[elaezz]

… 𝐄𝐋𝓐 ✴︎ nineteen student ᨒ gemini slavic formula one enthusiastic ⸝⸝ mercedes fan ꒰ lando norris’ defender 4ever ꒱ culer tate mcrae lover ♫ juraj slafkovský’s zlatka ˎˊ˗ summer child heated rivalry enjoyer

01. 𝐀BOUT ME 02. 𝐋IBRARY 03. 𝐑EQUESTS ⇄ closed.

“𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘢𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘯…”

[elaezz]

THIS TIME, HONEST

synopsis. After a surprising confession with Ilya, you spent some time at your parents’ house, realizing it was finally time to tell someone the whole truth. ✴︎ MASTERLIST ✴︎ BAD IDEAS, REPEATED MASTERLIST

pairing. Ilya Rozanov x Hollander! fem! reader contains. just soft! ilya & david hollander being iconic <3 word count. 3k

It had been two days since you came back from the hospital. Your head still throbbed, a dull reminder of the fall, but nothing you couldn’t handle. After everything you’d survived, this felt… manageable.

You were busy packing a small suitcase for a weekend at your parents’ house. Your mom had invited you, and to be honest, the whole thing felt suspicious. Shane would be there. Your whole family would be there. And you had no idea if this was a genuine attempt to reconnect or a prelude to some long lecture about your choices—especially regarding Ilya. You didn’t know what to prepare for.

A sudden knock at the door made you freeze.

You pulled the door open—and froze for a heartbeat.

Ilya stood there in the hallway, framed by the soft light from the stairwell. He looked almost out of place in your quiet building, tall and steady and holding a small bouquet of flowers like it was the most natural thing in the world. His smile was gentle, not the usual sharp, cocky one, and something warm loosened in your chest before you could stop it.

“Ilya?” you said, surprised, though the smile spreading across your face gave you away. Just seeing him there—alive, real, close—made your whole body relax in a way you hadn’t felt in days.

“Hey, Hollander,” he said, using that teasing tone he knew drove you insane. He said it softly this time, almost fondly, like he couldn’t help himself.

You rolled your eyes, but your heart wasn’t in it. You stepped aside, opening the door wider. “Come in.”

He walked past you, slow and careful, as if he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to get. Then he turned and held the flowers out to you, his smile widening just a little.

“For you,” he said simply.

You took them with both hands, the petals brushing your fingers. They were small, delicate, and unexpectedly pretty—soft colors, gentle shapes, nothing loud or flashy. You stared at them for a moment, feeling something warm and unfamiliar bloom in your chest.

“Wow,” you said, looking back up at him. “Romantic.”

Your voice was teasing, but the truth sat heavy and warm inside you—you liked it. More than you wanted to admit. More than you knew how to say out loud.

And from the way Ilya’s eyes softened, he knew.

You let out a small breath, the kind that slips out when you’re trying not to smile too hard. He stood there in your living room like he belonged in the space, like this wasn’t strange or new or terrifying for either of you. His eyes flicked to the flowers on the table, then back to you.

“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” he said, rolling his eyes a little, but the gesture didn’t hide the faint warmth in his face.

You couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips as you looked at him. Your fingers still tingled from holding the bouquet. “I thought you weren’t a romantic person.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ilya muttered, shrugging like he wanted to brush the whole thing off. “Don’t get used to it.” But his voice didn’t have its usual bite. It was softer.

You placed the flowers gently on the table, smoothing one of the petals with your thumb. They looked almost too pretty for your apartment, too soft for the chaos of the past few weeks. When you turned back to him, your chest felt warm in a way you weren’t ready to name. “So… do you need something?”

He shook his head, slow and honest. “No. I just came to check on you. See if everything’s okay.”

You gave a small shrug, trying to play it off even though the ache behind your eyes hadn’t really let up since the fall. “Yeah. My head still hurts, but… nothing I can’t survive.”

Ilya’s gaze drifted around your apartment, slow and curious, until it landed on the open suitcase sitting on the couch. His eyebrows lifted slightly, the question already forming before he even spoke.

“You going somewhere?” he asked, nodding toward it.

You followed his eyes and let out a soft sigh, the weight of the weekend settling back onto your shoulders. You’d almost forgotten about it for a moment—about the invitation, the uncertainty, the knot of nerves sitting in your stomach.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “My parents invited me for the weekend.”

Ilya raised one eyebrow, the expression somewhere between amused and concerned. “Sounds serious.”

A small laugh escaped you, but it came out thin, shaky around the edges. You could hear the nerves in it, feel them tightening your chest.

“Yeah… that’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

The room felt a little heavier after you said it, like the truth had finally settled between you. And from the way Ilya’s expression softened, he understood more than you expected.

Ilya stepped closer, slow and sure, his eyes never leaving yours. His hand slid around your waist, warm and steady, and he pulled you gently into him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Nothing to worry about,” he murmured.

You let out a dry, humorless laugh against his shirt. “Everything to worry about, Ilya.”

He smirked, completely unfazed, like he’d been waiting for that exact answer. “You’re so dramatic, Hollander.”

You sighed, the sound heavy in your chest. “Do you remember how dramatic Shane was?” you muttered. “Now imagine my mom.”

Before he could even react, you leaned forward and let your forehead rest against his chest. The moment your weight settled into him, a quiet groan slipped out of you—half stress, half exhaustion, all nerves.

“I really hope Shane didn’t tell them,” you whispered.

Ilya’s hand moved slowly along your back, his touch warm and grounding, like he was trying to calm the storm inside you without saying a word.

“Call me if you need,” he said softly, a small smile in his voice. “I’ll kidnap you.”

You let out a soft laugh, the tight knot in your chest easing just a little at his ridiculous confidence.

“Kidnap me, huh? You really think that would work?”

“Of course,” he said, eyes glinting with that familiar, infuriating, comforting arrogance. “I’m Ilya Rozanov.”

Right. That explained everything.

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. The room felt warmer with him in it, quieter in a way that made your heartbeat feel too loud. Then he leaned down, slow and careful, and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“I love you.”

Your whole body went still.

For a second, you weren’t even sure you’d heard him right. The words hung in the air, soft and impossible, and your mind scrambled to catch up.

“What?” you whispered, blinking up at him, your breath caught somewhere in your throat.

“I love you,” he said again, slower this time, like he wanted the words to land exactly where they were meant to. His eyes didn’t move, didn’t waver, didn’t hide.

“Wow,” you breathed, your heart pounding so hard it almost hurt.

“That’s all you’re gonna say?” he teased, but the softness in his eyes didn’t match the joke.

You swallowed, feeling the weight of everything—your fear, your hope, the weeks of tension, the way he was looking at you now. The truth rose up before you could stop it.

“…I mean. I love you too,” you said, your voice quiet but steady, like it had been waiting to be spoken for a long time.

He laced his fingers through yours, his palms warm against your skin, and that familiar, infuriatingly confident smirk tugged at his mouth.

“So,” he said, tilting his head just a little, “this means you’re officially my girlfriend.”

You burst out laughing, shaking your head because of course—of course—this was how Ilya Rozanov would ask. Bold. Direct. Zero hesitation. Only he could turn a confession into a declaration like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Excuse me?” you managed between laughs, your cheeks already warm.

“I mean,” he went on, grin widening, “you’ve been my girlfriend for a while. Since… Vegas?”

You raised an eyebrow, leaning in just enough to tease him. “Oh? Since when we first… made out?”

“Exactly,” he said, smirk stretching even wider, like he’d been waiting for you to say it out loud.

Another laugh slipped out of you, softer this time, the warmth in your chest spreading until it felt like it filled your whole body. “I guess I am then.”

He didn’t even try to hide how pleased he was. He leaned in and pressed a quick, warm kiss to your temple, his arm tightening around your waist as he pulled you closer.

“Good,” he murmured against your skin. “About time you admitted it.”

And for once, you didn’t feel the need to hide how happy that made you.

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

You stepped outside because the air inside felt too thick, too full of unspoken things. The moment the door closed behind you, the quiet hit you—cooler, calmer, easier to breathe. Your dad sat on the porch like he always did, leaning back in his old chair, the wood creaking softly under him. He looked over when he heard your footsteps, his eyes warm but still carrying that thin line of worry he never quite hid.

“Should you even be walking around?” he asked, a small chuckle slipping out, though his gaze stayed sharp on you, checking for any sign you weren’t okay.

“Doctor said fresh air helps,” you said with a shrug, sinking into the chair beside him. The seat felt familiar, like muscle memory, like childhood summers and late-night talks. For a while, neither of you spoke. You just sat there, listening to the faint sounds drifting from inside—your mom moving around the kitchen, Shane’s voice low and steady. It was strange how peaceful it felt out here, how easy it always was with him. Quiet, simple. Safe. You’d always loved that about him.

Then he shifted slightly, turning his head toward you. “Can I ask you something, kid?”

Your stomach dropped so fast it almost hurt.

Here it is.

Your mind jumped straight to the worst possibilities, every fear you’d been trying to ignore suddenly loud again.

Are you dating Ilya Rozanov?

Are you sleeping with your brother’s rival?

Did Shane tell us everything?

Your pulse picked up, your fingers curling around the armrest. You weren’t sure if you were ready for this conversation—or if you could survive it without your head exploding again.

You asked the question carefully, trying to keep your voice steady even though your pulse had already picked up.

“What is it?”

Your dad shifted in his chair, the wood creaking softly beneath him. He didn’t look tense, just thoughtful, like he was choosing his words with care.

“Shane mentioned that a few weeks ago you two had a fight,” he said.

Your heart dropped straight into your stomach.

Oh my God.

“But he didn’t really say why,” your dad went on, glancing at you with that calm, steady look he always had. “Everything okay now?”

