The night before Shane might win his third Stanley cup, Ilya sends him the clip of his Stanley cup win.
Confused, Shane immediately calls him.
"Is this some new and unique way to psych me out before the final, Rozanov? I didn't know you had money on Detroit."
"No, I am sending for a good reason," Ilya laughs. "I know it sucks for us that when you win all your team will be kissing their girlfriends and Pike will be making out all gross with Jackie, and we will not be able to. So, I wanted to show you exactly where I first kissed the cup. It was on the top, right over where it says Ottawa 1905, left of where it says 'Challenge Cup'. I remember because I did this on purpose. We weren't anything then, but I was thinking of you. I couldn't help thinking of you. So if you kiss the same place, it will be a little like we are sharing a kiss. And only we will know about it."
And Shane feels the air clean knocked out of his lungs and the back of his throat get tight, as he barely gets out, "Baby, that's... Thank you. I don't know what to say. I love you so fucking much. I'll make sure you see our kiss, okay?"
"I will be watching. I love you, My Shane. Go show the world why Shane Fucking Hollander is the goat, okay?"
On the night Shane wins his third Stanley Cup, he kisses their spot on the cup, thinking only of Ilya, and longs for a day where he can pull him onto the ice like Scott did with Kip.
On the night Shane wins his fourth Stanley cup, he hoists the cup into the air with his captain, they both kiss the same spot on the trophy, and then in front of the world, on his home ice, Shane Hollander kisses his husband, and it feels like a promise fulfilled.
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I lived and worked in a lighthouse at a previous job. There was a thick line painted in a circle around the shack where the fog signal was kept. The line represented how close you could get to the fog signal without experiencing physical harm in the form of eardrums shattering or worse.
Even in the house it was LOUD. Probably the loudest thing I have ever experienced but at a normal, predictable interval. You would begin to time your sentences with little pauses with the rest of the lighthouse crew so you would talk like this while making your………..HORN…………. tea and then carry on talking because you knew when it would go off. It rattled the walls and the dishes in our cabinet.
At least one girl had died there. They kept photos of her everywhere “in honor of her sacrifice” because she had decided to take the winter watch alone and died in a storm where bounders the size of mini vans had been lifted out of the ocean and left scattered across the island, to say nothing of the ice chunks. People weren’t allowed to be alone on the watch after that.
One day a dead moose washed up on shore and it took my entire crew all day but we managed to rig up a line to hang it up to dry because we thought having a moose skeleton in the house would really spice the living room up a bit. It did. Weird shit happens when six of you are left alone, like ALONE ALONE, no cell reception, no wifi, just a radio to contact the real world and not a lot of reason to do that. People don’t go on lighthouse jobs if they want to stay connected, I’ve found.
That said Id do it all again, I really do treasure those days
It’s difficult to tell - typically light fixtures are installed using some combination of screws and brackets to affix them to the wall, but in this case the actual point of connection is obscured by a cat.
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Sometimes you hear a song and a fic pops into your head full formed. This is a trap. The fic may be fully formed in your brain, but you still Have to write it down. This is an important step that most people forget about.
proud victim of the tumblr accent. it's fading out of public consciousness as the tik tok accent takes precedence; a linguistic evolution that makes the tumblr accent 85% funnier to unsuspecting civilians. it's like releasing a disease on a non-inoculated population. coughing baby versus hydrogen bomb.
HEATED RIVALRY WEEK 2026 (@heatedrivalryweek)
Day 5 — Favorite Character:
ILYA ROZANOV: bisexual depressed russian terminator comedian with insane queerdar who’ll fight a stupid canadian wolf bird barehanded but is actually a scaredy-cat who loves pasta and getting on the nerves of the love of his life aka shane hollander.
The fifth of six 666 word ficlets to celebrate my 666 subscribers on AO3. @gloster asked for Steve in a tiny bikini. Did i mention that I love my followers? Perfect, feral flock of perverts.
