HollanovSoup

Reader, writer and artist Heated Rivalry fics and random thoughts she/her Requests: OPEN

[hollanovsoup]

Hiii!

Intro post!!

This is my blog for my writing and just random thoughts.

Requests open for fics in these fandoms:

- Heated Rivalry

- The Pitt

- TopGun

- 9-1-1

- Project Hail Mary

- Supernatural

- DCU

My AO3 where I post longer fics: https://archiveofourown.org/users

ScarletSentiments

You can find all my work under the #fanfic under my posts (also now #headcanon and #random thoughts)

[hollanovsoup]

Hey,

I’m looking for a beta reader for a couple fics I have in the works!

I’ve had so much stuff come up at work lately that I don’t really have the time to properly edit and reread my fics as much as I’d like before posting.

I’m mainly looking for someone who can help with grammar/typos, awkward wording, pacing, characterization, plot holes, and just generally point out anything that might need another look. I’d also really appreciate someone who’s comfortable giving honest/contructive feedback!

Please DM or comment if you’re interested

It would be so greatly appreciated 🩷

[hollanovsoup]

Could you maybe write a ficlet of a mundane day at the cottage. Just, Hollanov loving and existing and bickering

OMG of course those are kinda my fav fics to read and write

tysm for the request!!

short little ficlet below :)

The thing that Shane had learned about peace, especially when it came to his husband, was that peace was surprisingly loud.

Not loud in the way hockey arenas were loud. not like the roar of thousands of people, and not like the crack of puck meeting stick on the ice.

This loud was different

This was the sound of birds outside the window. The creak of wooden floors. The hum of the coffee maker. 

And, most importantly, the sound of Ilya Rozanov refusing to wake up.

—

Shane stood in the kitchen after his daily morning run, smoothie in hand, staring off in the direction of the bedroom door.

It’d been exactly fifteen minutes since he’d first heard movement. Ten minutes since Ilya had grumpily moaned that he was awake. And five minutes since the house had gone silent, which meant that he in fact was not awake.

Shane walked down the hallway and leaned against the doorway, staring at Ilya who was exactly where he expected him to be: buried under the comforter, one arm thrown over his face, shielding his eyes from the offending sunlight.

“Are you alive?” Shane asked with a soft smirk. He felt so lucky in moments like these.

A muffled voice came from beneath the blanket, “Barely”

“It’s almost ten in the morning.”

“Is fine. Who cares?”

“You were the one who said you wanted to get an early start.”

“I said this when I was young and foolish.” 

“You said it last night.”

“I’ve learned much since then.”

Shane rolled his eyes at that but couldn’t help the smile that was on his face.

“Come on, it’s time to get up.” Shane said

“No.” Ilya replied obstinately 

“I made breakfast.”

A pause,

Then the blankets shifted, revealing a very cranky, disheveled, Ilya.

“What breakfast?”

“Pancakes and bacon. Your favorite.”

Another pause, and then, “Your bribery works on me.”

“I’m aware,” Shane replied smugly

Ilya finally emerged from the bed, his hair was messy and he was wearing boxers and a shirt that Shane was almost certain belonged to him.

“Is that my shirt?” Shane asked with a scoff

Ilya looked down at what he was wearing, looked back and stared Shane directly in the eyes before replying with a simple, “No.”

“It definitely is.”

“Definitely not.” 

“Come on Ilya, you have like, fifty shirts,”

“Eh, this one is better.”

“How?”

Ilya shrugged, “Maybe because it smells like you.”

Shane opened his mouth to respond.

Then he closed it. 

Because there were many things he could say to Ilya. He could argue how his property was his. He could argue the absurdity of it all. But he couldn’t. Not when he felt this happy. Not when his whole world felt complete with the love of his life sitting in his bed saying sweet things like that,

So he said nothing. 

Ilya smiled, victorious, “You are making that face.”

“What face?”

“Your emotional overthinking face. Is very common face for you.”

“I don’t have an emotional overthinking face.”

“You do.”

“I don’t”

“You do. It is very cute.”

Shane immediately turned around and walked back towards the kitchen.

“I’m finishing your breakfast.”

“You’re running away!” Ilya called after him

“Ilya.”

“мой Шейн.”

“You’re being annoying.”

“You know you love me.”

Shane sighed, "Unfortunately."

Ilya followed him into the kitchen, looking far to pleased with himself.

They sat at the table and ate their breakfasts together and Shane couldn’t be happier. Even if the day was nothing more than cleaning or swimming or napping, as long as Ilya was there, it was perfect.