“Um… yeah,” you said quickly, nodding a little too fast. “We’re good now. Don’t worry.”

You tried to keep your tone light, casual, like it was nothing. Like it hadn’t been one of the worst emotional weeks of your life. But the moment you said the words, something inside you tightened instead of loosening. That heavy, familiar pressure you’d been carrying for weeks—months—pressed harder against your ribs, refusing to be ignored.

You stared straight ahead, listening to the faint sounds of your mom and Shane inside, and suddenly the silence between you and your dad felt too big, too honest. He wasn’t pushing. He wasn’t judging. He was just… there. And somehow, that made it harder to keep everything buried.

Before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out—soft, shaky, but real.

“I think there’s something I need to tell you.”

The moment they left your mouth, you felt the shift. Like a door had opened behind you and locked itself shut.

There was no going back now.

You could feel his silence settle around you—not heavy, not judging, just patient. The kind of quiet that meant he was giving you space to say whatever you needed to say, in your own time. That alone made your throat tighten.

“I’ve been seeing someone,” you said, the words coming out softer than you meant them to. Saying it out loud made your heart beat faster, like you’d just stepped off a ledge you couldn’t climb back onto.

He didn’t interrupt. He just nodded a little, eyes steady on you, waiting for the rest.

“And it’s… someone who’s really known,” you added, your voice catching on the hesitation. “Not exactly in a good way. In this house.”

That made him shift in his chair, his brows pulling together in a slow, concerned crease. Not angry—just trying to understand. Trying to read between the lines.

“You’re starting to worry me, kid,” he said, his voice low and honest.

You fidgeted with your fingers, staring at a spot on the porch floor like it might magically give you the right words. Your chest felt tight, your pulse too loud in your ears. You could feel your dad watching you—not pushing, not judging, just waiting. That quiet patience of his always made it harder to hide things.

Then he asked, gently, “Who is it?”

Your breath caught.

Just tell him.

Go on.

Tell him.

He wouldn’t disown you. He wouldn’t yell. He wouldn’t make you feel small. That was never him. But still—your throat felt tight, like the words were too big to fit through.

“Ilya,” you said finally, the name barely above a whisper.

Your dad frowned a little, confusion flickering across his face. “Ilya?”

Oh my God. Was he serious? Did he really not—

You let out a shaky breath, forcing yourself to finish it.

“…Rozanov.”

You watched him repeat the name slowly, like he was rolling it around in his mind, trying to match it with something that made sense.

“Ilya Rozanov,” your dad said again, his voice careful, almost thoughtful.

And then—like he’d just connected the dots a beat too late—

“That Boston player?” he asked, still looking genuinely baffled.

You stared at him, stunned. Was he serious right now?

“And Shane’s biggest enemy? Yes, Dad. That Ilya Rozanov,” you said, a thin layer of sarcasm slipping through because your nerves were starting to fray.

Silence settled between you, thick and awkward, stretching long enough that you started to regret every life choice that led you to this porch.

Finally, he exhaled one quiet word.

“Wow.”

Your brain short‑circuited.

What the fuck?

Wait. Wait. Wait.

That’s it? “Wow”?

You blinked at him, completely thrown. “Wow? That’s it?” you asked, your voice jumping up in disbelief.

Your dad looked at you like he genuinely didn’t understand why you were shocked. 

You both just stared at each other for a second, the porch suddenly feeling too still, too quiet. Your dad let out a short laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you were this tense about it.

“And what should I do? Ground you?” he said, amusement softening his voice.

You blinked at him, stunned. He looked completely relaxed, like you hadn’t just dropped a bomb in his lap. You sat there frozen, and he just watched you with that calm, steady expression he always had when he was trying not to overreact.

“Well… I thought you’d be mad,” you mumbled, your voice small. “Seeing as he’s Shane’s rival—”

“Kid…” your dad cut in gently, his tone shifting into something warm and firm at the same time. “Does he treat you right?”

The question hit you like a punch—not painful, just deep. Honest. It cut straight through all the noise in your head.

Damn.

Damn.

You thought about everything. The chaos, the arguments, the stupid jokes, the stolen weekends, the way Ilya held you like he meant it, the way he looked at you like you were something he didn’t want to lose. You thought about how your chest felt too full when he said he loved you. How you didn’t want a future that didn’t have Ilya in it.

“…yes,” you said quietly, the truth settling warm and steady in your chest.

Your dad nodded once, slow and sure, like that was all he needed.

“Then who cares what his last name is?” he said, a small, approving smile tugging at his mouth.

The knot in your chest loosened in a way you hadn’t expected, and for the first time all day, you felt like you could breathe again.

You stared at him like he’d just handed you the answer to a question you’d been terrified to ask.

You blinked at him, still trying to wrap your head around how calm he was being. It felt like your whole world had been tilted sideways, and he was just… sipping coffee like you’d told him you bought a new pair of shoes.

“Wait… you’re not even a little worried?” you asked, your voice thin with disbelief and something that felt dangerously close to relief.

He chuckled, leaning back against the counter with that easy, steady calm he always carried. “Worried? About who you love? Kid, I raised you to know your own mind. If he treats you right, that’s all that matters. Last names don’t make a difference.”

The words sank into you slowly, like warmth spreading through cold hands. You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding yourself together until that moment—how much fear you’d been carrying, how much you’d braced for disappointment or anger. And now it was just… gone. Lifted. Replaced by something soft and steady that made your chest feel full.

“I… thanks, dad,” you whispered, hoping he didn’t hear the wobble in your voice.

He nodded, taking a slow sip of his coffee, completely unfazed. “Do Shane and your mom know, though?”

“Shane does,” you said, rubbing your palms together. “He literally walked in on us at my apartment. That’s why he fought with me. But… I have no idea how to tell mom.”

Your dad raised an eyebrow. “And Shane is okay with it?”

“Now yeah,” you said with a small sigh. “At first he was dramatic—like, Oscar‑worthy dramatic—but then he apologized and said he’d get over it.”

Your dad’s mouth curved into a small, reassuring smile—the kind that always made you feel ten years old and safe again. “I think we can figure something out about how to tell your mom. Even with Shane.”

© 𝗘𝗟𝗔𝗘𝗭𝗭

🎞️ taglist @lunadi1una @wonderland2425 @bethexo07 @cuoredicarta00 @4jjsbank @haowonbins @jesswy @misaccc @yaraza @smurfetsstuff @x-evieee-x @girlwithbluehairrr @faatxma @mothericraveviolence57 @advicefromnixxxx @melodypcy @frampktu @camilahpg03 @burkylover @sleeping-l0s3rs @trulycayla @lilemilyx @naylanae-0308 @jjonniej @aerina-wayne @georgeweaslysgirl @capircorndepression @barnes70stark @whatdoesthesenpai @stupidthoughtsinwriting @wolfiemarley @th0tformikasa @minfolio @pearlescentswirls @taking1nspiration @velvetsbakery @min1k1ssr @kingshitonly @oceansstone @jaes-last-words @perks-of-being-jojo @hvrricanq @maeranrayus @sassyvillaintrope @upwillbyers @milkkteary @babywinter @kheurwen @garcialuvs , @ghosty-me @user1281908 @mcrlover69 @chrishak @bookwormysblog @melsunshine @munsonsquinn @antobooh @harrys-house11 @alexander-hamilhoe @gdaessun

[elaezz]

i’ve been checking every day to see if you posted this time, honest 😭

babe it’s coming…I promise… I know I’ve been neglecting the series lately, it was mostly because of f1. But today I rewatched HR w my bsf and my obsession came back 10x stronger!!!!! So don’t worry, I’ll write the chap as soon as possible ❤️

[elaezz]

ALL THE THINGS YOU SAID

synopsis. Being with you opened Lando’s eyes. He realized he would do anything for you. Anything. Even if it meant bending the rules, risking it all… just to help his girl. ✴︎ MASTERLIST

pairing. Lando Norris x fem! driver! reader contains. dark themes; obsession, manipulation, toxic romance. pet names (darling), no use of y/n word count. 1,3k

You sat on the edge of the hotel bed, your heart still racing from qualifying. The mix of adrenaline and frustration sat heavy in your chest. All day, you had been on top. Every session, every lap, every corner—you were the fastest. It felt like the win was already yours.But in the last second, everything changed. One name jumped above yours.

Oscar Piastri. Your biggest rival.

Your chest tightened with anger and disbelief. You kept replaying the lap in your head, thinking of every place you could have pushed harder. But it was too late now. Hours had passed. The results were final.

A soft knock at the door pulled you out of your thoughts. Slow. Sure. You smiled before you even stood up. You already knew who it was.

Lando Norris. Your Lando Norris. The man who loved you more than he probably should. The man whose love sometimes felt a little too intense—and you liked it that way. You liked knowing how much of him was yours.

“Come in,” you said, trying to sound calm, though the small smirk on your lips gave you away.

He walked in like he owned the room. “You didn’t answer my calls,” he said, his eyes moving over you like he needed to see every detail.

You took a slow step toward him. “I was a bit busy after qualifying,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Busy thinking about how Oscar beat you?” Lando asked. The joke came out sharper than he meant it, and it hit you in the wrong place.

“Don’t start,” you muttered, rolling your eyes. “My head still hurts from that smug look he gave me.” You turned away, letting a small, half‑fake tear slip down your cheek.

“He’s threatening my championship, Lando.”

You heard him move behind you. His breath warmed your skin before his lips touched your shoulder, soft and slow. A shiver ran through you. You loved how tightly he held on to you, how deep his feelings ran.

“Don’t cry, darling,” he whispered, his voice low and dark. “I’m right here.”

