot, which is bound to give anyone the wrong idea.

Mordred is a socially awkward evil wizard. In my book, he made a number of cartoonish villain speeches, mostly to his long-suffering familiar, since no one else would listen. No, I have no idea why I thought he had magic… Is it awful that I kind of like him that way?

Arthur is perfect. Uh…

Gawain is perfect. Uh….

Lancelot is an absolute monster. My version of him was a mix of a guy who bullied me and the god Ares as depicted in D’Aulaires’ Book of Greek Myths. Needless to say, he did not have an affair with Guinevere, because she would never cheat on Arthur, because only morally pure characters are good, and she is secretly awesome, even though most people think she doesn’t do anything… Uh… Yeah. I was wrong.

Agravaine is mildly aggravating. Gareth and Gaheris are just sort of there and uninteresting. This opinion was derived entirely from their names.

Morgause is an evil witch but has great style. That sounds more like Morgan.

Morgan is a terrible name. I debated renaming her Marianne or Meredith. Yes, I have seen the error of my ways.

Galahad is a rustic himbo. That was the vibe I got from the name “Gallahad”.

The Lady of the Lake is awesome. I stand by this one and always will.

#guinevere #mordred #king arthur #gawain #lancelot #agravain #sir gareth #gaheris #morgause #morgan le fay #galahad #lady of the lake #arthuriana #arthurian legends #arthurian mythology #dubious opinions #I also thought it would be cool if the Pendragons could turn into dragons

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vander-affectionate · 1 year

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Oh god you scared me.

How was your week? I'm guessing it's stressful, i hope you get better soon. I'm always here if you need to talk to someone about anything. Don't go hard on yourself! If you feel like you can't write or things like that you can obviously take a break. If you don't, maybe you can write something about taking care of a stressed Vander? Idk if that would help tho😞

this ask (T-T) thank you so much for sending this sal, i appreciate it. it's been a teeny, inchie little bit stressful, but getting an ask like this in the middle of it is as a good as a glass of water. don't worry, i'll be staying hydrated and i hope you will too, thank you so much for the request because you hit the nail right on the head so without further ado...

vander gets overwhelmed and has lowkey himbo vibes because he thinks a bonk on the head might solve his overthinking, but reader is stressed too. i had complete sensory overload while writing this so i have not edited this yet. reblog, reblog, reblog, and again, thank you so much for requesting this.

Vander huffs, leaning on the bar with a tankard in hand. The bar is closing up for the night, but he's not there to do it - no, actually, you sent him in the back for the remainder of the night after things got out of hand in the Drop's busiest hour.

The tankard slams hard on the coffee table and draws his hands up his face, into his hair, and then back down so the sharp cuts of his scruff stab his fingers when he breathes too hard. He wonders how sweet words and kisses over his forehead from a refreshing morning with you had turned to a sour, bristled night ending with none other than Vander himself initiating a bar fight that you had to break up. He grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut because it's embarrassing just to think about. It's not the fact that you had to bash him across the head with a tankard to get his attention.

"Hey."

There you are, opening the door with an elbow while simultaneously attempting to wipe your hands with a counter top rag, not the ones he tells you to use. He can't even scold you when there's some weak version of a flame in his chest fueling his embarrassment. He opts for staring at the fraying couch arm instead of words.

"Bar's empty, Benzo came 'round asking if you wanted to have drinks" you sit yourself on the opposite end of the couch on the arm, leaning on the thick cushions. "Told him you were mine for tonight, that okay?"

He huffs a sound, something dryly amused because where else would he rather be than swallowed up by the comfort of his own. He wants to rot in the embarrassment he's caused himself and he cannot be more thankful for you telling Benzo he was in for the night.

Vander's half paying attention. He doesn't see the way you frown at him or the way you ease off the couch and move around it to come near until you're sitting on the coffee table with a hand on his knee. He jumps and you withdraw your touch. He's surprised by your wide eyes directed at him, rather than the unamused glare he was expecting.

That's all you do for a second, both of you stare at each other until your hand stills in the air, halfway between you two, "is it okay for me to touch you?"