[hollanovsoup]

I might go on a break for a couple of days/weeks probably so no fics or posts or anything. This isn’t too different from what’s currently been going on with my blog but I figured I should actually say something.

I just am having a hard time finding joy in this fandom recently with everything going on.

It's hitting my mental health pretty hard to have one of the few things that brings me genuine joy be ruined like this because of the fandom and the way they treat fellow fans and the actors. And also the messages I’ve been receiving in my inbox after addressing this. Not just this is why I’m taking a break but it’s a large part of it.

Sorry.

(Mostly really really really really super sorry to the people who enjoy the fics I write and also sorry I haven’t written or updated in a while)

[hollanovsoup]

How could it be a smear campaign organized by fans when he’s the one who had a racist instagram and a swastika on his head? The only person who’s orchestrating a smear campaign is himself? These kinds of things always come out about celebrities, no one can hide them, it’s inevitable. What does it bring found have to do with a smear campaign? Immediately jumping to blaming others instead of recognizing hudson did a shitty thing. U sound deranged.

Also since you clearly didn't read my actual post

that Instagram hasnt been confirmed as his. There’s a lack of solid proof it is, it’s completely realistic and plausible it was setup as a defamation attempt, so no

But even if it was? He was a kid.

Teenagers do dumb shit. I'm not saying it would be excusable, or right, if it comes out he is completely at fault for this I would be fine admitting that and not supporting him so much but I'm also saying teenagers are dumbasses who don't always understand the weight of what they're doing.

And at the end of the day, that doesn't justify racism, death threats, and harassment toward him now. Read the post before you come into my inbox acting ignorant.

And to make it clear, all I’m saying is, racism, death threats and harassment are WRONG. Whether he did or didn’t do it he was a teenager and the response now is fucking wrong. there is a SMALL and SPECIFIC group of fans I’m talking about. NOT ALL FANS.

[hollanovsoup]

unbelievable. atp your initial reaction is still to blame the other fans, while he's the one who had a swastika drawn on his forehead. I’m sure he’s a better person now, but still, that doesn't erase the fact that in this matter, he has no one to blame but himself and his circle.

Did I excuse the photo? No. No I didn’t. But there has been a pattern of racism, harassment and death threats towards him.

That’s what I have a problem with and me saying that shouldn’t be ‘unbelievable’

I'm not gonna debate whether Hudson deserved this. I just know that the fandom I loved doesn't feel good anymore.

You can hold someone accountable for past mistakes and still call out harassment in the present. One doesn't cancel out the other. Racism and death threats aren't justice they're just more harm.

I’m also not gonna debate whether he knew or didn’t know. I wasn’t there. I’m not gonna say what did or didn’t happen or what I think maybe happened because at the end of the day I don’t know. No one except the people involved know. All I know is the current situation is gross and no one deserves it.

[hollanovsoup]

Honestly, the whole Hudson situation is fucking disgusting.

The hate and racism l've seen towards him on many platforms is sickening. These toxic Connor and Francois 'fans' who are sending death threats and running this smear campaign are awful. They say they're fans but with what the actors have said about this kind of behavior in the past they aren't real fans. They're weird.

It literally makes me sick.

It makes me not want to be a part of this fandom anymore or write or post about because I don't want to be associated with any of this just because I like the show.

This is why we can't have nice things.

[hollanovsoup]

okay but consider: Shane Hollander has a specific "ilya is about to do something stupid" sixth sense

he'll be in the other room completely minding his own business and suddenly his head snaps up like a dog hearing a squeaky toy

"Ilya.”

"i didn't do anything."

"you are THINKING about doing something."

"...that's not a crime."

(Ilya was about to order short yoga shorts in bulk because Shane looks hot in them and Ilya never wants him to run out of them. Ever.)

[hollanovsoup]

Question:

I want to expand my blog past my fan fiction and all that. Don't get me wrong, I love love love writing but my WIP is gonna take a while and I'm not getting any requests for any other fics and I suck at coming up with my own ideas, so until l get some requests or a chapter is finished which can take a while my tumblr is pretty inactive but I also enjoy posting and interacting.

So, do I make a separate blog to post about my nail and makeup art and the books I've been reading and just life stuff, or do I just post that here in between chapters of my fic and filling fic requests. Because apart from fic stuff, rn I don't really post on my blog at all or know what to post.

What should I do?