He was here for you. He always was. Always had been. The thought settled over you like a warm, heavy blanket, comforting and a little frightening at the same time. You didn’t even want to imagine what your life would look like without him. The idea alone made something cold run down your spine, as if the world would simply lose its shape without his hands holding it steady. Without him, everything would feel too big, too loud, too sharp. You didn’t want to think about that future. You didn’t want to think about any future where he wasn’t right here.

You turned your face back toward him, and the look he gave you made your breath catch. His eyes were dark, focused, almost too focused—like he was trying to read every thought you hadn’t said out loud. There was something possessive in the way he watched you, something that made your stomach twist in a way you didn’t want to name. Was it love? Was it obsession? Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe the line between the two had blurred a long time ago, and neither of you had bothered to fix it.

Lando reached up and brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers slow and gentle, like he was touching something fragile. “You know I’d do anything for you,” he murmured, and the softness in his voice didn’t match the intensity in his eyes. It never did. That was part of what made him so addictive—the way he could sound tender while looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

You smiled, small and knowing, because you did know. You knew exactly how far he would go for you. You had seen it in the way he defended you, in the way he watched you, in the way he reacted whenever someone got too close. There was a depth to his devotion that most people would never understand. A depth that should have scared you. But instead, it made you feel powerful.

And then the idea came. It slipped into your mind like a spark catching dry wood—quick, bright, dangerous. Something you shouldn’t even consider. Something that went against every racing rule, every bit of logic, every unspoken code you were supposed to follow. It was wrong. It was reckless. It was the kind of thought that could change everything if you let it grow.

But the moment it appeared, you knew.

He would do it.

He would actually do it, simply because you asked.

A slow, wicked smile pulled at your lips, the kind you didn’t let anyone else see. The kind that only existed in the dark, quiet spaces between you and him. The idea pulsed in your mind, bold and tempting, and you felt a thrill run through you.

And you thought, with a calm certainty that surprised even you:

I’m going to make him.

You held his gaze, letting the silence stretch until it felt electric. “Anything?” you asked, the word curling into a slow, wicked smile you didn’t bother to hide.

His thumb brushed your cheek, soft but claiming. “Anything,” he said, voice low, steady, and far too sure of you.

Your smile deepened, sharp at the edges. You could feel the idea forming, bold and dangerous in its own way. “Then ruin his race,” you whispered, leaning in until your breath touched his skin. “Make sure Oscar doesn’t stand a chance tomorrow.”

The words hung between you, heavy and tempting. Not violence—just chaos. Just enough to tilt the world back in your favor. Just enough to remind everyone who really held control.

And Lando… he didn’t flinch. Didn’t question.

He only watched you with that dark, devoted look that said he’d already started planning.

Lando matched your smile, dark and sharp, like he enjoyed seeing this side of you. “You want me to take him out?” he asked, his voice low, almost amused, but there was something else underneath it too—something hungry, something that made your pulse jump.

“Yes,” you said, not even thinking twice. The word came out steady, almost calm. “Don’t hurt him. Just… make sure he ends up so deep in the gravel he can’t finish.” You didn’t mean violence. You meant chaos. Pressure. A mistake forced at the perfect moment. Something that would ruin Oscar’s race without crossing any real line. Something only Lando could pull off with that mix of skill and obsession he carried like a second skin.

He leaned in, his smirk stretching wider, turning into something dangerous and beautiful. “That’s…dangerous,” he murmured. His tone was teasing, but you could hear the thrill beneath it—the way he loved being the one you trusted with your darkest ideas. The way he loved being the one you whispered them to.

You tilted your head, refusing to look away from him. You wanted him to see the certainty in your eyes. “I know you can do it,” you said softly. “You always find a way.” And you meant it. You had seen him bend situations to his will before, twist pressure into opportunity, turn chaos into advantage. If anyone could push Oscar into a mistake without ever touching him, it was Lando.

His eyes darkened at your words, the color shifting into something almost hungry. “For you?” he whispered, like it was the easiest promise in the world. “I’ll do whatever it takes.” And you believed him. You felt it in the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing that mattered, like he would burn the whole world down if you asked him to.

A shiver ran through you, sharp and sweet. Part fear, part excitement, part something you didn’t want to name. This was reckless. This was wrong. But it felt intoxicating, like stepping too close to the edge and loving the view.

He leaned in until his lips brushed your neck, slow and claiming, tracing a path up to your mouth. His breath was warm against your skin when he spoke. “Nobody’s going to threaten what belongs to my girl.”

© 𝗘𝗟𝗔𝗘𝗭𝗭

🎙️ela speaks this is pretty my thing…so don’t judge me pls… this is what my heart truly wants🫡 i want some kind of mix of challengers and heated rivalry with lando x reader x oscar 🫣 i wish i could write longer fics cuz I think this has potential..

[elaezz]

im on my knees. we NEED a part 3 to noise complaint!! the people ( me ) are dying without it 💋

tbh I think I kinda owe y’all part 3, since the last one ended with cliffhanger! 🫡 But I have no ideas for p3 so if you have any, please share it with me, it would help me so much! ❤️

[elaezz]

Gurl I’m begging for a part 2!!!!!!

it took me over a week but here it is!! enjoy and pls don’t be mad for the ending 🤞🏻😭

read here: noise complaint (again)

[elaezz]

NOISE COMPLAINT (AGAIN)

synopsis. Slovakia scores, your neighbor yells (again), and you storm over (again)… only to end up watching the game with him. part two of walls are way too thin ✴︎ MASTERLIST

pairing. Juraj Slafkovský x fem! reader contains. accurate slovak, tension, no use of y/n, I recommend reading the first part for better understanding :) ! word count. 2,2k

It took Juraj exactly three days to break the unspoken “no yelling past ten” rule.

You really should have known better.

This time, it wasn’t eleven. It wasn’t even close. It was past midnight—deep, heavy, bone‑tired midnight—and you were finally shutting down your laptop after hours of work. Your eyes burned, your back ached, and the only thing you wanted in the entire world was your bed.

You hit the power button.

And then—

“NO TAK! POĎME, POĎME!!!”

His voice blasted through the wall with enough force to rattle your pens. Not angry this time. Not furious. Something else entirely—bright, hopeful, buzzing with adrenaline.

You closed your eyes and let out a long, exhausted sigh, telling yourself he’d calm down any second. Maybe it was a close play. Maybe it was almost over. Maybe the universe would show you mercy.

It did not.

“GÓÓL! DO PIČE, JO!”

The shout shook the wall, full of pure, unfiltered joy. Slovakia had scored—obviously. Patriotic. Proud. And unmistakably, undeniably your annoyingly attractive, chronically loud neighbor, Juraj.

It didn’t matter how good patriotism looked on him—you told yourself someone had to remind him to shut his mouth.

Or—

You just wanted to see his face again.

That stupidly attractive face.

You weren’t entirely sure which reason was winning.

Okay. Fine. It was probably (definitely) the second one.

Purely a civic duty, though. Obviously. Nothing else. Definitely not because your neighbor happened to be six‑foot‑something, Slovak, and built like a walking temptation.

You eased your door open, poking your head into the hallway like you were checking for drama instead of a professional athlete with zero volume control. The hallway was quiet for half a second, just long enough for you to take one cautious step out.

And then—

His door swung open at the exact same moment.

Perfect timing. Or terrible timing. Hard to tell.

Juraj leaned out, head appearing in the hallway right across from you. His eyes were bright, his hair a little messy—like he’d been running his hands through it every time Slovakia got close to scoring. He looked wired, excited, alive.

He saw you.

And he grinned, wide and boyish and proud.

“We scored!” he announced, like you’d been sitting by your door waiting for the news, like this was the update you’d been dying to hear.

Your heart did something deeply inconvenient in your chest.

You blinked at him, still half caught between exhaustion and disbelief.

“I gathered,” you said dryly. “The walls gathered. Possibly the entire floor.”

He stepped out a little farther, shoulder resting against the doorframe, the leftover adrenaline still humming through him. He was in sweats and a loose training shirt, hair pushed back in that messy way that made him look unfairly good, eyes bright with the kind of happiness that didn’t bother hiding itself.

“It was beautiful,” he said, absolutely convinced.

“I’m sure it was historic,” you replied. “It’s also twelve fifteen.”

He winced—barely. Not enough to look sorry. Just enough to look amused, like he knew exactly what he was doing and exactly how loud he’d been.

“Time zones,” he said with a shrug. “It is normal time in Slovakia.”

You stared at him, unimpressed.

“You are not in Slovakia.”

His grin widened, warm and unbothered, like he enjoyed this far too much.

And that was the dangerous part—how easily this had become a pattern. Him yelling. You showing up. The two of you meeting in the hallway like it was your own private stage, like this was something the building expected from you now. Like it was becoming a habit neither of you planned to break.

He tilted his head a little, eyes narrowing in that curious, amused way of his. “You came fast this time.”

Pardon?

Your brain tripped over itself. Well—of course you did. It was him. Juraj Slafkovský.

Your eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”

He blinked, then the meaning of his own words clearly hit him. A laugh slipped out—warm, low, a little embarrassed. “No, I mean— to the door. You were quick.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you said, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. “I was awake. Unfortunately.”

Something in his expression softened, just a touch. The sharp excitement buzzing through him dimmed into something gentler, more aware.

“Sorry,” he murmured, voice quieter now. “I forgot it is late.”

You watched him for a moment, taking in the way the adrenaline still thrummed under his skin, the way he looked like he was holding onto a joy he didn’t quite know what to do with. He wasn’t just loud—he was lit up from the inside, practically glowing with the need to share it with someone.

And somehow, that someone had become you.

You two looked at each other for a split second, the hallway humming with something warm and electric you absolutely refused to name. It sat between you like a held breath, like the moment before a coin lands.

Juraj broke it first. “Wanna watch with me?” His smirk curved slow and deliberate, the kind that felt like a warning. “It’s getting interesting.”