Vander chews the inside of his cheek, glaring at the couch and it pains him to shake his head. He's not sure how much he can take of you tonight, you're wonderful - beyond that actually, but everything is too much and you're- he's... words are a little hard for him.

But you can see it in the way he's stiff against the couch.

"That's okay," you stand up from the coffee table and move around it.

His eyes widen and you're stopped in your tracks by his hand curled around your wrist. His brows are knitted together and his lips pressed into a thin line, his words are clipped, "Don't leave." muttering a please that breaks in his throat.

Your fingers press and brush the inside of his wrist before you lean down to kiss his arm, keeping his gaze all the while, "I'm right here, Vander. I'm sitting over there, is that okay?"

His eyes flickers to the chair you've gestured to and you see his nose wrinkle. His features soften when he sees the upturn of your lips and he releases your hand, relaxing back into the couch cushions and watching you curl into a ball in the arm chair on his right that's too big for you. You're a vision of comfort and he leans his head back into the cushions while you both stare.

"Sorry about hitting you over the head," you prod the area on your head in the spot you clocked him earlier.

He shrugs, "Nothin' I didn't deserve."

Vander watches you curl your legs underneath yourself as you lean on the arm, closer to him. He turns his gaze because he doesn't want you seeing these feelings rearing their ugly heads. He needed that hit, he's convinced himself it helped calm him down and squints as he considers a second might be the hearty cool down he's missing.

"They really got to you tonight," your voice is still soft and he wants it to grate a nerve in him. He wants you to give him a reason to be angry at himself for his outburst tonight, but when he glances over at you he can't be.

Your cheek is squished against the frayed armchair upholstery and your eyes seem more like doe eyes than they ever have when you're staring up at him like he's hung the moon. He glances away and sees your mouth curl up and he wonders if you're deliriously believing he's hung the stars. Your eyes crinkle when your lips push into your cheeks and he swallows, maybe you're playing tricks on his heart.

"Why're y'stressed?" your nonchalance grates something in him and he throws his arms into the air and kicks the coffee table with the toe of his boot.

"Cause!" he snips, "It's pilin' up, shits been falling apart, the tankards need replacing, and I threw a couple of folks half way up the piltover bridge-" he rounds on you with fire in his eyes and he's standing to his full height across the room, kicking the fallen tankard and turning his back to you so he can run his hands through his hair. He swears up and down at everything including the fallen tankard to the accident he had when he cut his jaw shaving this morning.

"I'm exhausted and, I..."

He leans his head against the wall, away from you, and you sigh. He bites his lip and quietly scolds himself because he's being selfish, you're tired too and here he is complaining about all of this. He turns around, an apology on his tongue, but he doesn't get to face you because there's a cheek on his back.

He tenses and lifts a leg to see your socked feet behind his boots. You hadn't made a sound nor do you when you meet his eyes when he raises his arm and awkwardly bends his head to catch your gaze.

"Thank you for telling me." you offer yet another smile and it's only now that he can spot the droop to your eyes.

His lips part and that heated frustration in his chest, releases and unfurls seeing your kind smiles, "I've been stressed too. Thought I was the only one."

Vander turns around and cups your face in his hands, he rubs his fingers beneath your eyes that are only slightly sunken in because he forgets that keeping the bar open for an hour later doesn't only take its toll on him. You lean into the warm palms that cup your face and sigh, nuzzling your nose into their center and he draws you close, if only to let you curl against his chest and he watches you fully melt into him. Your shoulders sink and your fists curl into the fabric of his shirt. You shiver when his palm draws down the length of your back and he finds himself wrapping himself in you when he dips his head to bury his face in your neck. He pulls you off of your feet if only to keep you pressed to him and inhale your scent.

"I'm stressed too," he reiterates. Fingers press into your back, massaging and rolling the muscles there until you're moulding against him and nothing but an extension of himself when he moves the two of you to lie down on the couch, you ontop of him.

"You're not alone, Vander." you tilt your head up and stroke across his jaw, if only to get his attention and he melts into you, sighing and rolling you on your side so you're pressed to the cushions and his chest.

He presses his lips to your temple and rests there, sighing and curling his arms around your waist while you kiss whatever you can reach, his shoulder, his collar, and his neck. He nuzzles further into you and squeezes you in his ars.

"I know."

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