Make another blog for other topics

Post other topics here

Voting ended onJun 1

[hollanovsoup]

Between quiet hours chapter 4

Hi hi

I’m so sorry this chapter is so late, I try to post every day or every other day but now I’m three days late :(

I was busy with my anniversary and the official meeting of my partners parents 😬

Link to chapter 1: https://www.tumblr.com/hollanovsoup/817001284338057216/between-quiet-hours-shane-x-ilya-summary-ilya

Link to chapter 2: https://www.tumblr.com/hollanovsoup/817012341320384512/between-quiet-hours-chapter-212-a-series-of

Link to chapter 3: https://www.tumblr.com/hollanovsoup/817106212084678656/between-quiet-hours-chapter-3-link-to-chapter-1

Ilya woke up shaking.

It was the first thing he noticed, before the pale morning light shining through the curtains, before the familiar ceiling, before the muffled sound of David moving around in the kitchen downstairs. The tremor started somewhere deep inside him. In his chest, maybe, or at the base of his skull. It radiated outwards until his hands were trembling against the sheets and his jaw began to achefrom clenching it.

He was burning. Or freezing. He didn’t know the difference anymore.

The blankets were twisted around his legs, soaked with his sweat. His shirt clung to his back. Every breath he took felt shallow, like his lungs had forgotten how to expand fully.

He laid still for a long moment, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for his body to remember how to be normal.

It didn't.

He forced himself into a standing position. The room tilted, corrected, tilted again. He gripped onto the edge of the mattress and blinked hard until the walls stopped moving. They didn’t, and so he sat back down on the bed until they did.

‘Not sick, he told himself. This isn't sickness.’

It was the medication. Or the lack of it. Withdrawal. Rebound. The body trying to regulate itself after weeks of being fed chemicals on an irregular schedule and then starved of them entirely.

That was it.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up again.

The floor rushed up to meet him.

He caught himself on the nightstand, knocking over the empty glass from last night. It rolled across the surface, clinked against the pill bottle Shane had set there the night before, and stopped.

Ilya stared at it.

The glass. The half-empty bottle of pills.

He left them where they were.

_______

He made it to the bathroom on his own. That felt like an achievement, even though he had to stop twice and lean against the wall to catch his breath. He ran cold water, splashed it on his face, and watched the droplets slide down his skin in the mirror.

His cheeks were flushed. His eyes looked glassy, unfocused.

He pressed a hand to his forehead. Warm. Not hot. Warm enough.

‘It's fine. It's just fatigue.’

He dried his face, steadied himself, and opened the door.

Shane was standing in the hallway. Waiting for him.

He wasn't lurking. He wasn't hovering. He was just standing there, leaning against the wall opposite the bathroom door, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

Ilya stopped.

"Morning," he said. His voice came out rougher than he'd intended.

Shane didn't say anything. He just looked at him. His eyes moved from Ilya's face to his hands, which were trembling visibly, and then back up to his face.

"How long have you been awake?" Shane asked gently.

"Not long."

"You're shaking."

"I am cold."

"It's seventy degrees in here. And as you like to say, ‘I am Russian. Russians do not get cold’.”

Ilya didn't have an answer for that.

Shane pushed off the wall and walked toward him. Not fast. Not aggressive. A steady approach, like he was giving Ilya time to retreat. Ilya didn't move.

Shane stopped a foot away and lifted his hand, slow enough that Ilya could have flinched. He didn't. Shane pressed the back of his fingers to Ilya's forehead, just briefly, and then dropped his hand.

"You're warm," Shane said.

"I'm fine."

"You said that yesterday and now you look worse today."

Ilya opened his mouth to argue, to deflect, to offer some half-truth about poor sleep or dehydration, but Shane was already shaking his head.

"Come on," Shane said. Not asking. "Back to bed."

"I don't need—"

"Ilya." Shane's voice was quiet and firm, but there was something underneath it. Not frustration. Not anger. Something closer to exhaustion, but the sympathetic kind. The kind that came from watching someone you care about run themselves into the ground and pretend the ground wasn't there. "You've been here maybe, I don’t know, fifty hours. You've eaten maybe four hundred calories total. You're shaking so bad I can see it from across the hall. Just, let me do this. One day. One day in bed. That's all I'm asking. I won’t tell my parents anything you don’t want me to.”

Ilya wanted to argue.

He wanted to explain that this wasn't a fever, wasn't an infection, wasn't something that bed rest would fix. That his body was doing this because his brain had stopped making the chemicals it needed, and lying down wouldn't restart production. That he didn’t want to ruin plans or that he didn’t want Yuna and David to worry.

But the words felt heavy. Too heavy to say.