That smug little shit.

Your brain immediately launched into a frantic debate.

Was this a good idea?

No. Absolutely not. Terrible. Catastrophic. The kind of idea that led to questionable decisions and you, embarrassingly, forgetting how to form sentences around a man with shoulders like that.

“I—uh—”

“For moral support, obviously,” he added, eyebrows lifting, eyes bright with mischief. He looked so sure of himself, like he already knew exactly how this would end. Like he could see the moment you’d give in before you even reached it.

You groaned internally. Of course you were going to cave. You were already halfway caved. The second he opened his door, honestly.

“…Fine.”

The word slipped out before you could stop it, and the second it did, your stomach flipped—equal parts dread and anticipation, which was a deeply unhelpful combination.

He stepped aside to let you in, one hand still braced on the doorframe like he thought you might change your mind at the last second and sprint back to safety. The gesture was casual, but there was something almost careful in it too—like he didn’t want to risk losing the moment.

You walked past him, and your shoulder brushed his chest on the way in. Solid. Warm. Distractingly so. It was the kind of accidental contact that sent a quiet jolt through you, the kind you pretended not to notice even as your pulse tripped over itself.

His apartment… did not look the same as the last time you’d glimpsed it.

It was a mess.

A very specific kind of mess.

A hockey‑player mess.

Massive sneakers abandoned near the couch like they’d been kicked off mid‑stride. A gym bag half unzipped on the floor, tape and wrist wraps spilling out like it had exploded. A hoodie draped over the armrest in a way that suggested it had been thrown, not placed. Two empty protein shake bottles on the coffee table beside a bowl that had once held something vaguely healthy but now looked like the ghost of a meal.

The TV lit up the dim room with flashes of blue and white—Slovakia versus Finland, the commentators shouting rapid‑fire Slovak that matched the frantic energy still buzzing off Juraj.

Behind you, the door closed.

Click.

The sound echoed louder than his yelling ever had, settling into the room like a punctuation mark. Like a shift. Like you’d just crossed into something you couldn’t quite name yet.

And suddenly, you were very aware that you were alone in his apartment, with him standing just a little too close behind you.

You glanced around, raising an eyebrow. “Wow.”

Juraj followed your gaze, rubbing the back of his neck like he’d only just noticed the chaos himself. “It’s not always like this.”

“It’s exactly like this, isn’t it?”

He paused, caught between denial and honesty.

“…Maybe.”

You stepped farther in, nudging a stray hockey stick—an actual hockey stick—leaning against the wall. “You keep equipment in your living room?”

Juraj shrugged, completely unbothered. “Easy access.”

“For what? Emergency hallway practice?”

His laugh was low and warm, rolling through the room like it belonged there. Then he reached past you to grab the remote, and the movement brought him close again—closer than you were prepared for. His arm brushed yours, solid and warm, and your breath caught before you could stop it.

He turned the volume down a notch. “There. Quieter.”

You shot him a look. “I appreciate the effort.”

He looked… proud. Like he’d just accomplished something meaningful instead of pressing a button.

“Sit,” he said, nodding toward the couch.

You hesitated for half a second—just long enough to pretend you were thinking about it—before settling on one end. He dropped down beside you a moment later, closer than necessary, his knee nearly brushing yours. 

The commentators shouted again, sharp and frantic, and his attention snapped back to the TV like someone had yanked a string. His whole body tightened—shoulders squared, jaw set, muscles coiled as if he might actually dive through the screen and help Slovakia himself.

You, meanwhile, weren’t watching the game at all.

You were watching him.

And suddenly you weren’t sure which was more compelling—the blur of players on the ice… or the hockey‑obsessed Slovak practically vibrating beside you, lit up with adrenaline and pride.

Juraj leaned forward, pointing at the screen, muttering an explanation that was far too fast and far too intense for you to follow. You didn’t understand half of what he said, but the seriousness in his posture made it impossible to look away. His jaw clenched, his shoulders tightened, and you could feel the tension radiating off him like heat.

“Relax,” you murmured, amused.

He turned to you with an expression of pure disbelief, like you’d just insulted the sport, his ancestors, and the entire nation of Slovakia in one breath. “Relax? This is drama, zlatka.”

You froze.

You had no idea what that last word meant.

But the way he said it—low, casual, like it belonged in the space between two people sitting far too close—sent a flutter straight through your stomach.

You narrowed your eyes. “What did you just call me?”

A slow, lazy smile unfurled across Juraj’s face, the kind that made your pulse skip.

“…Nothing bad, don’t worry, zlatka,” he said again, deliberately this time.

Not convincing. Not even a little.

And the worst part?

You liked the way it sounded far too much.

He looked so… happy.

It softened something in you you hadn’t even realized was wound so tightly, like some stubborn knot inside you loosened just a little just from watching him glow.

“Why aren’t you playing too?” you asked quietly, your eyes following the way his gaze tracked the puck like it was alive, like it was calling to him.

He didn’t look at you at first. “I wanted to,” he said slowly, the words careful, honest. “But this season… it was surprisingly exhausting. I had to decline.” A small shrug. “I don’t think I’d be very good right now.”

There was no ego in it. No defensiveness. Just truth. And somehow that made it land deeper.

You studied him—the focus, the way every shift on the ice seemed to ripple through his body like he could feel it under his own skin. He wasn’t just watching the game. He was in it, even from the couch.

“I think you would,” you said, softer than you meant to, almost teasing.

That got his attention.

Juraj’s posture changed, subtle but unmistakable. He turned toward you, eyes locking onto yours, a slow smirk tugging at his lips as that competitive spark flickered back to life.

“You think so?” he asked, leaning in just a little, as if closing the distance made the question more real. More intimate.

You lifted your chin, refusing to look away. “I do.”

He held your gaze, studying your face like he was trying to figure out whether you were messing with him—or challenging him on purpose.

“And you know hockey very well, yes?” he teased, the corner of his mouth curving.

“Obviously,” you deadpanned. “I’ve been listening to it through my walls for weeks.”

His laugh was low, warm, and far too pleased.

You liked it. Admit it,” he said, that smirk tugging at his lips like he already knew the answer.

Well… maybe you did. Because it was the dumbest excuse to see him. And also the one that worked every single time.

“Mhm,” you managed, barely more than a hum, your cheeks warming in a way you absolutely refused to acknowledge.

Juraj leaned in, slow and deliberate, until you could feel the heat rolling off him. Your breaths mingled in the tiny space between you, your pulse stumbling over itself as his face dipped closer. Your lips—god—your lips were a breath away from brushing his.

And then—

His phone started ringing. Loud. Obnoxious. Perfectly, horribly timed.

Juraj groaned, rolling his eyes so hard it looked painful. He snatched the phone off the cushion with a muttered, “To je kokot,” the sharpness in his voice making it very clear that whatever he’d said was not a compliment.

He turned back to you, irritation still simmering in his expression. “It’s Arber,” he said, voice tight, like the name alone was enough to ruin his night.

And honestly? You couldn’t tell if he was more annoyed at the call… or at the fact that it interrupted that.

© 𝗘𝗟𝗔𝗘𝗭𝗭

🎙️ela speaks a few people asked for p2 so here I deliver 🤏🏻 (don’t kill me for the cliffhanger omg 😭) it took me way longer than I wanted to..sorry I know I’ve been off for like a week now, but life is getting hectic :(

[elaezz]

Soo grateful !!! Thank you guys ❤️❤️

[elaezz]

THIN ICE

synopsis. You were hospitalized after a fall at your skating competition. Shane was there, apologies were exchanged, and then Ilya Rozanov showed up—making things more complicated than ever. ✴︎ MASTERLIST ✴︎ BAD IDEAS, REPEATED MASTERLIST

pairing. Ilya Rozanov x Hollander! fem! reader warnings. angst, hurt/comfort, physical trauma; head injury. profanity, use of y/n word count. 2,2k

The arena lights were blinding in the way they always were—too bright, too white, bouncing off the ice until everything looked clean and unreal. The cold slid through the thin fabric of your costume, sharp enough to wake you up, familiar enough to calm you. When your blades touched the ice, the scrape felt grounding, like the one thing in your life that still made sense.

This part was easy. 

Adele’s Skyfall began, soft and slow, and your body moved before your mind even caught up. Years of muscle memory carried you through the opening steps—edges smooth, posture steady, breath controlled. Your first jump landed without a sound, your blade brushing the ice like a whisper.

Somewhere in the distance, applause rose.

And for a moment, everything else fell away. No guilt. No Rozanov leaning against a wall like he owned the place. No family tension that had been chewing at you for weeks.

Just you. And the ice.

Your second combination flowed out of you easily. The rhythm settled into your muscles, each movement sharp, clean, deliberate. You could almost pretend this was just another early‑morning practice, the rink empty, the world quiet, nothing waiting for you outside these boards.

For a few precious seconds, you felt weightless.

Then your eyes drifted toward the stands.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t even conscious. It was instinct—habit—something you’d done since you were a kid.

You always looked for them.

Your family sat in the front section, impossible to miss. But Shane… he wasn’t with them. He was a few rows ahead, sitting stiffly, like he didn’t quite belong there or didn’t want to. Or maybe he was just nervous. You had no idea why any of them were here. If you remembered correctly, you hadn’t even mentioned you had a competition today.

Your chest tightened.

It shouldn’t have.

You’d skated in front of them your entire life. You’d performed under brighter lights, bigger crowds, higher stakes. But something about seeing them now—unexpected, uninvited, watching—made your breath catch in a way you couldn’t explain.

Like suddenly this wasn’t just another routine.

You forced yourself back into the program, pushing into the next step sequence, shoulders lifting, expression smoothing into something calm and controlled.

And then—

You saw him.

Not in your family’s row.

Higher up. Off to the side.