Rated: T
Tags: Post-Vecna; Everybody lives; Pool party; Steve Harrington in a bikini; Eddie Munson has a crush on Steve Harrington; Eddie Munson is a horny shit; Eddie Munson is in danger; Getting together; Fade to black
Eddie thinks he's suffering heat stroke. It's the only explanation. He's seeing stuff that isn't really there.
Because there's no way Steve Harrington really just opened the garden gate clad in a pair of tiny, cut-off jeans and a fucking bikini top of all things.
“Eddie, hi!” Steve beams. It's the kind of bikini that hardly even deserves the name. Two neon-colored triangles of fabric held together by bits of string. It hardly covers Steve's impressive pecs, let alone his chest hair. “Come on in, everybody else is already here.”
Eddie trails behind him on numb legs. A bit of string matching the bikini top is poking out from the waistline of the shorts.
“Henderson,” Steve yells. “I said no food in the pool.”
Robin is sprawled in a lounge chair, patting the empty seat beside her.
“Popsicle?” she asks when Eddie sits. He blindly snatches one from the offered cooler. Steve is standing by the edge of the pool, hands on his hips, arguing about something with Henderson. The bikini strings are struggling. Eddie understands.
“Why is Steve…?”
Robin shrugs.
“We made a bet. He lost, so he gets to wear the bikini all day long. The shorts weren't actually part of the deal, but they had a hard time containing…” She gestures meaningfully at the crotch of her own swim shorts. “So I allowed it.”
“Huh,” Eddie says. His popsicle is dripping down his wrist. “That's very… considerate of you.”
She smiles.
“That's just the way I am. Speaking of which.” She plucks her sunglasses from the top of her head and holds them out to him. “You'll need these if you're gonna keep staring like that.”
*
“Thanks for helping me clean up,” Steve says. “I appreciate it.”
“Sure,” Eddie mutters, adding another dirty plate to the wobbly pile in his arms. “Somebody had to, right?”
The sun is setting, and the kids have gone home. So has Robin, quoting a mean case of sunburn.
Steve is still wearing the damn bikini. He's popped the button on the shorts open after the barbecue, revealing the sun-bleached trail of hair leading down from his bellybutton to the colorful fabric of the bikini panties. Eddie thinks he's going insane.
“Eddie?”
He flinches. Steve is just in time to catch the plates before they can slip from his hands.
“Are you okay?” Steve asks, setting the plates back on the table so that he can lean in and put a hand to Eddie’s forehead. “You're burning up. Do you need to sit? You're not having a heat stroke, are you?”
"I'm fine," Eddie stammers. “It's all your fault, anyways.”
Steve, who was just about to push him down into a lounge chair, tilts his head at him.
“My fault? How?”
Eddie groans.
“It's that damn bikini, man. Like, why would you- … What kind of bet did you even lose?”
Steve blinks. Then, his quizzical expression slowly makes way for a sly grin.
“Oh, that. Robin bet me I couldn't go an entire night without whining about how much I wanted to get in your pants. I held out for almost two hours, which was long, admittedly. I don't know why I agreed to it.”
“Yeah well,” Eddie grouses. “Next time maybe think before making bets you can't win, because this is just- … Hold on a sec, can you repeat that?”
This time, Steve does push him down into the chair. Eddie doesn't resist. The view is kind of spectacular from down here. Especially now, with Steve bracketing his hands on the armrests to lean over him.
“Depends. Is it working?”
“Dunno,” Eddie croaks. Maybe the heat is messing with his head after all. “I'd be more concerned for your pants, to be honest. They're barely holding out as it is.”
Steve considers this for a moment.
“Works for me,” he then concedes, pulling Eddie up by the collar of his shirt and towards the house.
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Steve, who was always the first to say 'I love you' in every single relationship he had, blue screening the moment Eddie let it slip an 'I love you' after Steve surprised him with a homemade birthday cake.