He, albeit reluctantly, let Shane take his arm and guide him back to the bedroom.

________

The sheets felt cold when he got back in.

Ilya laid down on his side, facing the wall, and pulled the blanket up to his chin. His body still trembled, fine and constant, like a phone left on vibrate against a table.

He heard Shane move around the room. The soft thud of footsteps. The click of the window being shut. The rustle of fabric.

Then a weight settled over him.

Another blanket. Thicker. Heavier. The kind kept at the foot of the bed for winter nights that never came in a house this well-heated.

Ilya didn't open his eyes.

"You don't have to—"

"I know."

Shane's voice was close. He was sitting on the edge of the bed now. Ilya could feel the slight dip in the mattress, the warmth of his presence a few inches away.

A glass of water appeared on the nightstand, replacing the one Ilya had knocked over.

"I'm going to leave this here," Shane said. "Drink it when you can.”

Ilya nodded against the pillow. A small movement. Barely anything.

Shane didn't leave immediately.

He sat there for a while, quiet, not speaking, not touching, just present. The silence stretched, long and heavy.

After a minute, or five, or ten, Shane stood.

"I'll be downstairs if you need me. Get some rest.” He said, turning back to look at him before adding, “I love you Ilya.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Ilya lay there, wrapped in blankets he hadn't asked for, with water he hadn't requested, in a bed he hadn't wanted to return to.

His body still shook.

But the blankets were heavy and the room was quiet. And somewhere downstairs, Shane was waiting, patient as stone, trying to explain to his parents that, yes Ilya definitely was fine (lie), and no they couldn’t go up and check him.

Ilya closed his eyes.

He didn't sleep. But for a long while, he stayed still.

That was something.

______________

As always thank you so much for reading and I’m so sorry for posting so late (even if none of you care, I do)

Any comments, likes or reblogs are greatly appreciated and fic requests are highly encouraged (PLEASE SOMEONE REQUEST SOMETHING)

Link to my AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/ users/ScarletSentiments

[eedweiz]

There'll be statues of him all over the place.

Statues of Grace with his new familly and his students

[hollanovsoup]

😭😭😭😭

[hollanovsoup]

I love and hate when I get short story assignment in my literature course. I know I’m about to either get 100/100 on this assignment or accused of using AI because of proper writing, grammar and punctuation (dashes)

[hollanovsoup]

Between Quiet Hours

Chapter 3

Link to chapter 1: https://www.tumblr.com/hollanovsoup/817001284338057216/between-quiet-hours-shane-x-ilya-summary-ilya

Link to chapter 2: https://www.tumblr.com/hollanovsoup/817012341320384512/between-quiet-hours-chapter-212-a-series-of

CW: Angst, medications, depression, panic attacks

It happened with the soft plastic rattle, barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator, as a bottle of antidepressants fell off Ilya’s nightstand as he bumped into it on the way to the bathroom, rolled across the guest room floor and came to a stop against Shane's bare foot.

Ilya froze in the doorway.

Shane was already crouched down, picking it up before Ilya could cross the room and intercept it. His thumb found the label automatically, the way athletes read scouting reports, quick, efficient, taking in everything.

Shane had obviously known Ilya was on antidepressants, but something was off here.

Three refills. Two of them never picked up. "It's nothing," Ilya said, stepping forward, reaching for it. "I just—you don't need to—"

Shane didn't hand it back. "These are from November, Ilya." His voice was quiet. Careful. The kind of careful that meant he was holding something heavy. "Your prescription says twice a day. Two refills expired. The third one's still active but this is the first and the bottle's half full."

Ilya's stomach dropped. He kept his face still. "I've been managing."

"Managing how?"

"Shane."

"I'm not accusing you of anything." Shane held the bottle up, not demanding, just showing. "I'm asking because I want to understand. I just wanna help you.”

There it was. The thing about Shane that made Ilya want to scream or kiss him or collapse, sometimes both. He never cornered. He never accused. He just left the door open and waited, patient as stone, until he decided whether or not to walk through it.

Ilya didn't walk through it.

"I have been inconsistent with the dosing," he said, and the words came out flat, clinical, like he was reading a report about someone else. "Is not big deal. I'll fix it when I get back home."

"When you get back home." Shane repeated it slowly, like he was testing the weight of each word. "That's three weeks from now. That’s after this break and after 6 more games.”

"I'll be fine."

"You skipped breakfast. You skipped lunch yesterday. You've been shivering since you walked through the door and it's seventy-two degrees in here."