Leaning forward in his seat, elbows on his knees, watching you like you were the only thing happening in the entire arena.

Ilya Rozanov.

Of course he would be here.

For half a second—one tiny, catastrophic half second—your brain simply stopped. Everything inside you stuttered, like someone had yanked the power cord out of your focus.

Why was he here?

Did Shane know?

Was this some kind of—

Your edge caught wrong.

It was small at first, just the slightest misalignment as you went into your next jump. Normally you could have fixed it without anyone noticing.

Not today.

Your takeoff was late.

The rotation came up short.

Your blade hit the ice at the wrong angle, and in an instant you knew—there was no saving it.

You went down hard.

The impact shot through your hip and up your spine, a jolt so sharp it stole the breath from your lungs. The sound of your body hitting the ice echoed across the arena, louder than it should have, too loud, like the whole world heard it. Then the back of your head clipped the surface, a bright burst of pain exploding behind your eyes.

For a moment, everything went white.

The music kept playing, oblivious.

The crowd gasped, a wave of noise that felt far away, like it was happening underwater.

You tried to push yourself up—stubborn, automatic, the way you always did after a fall. But the second you lifted your head, the world tilted violently. Your vision blurred. Your ears rang so loudly it drowned out everything else. Your hands slipped on the ice.

You couldn’t move. Not properly. 

And just before the darkness pulled you under, you heard someone stand—heard a voice cut through the noise, sharp and terrified, shouting your name.

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

You opened your eyes slowly, and the bright white of the hospital room stabbed straight through your skull. Your head throbbed so badly that even blinking felt like punishment. Everything was too sharp, too loud, too bright.

You shifted your gaze—carefully, because turning your head was out of the question—and saw someone sitting beside your bed.

Shane.

Of all people, Shane. The last person you expected to see when you were half‑conscious and barely hanging onto reality.

He noticed you stirring instantly. “Y/n? Oh my god—you scared all of us.” He shot up from the chair, voice tight with relief, like he’d been holding his breath for hours.

“What… happened?” you croaked. Your throat felt raw, your voice barely there.

“You hit your head. Really hard.” He dragged a hand through his hair, the movement jittery. “But you’re gonna be fine.”

You winced as you swallowed. “Where’s… mom and dad?”

“They just left,” Shane said, his voice softening in a way you weren’t used to. “Paperwork or something. Mom freaked out… like, completely lost it.”

You stared at him, unsure whether to believe him—or whether you even wanted to. The room felt too quiet, too still, and your thoughts were a slow, foggy mess.

You swallowed, your throat painfully dry. “Shane… I’m so—”

He shook his head before you could even finish.

“No,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry. For acting like an asshole.”

The words hung there, heavy and unexpected, and all you could do was stare at him. Shane never apologized first. Not when you were kids, not when you were adults, not ever.

He rubbed the back of his neck—an old nervous habit you hadn’t seen in years. “The whole thing with Rozanov… yeah, it pissed me off. I won’t lie about that.” He let out a sharp breath, shoulders dropping. “But I can get over it.”

You blinked, trying to process the fact that your stubborn, pride‑driven brother was actually being the reasonable one for once.

“It wasn’t just that,” he added, voice softer now. “You got hurt… and I was too busy being mad to—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. “That was stupid.”

A tired, crooked smile tugged at your lips. “Shane. It’s okay. We’re both assholes sometimes.”

He huffed out a small laugh, the tension between you finally cracking—just enough to let a little relief slip through.

For the first time in weeks, it felt like the two of you were on the same side again.

The door swung open, and you blinked against the harsh hospital lights—only to nearly pass out all over again when you saw who stepped inside.

Ilya.

But not the Ilya you were used to. Not the smirk, not the sharp teasing, not the armor he always wore around you. This version looked… worried. Really worried.

“Ilya—” you tried to speak, panic rising fast. The last time he and Shane were in the same room, it had gone horribly. You weren’t sure your head—or your heart—could handle a round two.

“Relax,” Ilya said softly, lifting a hand. “It was his idea.” He nodded toward Shane.

You looked between them, your brain struggling to catch up. You’d hit your head—maybe this was heaven. Or hell. Or some weird concussion dream where everyone suddenly got along.

Shane caught your confused expression. “Yeah,” he said, shrugging like this was normal. “Thought you’d want to see someone close.”

Close?

He said it so casually, like you and Ilya had been talking for the past three weeks, like nothing had happened, like everything between you wasn’t a tangled mess of silence and hurt. Shane didn’t know the truth. Which meant this—Ilya being here—was entirely his choice.

And somehow, despite the pounding in your skull, despite the tension and the chaos and the weeks of pretending you didn’t care…

Your chest warmed at the sight of him.

You hated how much it did.

Shane gave a small, awkward smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “I… I’ll give you two some space,” he said, nodding toward Ilya.

You barely had time to react before he slipped out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him. His footsteps faded down the hall, leaving you alone with the one person you weren’t sure you were ready to face.

“You’re an idiot,” Ilya muttered.

Really? That was the first thing he said to you? Like you didn’t already know that.

But then his voice shifted—softer, almost shy, like the words were pulled out of him. “You scared me.”

Your breath caught. “Why were you even here? I thought you hated me.” Your eyes dropped to your lap, suddenly too heavy to lift.

“I could never hate you, Y/n.” He rubbed the back of his neck, the gesture awkward and honest. “I wanted to see you. See you skate. And maybe… apologize afterward.”

You blinked at him, heart thudding in a way that hurt almost as much as your head. “Apologize?”

What was happening today? Was this some kind of national apology holiday? First Shane, now Ilya. Who was next—your mom apologizing for doubting you since you were six? Apparently all it took was one concussion to get people to finally talk.

“For everything,” he said simply, meeting your eyes without flinching. “I know I’ve been an ass.”

And for once, he didn’t sound defensive. Or sarcastic. Or like he was hiding behind a joke.

He just sounded sincere.

“Yeah,” you admitted, your vision still drifting in and out of focus. “You were. But I wasn’t any better.”

Ilya didn’t look away. He watched you like one wrong blink might make you disappear again. There was something tight in his expression—fear, maybe. Worry. Something you weren’t used to seeing on him.

“I shouldn’t have kicked you out,” you said quietly, the words heavy but honest.

“And I shouldn’t have made fun of you,” he replied immediately, like he’d been waiting to say it.

A weak laugh slipped out of you, and you winced as the dull pulse in your skull throbbed. “Jesus… I was so pissed. It felt like you couldn’t take me seriously. At all.”

“I know.” His voice was softer than you’d ever heard it—no teasing, no sharp edges. Just truth. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you murmured, giving him a small, tired smile. “What happened between you and Shane? Are you two… good?”

Ilya actually laughed, shaking his head. “No. We are still mortal enemies,” he said dryly. “But we agreed to act like adults when it comes to you.”

Yeah. The planet was definitely spinning the wrong way.

You stared at him, trying to figure out if the concussion had finally pushed you into some dream where everyone behaved strangely. Your brain felt slow, foggy, unsure of what was real.

“He just told me,” Ilya said, rubbing the back of his neck again—an almost shy gesture that didn’t fit the version of him you knew—“that he thinks I should be with you.”

Your heart stuttered.

For a moment, you honestly wondered if you’d misheard him. Or if the room was tilting again. Or if this was some weird pain‑killer hallucination.

“He said,” Ilya continued, glancing toward the door Shane had walked through, “that if someone’s going to make you this upset… and still show up to watch you skate… it should at least be someone who actually cares.”

His eyes came back to yours, steady and open, all the usual arrogance stripped away.

“And I do.”

The words hit you like a warm shock—soft, unexpected, and terrifying in the best and worst ways. Your chest tightened, not with pain this time, but with something you’d been trying to ignore for weeks.

Something that felt a lot like hope.

You didn’t know what to say. Not really. And even if you did, your mouth felt slow, your thoughts foggy, everything too heavy to shape into real words.

“Thank you, Ilya,” you managed, your voice soft and shaky. “For… everything.”

He gave you a small, warm smile—nothing sharp, nothing teasing. Just gentle. Real. He leaned down, moving carefully, like he didn’t want to startle you, and pressed a light kiss to your forehead.

“Always, Y/n,” he whispered. “If you need anything… just call me.”

And then he straightened, hesitated for half a second like he wanted to say more, and walked out.

The door clicked shut behind him.

The room felt too quiet after that—just the steady beeping of the monitors, the soft hum of the lights, and the echo of your heart still racing like he was somehow still standing there.

You sank back into the pillows, eyes drifting up to the ceiling. Your chest still felt tight, your head still buzzing—from the fall, from the lights, from everything Ilya had just said. It was too much and not enough all at once.

Part of you wanted to grab your phone and call him immediately, just to hear his voice again, to make sure he was still real. Another part of you wanted to pretend none of it had happened, that it was just a moment of panic and nothing more. Your heart didn’t know which version to believe.

Shane stepped back into the room, clearing his throat in that awkward way he always did when he wasn’t sure how to act. “He… he really cares about you, you know,” he said quietly. “Never saw Rozanov like this.”

“Yeah, me neither…” you murmured, the words slipping out before you could stop them. Then, softer, almost to yourself, “But I like him that way.”

The admission warmed your chest in a slow, surprising way—gentle, steady, impossible to ignore.