Ilya opened his mouth. Closed it. He hadn't realized Shane was counting. "The nausea is from medication," Ilya said finally. "Or the lack of it. I don't know. It passes. I am fine.”

"And the shivering?"

"Is just temperature issue. Common side effect." He said it like he was reading off a bottle. “Is not dangerous. Galina says so.”

Shane was quiet for a long moment. Then he set the bottle down on the dresser, deliberately, like he was marking territory Ilya couldn't reclaim. "I'm not going to make you talk about this," Shane said. "But I'm not going to pretend I didn't see it, either."

Ilya nodded, once, sharp. That should have been the end of it. It wasn’t.

___________

By noon, the nausea had moved from background noise to a dull, persistent ache that sat behind Ilya's ribs.

Yuna had made miso soup, something light, the kind of thing you made for someone when you suspected they weren't eating but didn't want to say it outright. Ilya managed three spoonfuls before his stomach turned and he had to excuse himself to the bathroom.

He stood over the sink for five minutes, gripping the porcelain, waiting for the wave to pass. His reflection stared back at him, pale and hollow-eyed, hair disheveled in a way that looked less like a stylistic choice and more like a symptom.

You look exhausted.

He splashed cold water on his face. The shock of it helped, briefly. When he came back out, Yuna had cleared his bowl without comment. She was reading something on her phone, legs curled under her on the couch, and she looked up when he entered.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Fine. Just travel catching up." The same lame excuse he’d been giving for two days now.

She nodded. Didn't push. But her eyes lingered a beat longer than they should have.

Ilya sat down in the armchair across from her, pulled his knees up, and pretended to scroll through his own phone. The screen was dark. He didn't unlock it.

____________

The temperature thing got worse in the afternoon.

One moment he was too hot, sweat prickling at the back of his neck, his shirt sticking to his shoulder blades. The next, he was freezing, deep bone-cold that no blanket could touch.

He wrapped himself in the throw from the couch and sat rigidly, trying not to let his teeth chatter.

Shane walked past, saw him, and stopped. "Want me to turn the heat up?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"I'm fine."

Shane looked at him. Didn't move. Ilya's jaw tightened.

"I said I'm fine." He snapped.

"Okay." Shane held up both hands, a small surrender, and kept walking.

Ilya watched him go and felt something twist in his chest. Guilt, maybe. Or frustration. He wasn't sure anymore. They blended together these days, all the sharp edges worn smooth by repetition.

_________________

Night came. Ilya lay in the guest bed, alone, staring at the ceiling, counting the minutes as they stretched into hours.

He’d insisted on sleeping in another room.

Partially because he didn’t want to have to face the conversation that awaited him in the room he shared with shane, also because Shane insisted on not having the fan on while they slept because he was a notoriously light sleeper and it would keep him awake but with Ilya’s temperate deregulation his body was overheated and needed the fan, so this was the compromise.

His body was exhausted. He could feel it in the ache behind his eyes, in the way his limbs felt weighted, in the hollow pull behind his sternum that meant his system was running on empty.

But his brain wouldn't shut up.

The dosage inconsistency looped through his mind on repeat. He should have refilled them. He should have been more careful. He should have hidden the bottle before Shane found it. He should have been better at pretending, because pretending was the only thing keeping the structure of his life intact.

You're falling apart.

No. He wasn't. He was tired. That was all.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from Shane, two rooms away.

‘Still awake?’

Ilya stared at it. His thumbs hovered over the keyboard.

He typed: ‘ Almost asleep.’

He deleted it.

He typed: ‘Yeah.’

He deleted that too.

Finally, he sent: ‘ I’m fine. Long day. Go to sleep.’

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Then: ‘ Okay. Door's open if you need anything. Love you’

Ilya set the phone face-down on the nightstand.

The silence pressed in. The ceiling stayed blank. His heart started beating faster for no reason he could name, a slow crawl into panic that built like pressure behind a dam.

His breath came shorter.

His hands started shaking.

He knew what this was. He'd been here before, in hotel rooms and locker rooms and the back of taxis, alone with his own mind spinning out of control. His brain screaming at him that something was wrong, everything was wrong, he was going to lose the thread entirely and never find it again.

Breathe.

He couldn't.

Breathe.

The panic crested, crested, crested—

And then it ebbed.

Not because he fixed it. Not because he did anything. Just because his body ran out of fuel for it, the same way a fire burns through everything in reach and then gutters out on its own.

Ilya lay there, trembling, sweat cooling on his forehead, and waited for his heartbeat to return to something resembling normal.