© 𝗘𝗟𝗔𝗘𝗭𝗭

🎞️ taglist @lunadi1una @wonderland2425 @bethexo07 @cuoredicarta00 @4jjsbank @haowonbins @jesswy @misaccc @yaraza @smurfetsstuff @x-evieee-x @girlwithbluehairrr @faatxma @mothericraveviolence57 @advicefromnixxxx @melodypcy @frampktu @camilahpg03 @burkylover @sleeping-l0s3rs @trulycayla @lilemilyx @naylanae-0308 @jjonniej @aerina-wayne @georgeweaslysgirl @capircorndepression @barnes70stark @whatdoesthesenpai @stupidthoughtsinwriting @wolfiemarley @th0tformikasa @minfolio @pearlescentswirls @taking1nspiration @velvetsbakery @min1k1ssr @kingshitonly @oceansstone @jaes-last-words @perks-of-being-jojo @hvrricanq @maeranrayus @sassyvillaintrope @upwillbyers @milkkteary @babywinter @kheurwen @garcialuvs , @ghosty-me @user1281908 @mcrlover69 @chrishak @bookwormysblog @melsunshine @munsonsquinn @antobooh @harrys-house11 @alexander-hamilhoe @gdaessun

[elaezz]

mama we need thin ice stat 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻 btw love your writing so much!

I PROMISE I’LL POST IT TONIGHT 😭😭 I was just too lazy to edit the chapter (shame on me…) but it’s gonna be yours within few hours 🤞🏻 hope y’all ready for another emotional rollercoaster

[elaezz]

Ahhhh you are so talented!!! I absolutely loooooved your Juraj fic!!! It was amazing!!!! Have a lovely day!!!! 😘😘

Omg thank you so much!! ❤️ The obsession I have right now with this man is INSANE 😩😩 I’m thinking about making p2

[elaezz]

WALLS ARE WAY TOO THIN

You hear your neighbor swearing in some foreign language loud enough to rattle your walls, so you knock to tell him to shut the fuck up—and then a ridiculously pretty guy opens the door. ✴︎ MASTERLIST

pairing. Juraj Slafkovský x fem! neighbor! reader contains. accurate slovak, use of y/n, tension, little awkward but cute meet <3 word count. 2,5k

part two is now available!

It was a little past eleven, and you were drifting in that warm, heavy place between awake and asleep. The couch had practically swallowed you whole, the cushions soft under your cheek, the blanket pulled up to your chin. The only light in the room came from the TV, where The Vampire Diaries played in a quiet loop you weren’t really following anymore. The blue glow washed over the walls, over your half‑closed eyes, over the stillness of the living room. Every sound from the show blended together—voices, music, footsteps—turning into one soft, comforting hum that made it even harder to stay awake.

Your breathing had slowed. Your body felt weightless. You were seconds from slipping under completely.

And then—

“Do piče, čo sú to za kokotských rozhodcov?! No to som ešte nevidel!”

The shout tore through the quiet like someone had slammed a door right next to your head. Loud, sharp, and absolutely not English. It hit you so fast your whole body jolted, your heart thudding against your ribs as your eyes flew open. For a moment you didn’t even know where you were—just that someone, somewhere, was furious enough to wake the dead.

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt, the kind of slow, exhausted eye‑roll that came from someone who had already reached the end of their patience hours ago. You tried to sink deeper into the couch, willing the cushions to swallow you whole and block out the noise.

But then—

“Kurva!”

The shout cracked through the quiet like a whip, sharp and frustrated and very, very male. You didn’t need to understand the word to know exactly what it meant. Whoever lived on the other side of your wall was clearly losing at something, and losing badly. Or someone was getting murdered. 

“Já to jebem! To je taká pičovina!”

This time the outburst rattled the picture frames on your shelf. The walls practically trembled with the force of it, as if your neighbor had decided to wage war on his—probably—gaming console at full volume. It was eleven at night, for God’s sake. Normal people were asleep. Or at least pretending to be.

Whoever he was, he really needed to call it a night… for his own good, if not for yours.

You were one more foreign swear word away from marching over there and knocking on the door next to yours. Your patience had been hanging by a thread for the last ten minutes, and that thread was starting to fray.

“Do piče!”

There it was again—louder this time, sharp enough to cut straight through the wall. You didn’t even have to count anymore; it had to be the third time in under five minutes. At this point, you were convinced it was his favorite word in the entire language.

You stared at the wall like it had personally offended you, your jaw tightening as another burst of muffled chaos echoed through the apartment. That was it. You’d officially reached your limit. You had endured enough enthusiastic, late‑night, whatever‑language‑that‑was rage for one evening, and your half‑asleep brain was done being polite about it.

With a frustrated huff, you kicked the blanket off your legs and pushed yourself upright, the sudden movement sending a wave of cold air across your skin. If he insisted on giving a full‑volume performance at eleven p.m., then you were absolutely going to insist on a little peace and quiet.

You slipped your feet into your slippers and headed for the door before your brain had the chance to talk you out of it. You were running on irritation and half‑sleep, and honestly, that was probably the only reason you had the courage to do this at all.

Maybe he’d stop on his own.

Maybe the game would finally end.

Maybe he’d run out of creative profanity and just… breathe for a second.

“Kurva!”

Yeah. No. Absolutely not.

You yanked your door open and stepped into the hallway, the cool air waking you up just enough to fuel your determination. Three quick strides carried you across the narrow space, and you knocked on his door—sharp, firm, and very much done with this nonsense. Once. Twice. And then a third time, just to make sure he understood you meant business.

The shouting cut off instantly.

Silence settled over the hallway, thick and sudden, like someone had pressed pause on the entire building.

And that was when it hit you—hard and inconvenient—that you were standing there in pajama shorts and an oversized T‑shirt, hair a mess, socks mismatched, looking like someone who had been dragged out of sleep by a small earthquake. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. If he opened the door right now, this would be the grand introduction.

You swallowed, suddenly very aware of every inch of bare skin and every questionable life choice that had led you to this moment.

The handle turned.

The door swung open.

And whatever annoyed, righteous little speech you’d been rehearsing evaporated the second you saw him.

He was tall. Unfairly tall. The kind of tall that made you instinctively straighten your spine, like your body was trying to compensate. His dark hair was slightly messy, pushed back in a way that looked accidental but stupidly good. His jaw was sharp, his shoulders broad beneath a gray Canadiens training shirt that clung to him like it had been personally tailored to show off every line of muscle. His chest rose and fell quickly, like he’d just sprinted across the apartment—or fought someone through the television screen.

Then his eyes met yours. Warm brown, focused, a little wild from whatever he’d been yelling about. Confusion flickered first. Then curiosity softened the edges.

“Yes?” he said, his accent thick, his voice still buzzing with leftover adrenaline.

You blinked, your brain scrambling to remember why you were standing here in pajama shorts and slippers, staring up at a man who looked like he’d stepped straight out of a sports documentary and into your hallway.

Right. The speech. The noise complaint. The moral high ground you were desperately trying to hold onto.

“Are you…” You cleared your throat, trying to gather the pieces of your dignity. “Are you aware that it’s eleven at night?”

He stared at you for a moment, like his brain was still catching up to the fact that someone had actually knocked on his door. His gaze dipped—quick, instinctive—to your pajama shorts and oversized T‑shirt before snapping back up. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, subtle but impossible to miss.

“I am aware,” he said slowly, like he was choosing his words with care.

“Because it sounds like you’re personally fighting the bears in there.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then—unexpectedly—he let out a laugh. Low. Warm. A little dangerous in the way it curled through your stomach. He dragged a hand through his hair, pushing the messy strands back.

“Ah. Sorry,” he said, still slightly breathless. “I’m watching hockey.”

That tracked. God, it did track.

Up close, he looked like the blueprint for a hockey player—broad shoulders stretching the seams of his gray Canadiens training shirt, thick forearms, the kind of build that suggested he could bench‑press you without breaking a sweat or accidentally knock down a wall just by leaning on it too hard.

“Explains a lot,” you said, letting the sarcasm soften into something almost amused. “Who’s playing?”

“Slovakia and USA.”

Oh.

You glanced past him, catching a quick flash of the TV—ice, speed, blue and white jerseys streaking across the screen. The commentary buzzed faintly in the background, all intensity and adrenaline.

You looked back at him, trying to sound casual even as your brain scrambled. “And you’re cheering for…?”

The second the words left your mouth, you regretted them. Obviously. Obviously he wasn’t yelling in English. Obviously he wasn’t cheering for the U.S. Idiot. Absolute idiot.

Heat crept up your neck as you mentally kicked yourself, waiting for him to react.

“Slovakia. Obviously.” He shrugged, like the answer should’ve been carved into stone somewhere.

“And I’m guessing Slovakia isn’t exactly thrilled with the referees?”

His jaw tightened just a little, that competitive edge flickering back to life in his eyes. It was subtle, but you could practically feel the indignation radiating off him.

“They are blind,” he muttered. “Completely blind.”

You folded your arms, trying to look unimpressed even though the whole thing was starting to feel more entertaining than annoying. “So the screaming is… patriotic?”

“Very,” he said, absolutely serious. Not a hint of irony.

Jesus. Patriotism had no business looking that good on someone.

Despite yourself, you felt the beginnings of a smile tug at your mouth, the irritation you’d carried over here slowly dissolving into something warmer, lighter.

“Still,” you said, tilting your head, “maybe support your country at a slightly lower volume?”

He held your gaze for a long moment, the adrenaline in him settling, the edges of his expression softening. Then he let out a slow sigh, shoulders dropping as if he finally realized how loud he’d been.

“You’re right. I got carried away.” His eyes lingered on you, studying your face with a kind of quiet curiosity. “I’m Juraj, by the way.”

Before you even processed the movement, his hand was already reaching out, warm and big and steady as it wrapped around yours. The shake was firm but gentle, his palm completely engulfing yours.

“I’m Y/n,” you said, your voice a little softer than you intended.

His thumb brushed lightly against your knuckles before he let go, and suddenly the hallway felt much smaller, much warmer, and far too intimate for two strangers meeting over a noise complaint.

His hand lingered for half a second longer than it needed to before he finally let go.

And you felt it.