When it did, he whispered into the dark:

"It’s just fatigue. I am fine.”

The words hung in the air, thin and unconvincing, like a promise he didn't believe anymore.

He didn't sleep.

He just lay there, eyes open, waiting for morning to find him still intact enough to pretend.

_______________

Thanks so much for reading :)

More chapters incoming and also other stuff coming on my ao3

Please please please leave comments and requests for future fics I LOVE hearing what people wanna read and fulfilling that

Link to my AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/ users/ScarletSentiments

[hollanovsoup]

Question: Who watches Grace sleep when he’s living on Erid?

We know that it’s important to Rocky and Rocky’s species to watch each other sleep for protection purposes and that extends to Grace. So when Grace gets to Erid and he’s living in his biosphere and Rocky is reunited with Adrian and from what we see in the movie doesn’t live with Grace, who now watches Grace? Does no one? Because I feel like in my heart of hearts Rocky wouldn’t be ok with that but idk

this feels like the stupidest question ever but I’m so curious

[hollanovsoup]

A request? Hmmm... can I request a Ryland Grace fic around the topic of a picnic?

You can take this in whatever direction you want.

Oh my gosh I love this idea soo much and thank you for the request

Here’s some cute rocky, Adrian and grace going on a cute Eridian picnic date ☺️

The biosphere dome is large and functional. A few hydroponic trays line the walls, packed with fast-growing beans and leafy greens that Grace has learned to tend out of pure necessity. A single tomato plant has somehow survived, its thin vine curling up a stake he'd fashioned from a scrap of the Hail Mary's interior paneling. The air smells like damp soil, plant sweat, sea water and recycled humidity. It's beautiful, but it's not Earth, but it’s also close enough.

There's a knock at the airlock. Two short thumps, then a third. Rocky's signature.

Grace wipes his hands on his pants, mission-issue, starting to fray at the knees, and cycles the airlock. The flexible tube extends, and a moment later Rocky walks through, his frame filling moving through doorway. Behind him, Adrian follows, moving with a quiet, careful grace that Grace has come to admire.

"Welcome," Grace says, and means it.

Rocky's translator crackles to life. "dome is warm today.I like.”

"Glad to hear it. Make yourselves comfortable."

Grace drags over a stool and pats the floor beside it, the tarp is clean enough on the rocky sand of the artificial beach. Rocky folds himself down with a grunt, and Adrian settles close, their carapaces brushing.

Grace looks at his spread. It's humble. Embarrassingly so.

A single bowl of rehydrated bean mash, still steaming. A handful of cherry tomatoes, halved. Two leaves of fresh lettuce, washed and torn into pieces. A MeBurger. A cup of hot water with a fresh sprig of mint from his tiny garden,

"Ah." A pause. Then Rocky gestures at the table. "You make with what you have, question. That is good. Food look good for human grace. Adrian and I enjoy Eridian nutritional content.” His Stoney arm gesturing to the container of Eridian food he and Adrian had brought for themselves

They eat together, sharing what there is. Adrian is quiet but attentive, always pushing the remaining food toward Grace to eat, while rocky continued to tease about how human eating ‘look disgust’. Grace watches them interact the way Adrian's claw will rest on Rocky's carapace, the way Rocky will let out a high pitched chittering laugh when Adrian attempts a joke and grace feels like he's intruding on something private.

After the food is gone, they sit in the quiet hum of the dome's life support. Adrian leans into Rocky's side, their turquoise carapace warm against the deep copper of Rocky’s. Rocky's translator picks up a stray murmur: "This is nice."

"Yeah," Grace says, leaning back against the crate. The mint sprig floats in his cup of hot water, slowly unfurling. "It really is."

_____

As always, please leave comments and any requests or ideas for fics and thank you so much for reading

[hollanovsoup]

i wish someone would request a fic (so i can justify ignoring my responsibilities for “creative purposes”) 👀

(And also procrastinate on the fic I’m currently writing)

[hollanovsoup]

fat baby shane hollander with the kind of cheeks that made strangers in grocery stores stop yuna just to tell her how cute he was

like genuinely absurdly chubby baby. little wrist rolls. looked perpetually confused. dressed in 6 month old clothing at 2 months. the works.

ilya finds the baby photo album one day and has to sit down halfway through because unfortunately baby shane smiling with cheeks so chubby they hide his eyes is the cutest thing he’s ever seen in his life. he now keeps at least one photo of baby Shane in his wallet at all times to look at if he’s having bad day.