That tiny pause—intentional or not—sent a quiet ripple through you, something warm and unsettling that settled low in your stomach. The hallway suddenly felt too narrow, like the walls had inched closer while you weren’t looking. The air between you thickened, charged with something you definitely hadn’t expected when you stomped over here in slippers.

He didn’t step back. If anything, he seemed rooted in place, close enough that you could catch the faint scent of his cologne—clean, woodsy, threaded with the sharp edge of leftover adrenaline. It wrapped around you before you could stop it.

“So,” he said, his voice lower now, almost thoughtful as he said your name, “Y/n.”

The way he shaped it—slow, careful, softened by that accent—sent a quiet shiver down your spine. It was ridiculous how good he made it sound.

“You always threaten your neighbors on first meeting?” he added, one eyebrow lifting in a way that was entirely too confident for someone who’d been screaming at referees five minutes ago.

You blinked, pulling yourself back together. “Only the ones who scream in Slovak at eleven p.m.”

A corner of his mouth curved, not quite a smile but close enough to make your pulse jump.

“That is fair,” he said, warm amusement slipping into his voice.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The hallway felt suspended in time, while from inside his apartment the muffled sounds of the game kept going—commentators talking too fast, the scrape of skates, the rising swell of a crowd you couldn’t see. It all bled together into a frantic, distant pulse.

He glanced over his shoulder toward the TV, his jaw tightening again at whatever was happening on the screen.

You followed his gaze. “Bad?”

He let out a sharp breath through his nose, the kind that carried more emotion than words ever could. “Very.”

But there was something else in his expression too—frustration, yes, but also a fierce kind of pride. A weight. An investment that went deeper than just watching a game for fun. This wasn’t casual. This mattered to him in a way you could feel even from the doorway.

“You’re really into this,” you said quietly.

He looked back at you, and for a second something unreadable flickered in his eyes—something guarded, something honest.

“I play,” he said simply.

You froze.

“Oh.”

And suddenly everything clicked into place. The build. The intensity. The way he yelled like the referees had personally insulted his ancestors. The adrenaline still humming under his skin.

“For who?” you asked before your brain could stop your mouth.

There was a beat—just long enough to make your stomach flip.

Then he said, almost shyly, but with a confidence that didn’t need to be loud to be felt, “Canadiens.”

Your brain short‑circuited.

“Canadiens? Like Montreal—”

He nodded once, steady and unbothered, like this was a normal thing to admit in a hallway at eleven p.m.

“Oh my God,” you muttered, because your brain had officially left the chat.

“Well,” you said, trying to gather whatever composure you had left, “professional athlete or not, the walls are thin.”

His eyes dipped to your mouth—quick, almost instinctive—before lifting again. The glance was so brief you could’ve convinced yourself you imagined it… if it hadn’t sent a warm jolt straight through you.

“I will be quieter,” he said, his voice softer now, lower, almost gentle.

And there was something in the way he said it that didn’t feel like it was just about the game. Something that made your pulse skip.

You cleared your throat, trying to steady yourself. “Good.”

Another silence settled between you, stretching out slowly. Not awkward—never awkward—but charged in a way that made the air feel heavier, warmer. You could feel your self‑control slipping, thread by thread, and he was standing far too close for your brain to function properly.

God, he was unfairly attractive. Unreasonably attractive. The kind of attractive that made you forget why you’d stormed over here in the first place.

“Good night, Juraj,” you said, forcing the words out before you did something stupid, like stay.

You turned slightly, already taking a half step back toward your door, trying to put even the smallest bit of space between you.

“Good night… Y/n.”

The way he said your name again—slow, careful, like he was tasting the shape of it—sent a flip through your stomach so sharp you almost stumbled.

You forced yourself not to look back.

You made it exactly two steps before—

“Y/n?”

You stopped mid‑stride.

Damn him.

You turned your head just enough to see him over your shoulder. “Yes?”

He was still leaning against the doorframe, but something in his expression had shifted. The teasing spark was still there, but now it was layered with something steadier, something that felt a little too much like intent. Like he wasn’t quite ready to let you walk away.

“If Slovakia scores,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting in a slow, knowing curve, “I might yell.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Don’t.”

A beat passed—quiet, warm, charged.

His smile deepened, lazy and confident. “Will you knock again?”

God. Fuck him.

“You wish,” you shot back, unable to stop the smile tugging at your lips as you slipped into your apartment and shut the door behind you.

The moment the latch clicked, you pressed your back to the wood, heat blooming across your cheeks. They were red. Like embarrassingly, unmistakably red. 

Because of course your neighbor had to be the sexiest man you’d ever laid eyes on. 

© 𝗘𝗟𝗔𝗘𝗭𝗭

🎙️ela speaks wishing slovakia the best when fighting for bronze rn, i’m so nervous !! It’s currently 0:1 for finland 🫠🫠

[elaezz]

⸝⸝ ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ⌇ 𝓦HO IS 𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐄𝐙𝐙 ? ★

꒰ 𝐈. 𝐌𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 ꒱

My name is Ela, and I was born on the 4th of June 2006, which makes me a Gemini! I also share a birthday with my dad <3 My mom is Slovak, and my dad is Czech, so I spent years switching between these two countries. I was born in Czechia, then moved to Slovakia when I was 2, and then moved back to Czechia when I was 6 because of school, and I’ve lived there ever since. I’m fluent in both languages (I mix them up way too often, though) plus English, and I’m learning Spanish.

꒰ 𝐈𝐈. 𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐒 ꒱

formula one ( lando norris oscar piastri charles leclerc max verstappen george rusell isack hadjar alex albon carlos sainz ) football ( pedri gavi joão felix messi mason mount ladislav krejčí robert lewandowski ) hockey ( juraj slafkovský martin nečas quinn hughes macklin calebrini arber xhekaj šimon nemec lukáš dostál will smith )

꒰ 𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐁𝐒 ꒱

tate mcrae olivia rodrigo bad bunny troye sivan khalid drew starkey ryan gosling connor storrie hudson williams timothée chalamet kylie jenner pedro pascal joe keery sadie sink tom holland florence pugh josh hutherson

꒰ 𝐈𝐕. 𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 ꒱

iihf patriotism kofola my pink ipad cinema monaco mcnuggets history dogs ilya rozanov edits lego batman strawberries true crime orcas summer tanning my best friend’s family singapore grand prix money travelling czech humor 90s music lust for life the sims 4 ln4 x t8 agenda

© 𝗘𝗟𝗔𝗘𝗭𝗭

[elaezz]

oh my god I havent read such a good forbidden love fic in TOO LONG !!! I need all the angst all the drama and all the makeup fluff <33

OHH I’M HONORED TO HEAR THIS!!! 💕 Next chapter will be up today (20.2.) sorry for the delay babes!! Life is getting hectic :(

[elaezz]

this new chapter is so good im obsessed w them

Thank you!! ❤️❤️❤️

[elaezz]

GUILTY CONSCIENCE

synopsis. Weeks later, the weight of your guilty conscience hadn’t eased a bit. That’s why you found yourself at the club tonight—though, of course, the only person you ran into was Ilya Rozanov. ✴︎ MASTERLIST ✴︎ BAD IDEAS, REPEATED MASTERLIST

pairing. Ilya Rozanov x Hollander! fem! reader contains. angst…., yearning…., bitterness, no use of y/n, tension, profanity, partying, alcohol use word count. 2,1k

…THREE WEEKS LATER

It had been a long time since you last saw Ilya. Or at least, it felt long. The last time had ended with everything falling apart—voices raised, feelings bruised, and you literally kicking him out of your apartment. It hadn’t been months or years, not even close. Maybe a few weeks. Two? Three? Four? You honestly couldn’t tell anymore. Time had slipped through your fingers in a strange, blurry way.

You lost track of it somewhere between trying to forget him and spending hours on the ice, skating until your legs burned, trying to outrun the memory of him. You lost track of it watching Boston games on your TV, telling yourself you were only watching for the sport, only watching because it was habit. But every time he appeared on the screen, you felt that familiar twist in your chest.

You kept telling yourself he was different now—not Ilya, just Rozanov. The old version. The cocky, sharp-edged, impossible Rozanov who didn’t look at you like you mattered. It was easier that way. Cleaner. Less painful.

And your family… that was its own mess. A week ago, you’d gone to a family lunch fully expecting disaster. You’d braced yourself for questions, for judgment, for your mother’s voice rising an octave the way it always did when she sensed trouble. But nothing happened. Shane hadn’t said a word. Not a hint. Not a slip. Your parents were completely oblivious.

And honestly… that shocked you more than anything.

What do most athletes do when they want to forget? They push too hard. They stay out too late. They chase noise because silence hurts more. And that’s exactly how you ended up here—at the first club your friends managed to drag you into.

At first, it felt almost normal. Just you and your friends, drinks in hand, the bass thumping through the floor, everyone laughing too loudly over the music. For a little while… you actually forgot. The lights were bright, the room was warm, and the world felt far enough away that you could breathe without thinking of him.

For a moment, it was easy to pretend you were fine.

You sat at the bar, swirling a glass of something strong and definitely too expensive, watching the ice melt in slow circles. The music thumped through the floor, loud enough to rattle your ribs, but for once you didn’t mind. Noise was easier than thinking.

“Gosh, I love this song!” your friend shouted over the music, eyes bright with the kind of joy only a crowded club and a few drinks could create.

She bumped your shoulder, grinning. “Come on, let’s dance!”

You barely had time to open your mouth before she and the others grabbed your hands and pulled you off the stool, dragging you straight into the sea of bodies on the dance floor.

It took a few seconds to adjust—to the lights, the heat, the press of people—but then the rhythm caught you. You let yourself move with it, laughing when your friends spun you around, singing along even when you didn’t know all the words. You let the music take over, let the alcohol soften the edges of everything you’d been trying not to feel.

For a little while, you did exactly what people with too much in their system always did.

You let yourself forget.

Within minutes, a few guys around your age had drifted into your circle—laughing, joking, trying way too hard to keep up with the energy of your friends. One of them leaned in a little too close, shoulder brushing yours as he told a joke that actually made you laugh. For a moment, you let yourself enjoy it. Let yourself be distracted. Let yourself pretend the night was simple.

Then it hit you—that prickling awareness along your spine, the unmistakable feeling of being watched.

You turned slowly, eyes scanning the room, the lights, the crowd.

And there he was.

Rozanov.

Leaning against the far wall like he’d been carved into the scene, casual and impossible to ignore. Of course it had to be him. He wore some ridiculous t‑shirt with a giant tiger on it—something only a Slavic millionaire with too much confidence could ever pull off. And somehow, on him, it looked perfect.

His eyes were locked on you. Not just watching—pinning you in place. Seeing straight through the noise and the lights and the guy still talking beside you. You were laughing with someone else, smiling, moving like you were finally alive again… and he was standing there surrounded by a cluster of girls who clearly wanted his attention. Maybe because he was an NHL star. Maybe because he was just so stupidly, unfairly attractive.

But he wasn’t looking at them.

He was looking at you.

And the air between you felt charged, sharp, like the night had just shifted under your feet.

You tried to focus on your friends, on the music, on anything other than him—but your eyes kept drifting back. He hadn’t moved. He wasn’t smiling, wasn’t waving, wasn’t trying to flirt. He was just… watching. Quietly. Steadily. Like he was trying to read you from across the room.

Every laugh you forced, every dance move, every sip of your drink felt too loud under his gaze. Your chest tightened, and a strange, irrational guilt washed over you. Why am I even here? Why does it feel like I’m doing something wrong?

You stumbled a little on your heels, the floor tilting for a second, and one of your friends grabbed your arm. “Hey, you okay?” she asked, eyes narrowing with concern.

You nodded quickly, forcing a smile you didn’t feel. “Yeah. Just… dizzy.”

But the smile didn’t reach your eyes, and you knew she could tell.

Then, out of the corner of your vision, you saw him move. Not toward you—toward the hallway. Toward the quieter part of the club where the music softened and the lights dimmed. He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to.

Your heart hammered against your ribs.

You knew exactly where he was going.

And for reasons you couldn’t fully explain—reasons you didn’t want to examine too closely—you slipped away from your friends and followed him.

You hesitated for barely a second before pushing the restroom door open.

Ilya was at the sink, washing his hands like he had all the time in the world. When he caught your reflection in the mirror, one brow lifted slowly, almost lazily.

He scoffed.

“Wrong restroom,” he said coolly. “Men only.”

You rolled your eyes and stepped farther inside, letting the door swing shut behind you. “Very funny.”

He grabbed a paper towel, drying his hands with slow, deliberate movements before turning to face you fully. Up close, he looked… unfair. Relaxed in that infuriating way only he could be. Broad shoulders, that stupid jawline, eyes that always seemed to see too much. Like he hadn’t been unraveling you from the inside for weeks.

He tilted his head, lips curling into something sharp and humorless. “What? You gonna report me now? Brother already did that part?”

“That’s not funny,” you snapped, the words coming out tighter than you meant.

“Isn’t it?” he shrugged, the movement sharp. “Thought we were calling things jokes now. Like ‘weekend fling.’”

The words landed like a punch. You felt them in your stomach, in your throat, everywhere.

You crossed your arms, suddenly aware of how small the room felt, how close the walls were, how close he was. “I didn’t come here to fight.”

“No?” He stepped closer, just enough that you could feel the heat of him, just enough to make your pulse jump. “Then why follow me into the bathroom, Hollander? Nostalgic? Or you just miss making bad decisions?”

Your jaw tightened. “You’re being an asshole.”

He smiled—slow, bitter, nothing like the soft grin you used to get. “Yeah. That’s what happens when you get kicked out of an apartment after being told you were… what was it?” He tapped his temple, pretending to search for the memory. “‘One, max two nights.’”

You looked away, the guilt rising fast and hot, curling tight in your chest. You hated how much it still hurt him. You hated that you’d been the one to put that look on his face.

You clenched your fists, stepping a little closer even though every part of you screamed not to. “So now it’s just funny to you? To… mess with me?”

He tilted his head, that infuriating smirk widening like he’d been waiting for this. “Mess with you? Me? Oh, Hollander, I’m insulted. I’m simply pointing out facts.”

That’s when it hit you—he was making fun of you. Or pretending to. Or using it as armor. You couldn’t tell. You never could with him. Half the time he was a wall, the other half he was a storm, and you were always stuck trying to guess which version you were getting.

“Facts?” you scoffed, heat rising in your chest. “What facts? That you’re a narcissistic asshole who can’t take a hint?”

“Ah, finally! Some fire.” His eyes lit up, sharp and amused. “I was worried you’d gone soft after Boston.”

He leaned back against the sink like he owned the place, arms crossed, posture relaxed in a way that made your pulse jump. He looked too calm. Too collected. Like none of this touched him the way it touched you.

“But really…” he continued, voice dropping into something almost mocking. “Look at you. Following me into a men’s restroom because of some guilty conscience. That’s… impressive.”

“Impressive?” you repeated, disbelief slicing through your voice. “You’re ridiculous.”

But underneath the anger, something else twisted—hurt, confusion, the sting of knowing he was doing this on purpose. Pushing. Poking. Trying to get a reaction because it was easier than admitting he cared.

And you hated that you still cared too.

He chuckled—low, amused, shaking his head like he genuinely couldn’t believe you. “Ridiculous? Me? Oh, Hollander… you make it too easy.”

“Easy?” you snapped, stepping closer even though your chest fluttered in a way you hated. “I’m not—this isn’t—”

“Not easy?” he cut in, one brow lifting with sharp precision. “Tell me, following me into the men’s restroom… is that supposed to be bravery? Or guilt? Or are you just stupid?”

Your jaw clenched so hard it almost hurt. “Maybe all of the above. Happy now?”

He leaned in, just enough to brush the edge of your space, just enough to make your breath catch. The smirk stayed, but there was something darker behind it—something that made your pulse jump.

“Very,” he murmured. “It’s… entertaining. Watching you pretend you’re tough when you’re clearly a complete mess.”

“I hate you, Rozanov.” The words came out sharp, spit like venom. And for a split second, you almost believed them. Maybe this was what Shane meant. Maybe it really was in Hollander blood—this instinct to bristle, to fight, to flare up when you were scared. Part of you wanted to punch him. Part of you wanted to cry. And part of you—God help you—wanted to kiss him.

“Mhm. Sure you do.” His voice was soft, almost bored, as he brushed past you with effortless ease, like you weren’t the storm he’d just stirred up.

He didn’t look back.

He just walked out, leaving you standing there in the too‑bright bathroom, heart pounding, hands shaking, and absolutely no idea which part of you he’d just set on fire.

You stayed frozen, staring at the closed door like it might swing back open if you just wished hard enough. Like maybe he’d come back in with that annoyed little huff, ready to argue again, ready to stay.

But the door didn’t move.

And you felt yourself sink.

You wanted to disappear. Pretend none of this had happened. Pretend he had never happened. Your mind spun in frantic circles, reaching for escape routes that didn’t exist. You could run away to Mexico. Start a drug cartel. Change your name. Get a terrible fringe and claim it was a “new era.” Honestly, every option sounded easier than dealing with Ilya Rozanov and the mess sitting heavy in your chest.

Because Rozanov probably hated you by now.

And you?

Well.

You didn’t know what you felt—but it definitely wasn’t hate.

It was something messier. Something that sat low in your stomach and twisted every time you breathed. Guilt. Regret. That awful, sinking pull that told you this wasn’t finished, no matter how desperately you wanted it to be. You’d said things you couldn’t take back. You’d pushed him away because it felt safer than admitting you cared.

And now he’d walked away first.

That was the part that stung the most—the part that lodged itself under your ribs and refused to budge. You’d spent weeks trying to forget him, trying to outrun the memory of him, and somehow he still managed to leave you feeling abandoned.

You pressed your palms to your eyes, trying to steady yourself, but the ache didn’t go anywhere.

It just settled deeper.

© 𝗘𝗟𝗔𝗘𝗭𝗭

🎙️ela speaks 💔💔💔💔 they need to be happy again

🎞️ taglist @lunadi1una @wonderland2425 @bethexo07 @cuoredicarta00 @4jjsbank @haowonbins @jesswy @misaccc @yaraza @smurfetsstuff @x-evieee-x @girlwithbluehairrr @faatxma @mothericraveviolence57 @advicefromnixxxx @melodypcy @frampktu @camilahpg03 @burkylover @sleeping-l0s3rs @trulycayla @lilemilyx @naylanae-0308 @jjonniej @aerina-wayne @georgeweaslysgirl @capircorndepression @barnes70stark @whatdoesthesenpai @stupidthoughtsinwriting @wolfiemarley @th0tformikasa @minfolio @pearlescentswirls @taking1nspiration @velvetsbakery @min1k1ssr @kingshitonly @oceansstone @jaes-last-words @perks-of-being-jojo @hvrricanq @maeranrayus @sassyvillaintrope @upwillbyers @milkkteary @babywinter @kheurwen ( big sorry to @garcialuvs , @ghosty-me & @user1281908 but because I’m an idiot I forgot to tag you in previous part. Read weekend lover for better understanding )

[elaezz]

I NEED the next chapter of bad ideas repeated😭🙏🏻 your writing is beautiful

Hi babe, it’ll be up in few hours dw! ❤️ sorry for being off for few days :) I was busy watching Olympics (any NHL/Slafkovský/Nečas fans here? 😇) and I was spending time with my family in general 💕