the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak

cee ♱ she / her ♱ late 20s adjunct professor in cliffonomics ao3

[hudconvent]

GOD……AND THEM KICKING THE SOCCER BALL AROUND…….shane pulling out the ball and being like :33 wanna go outside:33 can we go outside and kick the ball around :33 i want to be outside and playing with you do you want to play with me :3333

[hudconvent]

let shane hollander get his derp on

[hudconvent]

one of my favorite moments in the whole show is in the end credits in the car back from shane’s parents where shane makes his little rawr face….and initially i was like oh this is just hudson goofing off that they left in but the more i think about it i just love SO MUCH to think about it being shane….and like the overwhelming joy and happiness and RELIEF…..the freedom to finally derp out with the man he loves….what if we all live

[iwrotemrtambourineman]

i know this scene gets talked about so much but watching the bellboy bit again last night its just so sweet how one of the first things that shane does after implementing cottage honesty is his little bellboy joke like he’s going “play with me! i want to play with you! look how silly I’m being! do bits with me please!” love really is stored in the silly bits you do with your partner

[hudconvent]

okay i worked very hard all morning and i came back and we reinvented thought crimes

[hudconvent]

i must lock in today. throw tomatoes at me if you see me here outside of my lunch hour. go ahead and take one 🍅 🍅 🍅

[hudconvent]

hudson and connor are two good looking young men now but just wait until theyre like 40 oh my god and we get to be there for all of it

[hudconvent]

one must imagine marly and ilya hungover fighting for their lives in the chipotle where thomas paine wrote common sense

[hudconvent]

evil ilya be like ginger ale warm enough

[hudconvent]

“hows the water”

“you’re in it”

“yeah but i want to know how you like it”

[bipolar4autistic]

its actually so nauseating thinking about the things shane and ilya did on camera hoping the other was maybe possibly somewhere watching.... i like cant even discuss it. ilya going from making eye contact with reporters and winking to making exclusive eye contact with the cameras when winking. i cant talk about it. shane giving a genuine smile, small chuckle and shake of the head and then-- im sorry what was the question? thining about ilya teasing him for his answers in a post game interview. i cant even think about it. its all so sick. how many little gifts did they give each other that they didnt get to save. how many did they not even know about, never got to see. I CANT DISCUSS IT !!

[oiimoi]

[ivealwayssaidthis]

[swordanddaggerarts]

@sleepythyme Got me a book on JC Leyendecker for my birthday and I’ve been obsessed. Figured the HR boys would look great in that style.

OG magazine cover under the cut.

[hudconvent]

may i post part of a wip that will probably never see the light of day here.. post tuna melt and rose landry discovery ilya crash out / misery jerk-off.. please enjoy <3

Four weeks passed like a montage, an endless slideshow of dull midsized cities: Buffalo, Pittsburgh, Edmonton, Calgary; a treadmill of blustery late-fall weather that bites at exposed skin; an endless procession of stiff queen beds and air conditioner units that would clank and bang and rattle and constantly pull Ilya from an already fraught sleep, so that when he hit the ice the next day he couldn't be entirely sure if he was dreaming or awake.

At least, an Ilya-shaped thing hit the ice. Correct in size and structure, but less defined, almost translucent, abstract. The weeks and the travel and the away games all passed through him like he were made of smoke. The vague impression of Ilya Rozanov.

The hockey was automatic, Ilya's body a machine built for it, for completing a job. Without much mental effort on his part, he could pilot his body and go through the motions, motions he had been taught and perfected since he learned to stand upright on two little feet, propelled forward on two little skates. For those weeks that followed, Ilya did little more on the ice than clock in, complete his job, and clock out. If their captain's absence was felt in the locker room, his teammates certainly didn't show it. There was something ominous about a brooding Ilya that made the rookies anxious, more eager to please, whereas the vets were relieved to get a reprieve from Ilya's antics.

It had been four weeks since the Raiders last played Montreal, and Ilya still felt those fateful 48-hours as acutely as a toothache. Most days he could fold it up, grit his teeth and keep the feeling pressed down until he made it home in the evenings where it would bubble up again when he laid down across that couch, the afterimage of Shane sitting across from him in the late afternoon sun burned into his memory ("I don't know that side of you at all".). Sometimes then, he needed the assistance from a few fingers of vodka, a cigarette smoked inside (or two, or six), the warm mouth of a woman called up from his regular Boston roster, to help further anesthetize the throbbing ache of it.

Ilya let himself foolishly believe he'd be over it by Christmas. A few games against Montreal here and there would muddy the waters, but if he continued to keep his head down, keep his eyes from listlessly searching for freckled cheeks and shining eyes under a visor, he could sleepwalk through the rest of the season, fuck off for the summer, and come back a completely new man, shed his skin like a snake, and start over.

These hopes were swiftly and thoroughly dashed as soon as he saw the headline on Connors's phone, one unremarkable afternoon in the Raider's training facility.

"Roz, you gotta see this." Ilya saw Cliff's pawlike hand waving him over towards the exercise bikes, where he and Connors were hunched over the blue light of a phone screen. "Show him."

Ilya saw the photo before he could process the headline. He tried to make sense of the words on the screen, but his capacity for reading vanished as he felt his stomach hollow out completely.

"No," Ilya uttered, in disbelief.

"I know right, she's a huge fucking movie star," Connors said.

"How did he even meet her?" Ilya could hear Cliff asking, though it felt as though his head were full of water. Ilya took the phone from Connors's hand, not quite able to hear anything anymore over the sound of blood rushing in his ears.

IS ROSE LANDRY DATING MLH STAR SHANE HOLLANDER?

Finally the words clicked into place, as though the photo weren't obvious enough. Plain as day, Shane Hollander hand-in-hand with her, her, Rose Landry. And not only one photo, dozens. Every possible angle of his big hand holding hers from their walk from a blacked-out SUV into some sultry, low-lit Montreal restaurant.

"I know I'd be fucking happy if I was banging Rose Landry."

Ilya saw Connors's hand reach back out for his phone. Fuck, he must have been looking for a while. "You'd be happy to get any pussy at all, Connors." Ilya said, passing his phone back with feigned nonchalance. "Good for Hollander. Maybe she'll pull out stick that's buried in his ass." Ilya felt like he was going to be sick. He swallowed back a dry heave in his throat and sauntered back over to the squat rack. "Back to work, girls."

//

Ilya didn't think about it, at practice that afternoon, his whole body glowing with a fire so hot he's surprised his skates didn't melt through the ice.

He didn't think about it, didn't think about Rose Landry's auburn hair under Shane's fingers, on the frenzied drive home that evening, blowing through countless red lights and stop signs.

He didn't think about it, hands shaking to get the key in the front door, until he dropped his bags in the foyer and made for the kitchen like a heat-seeking missile, pouring eight ounces of vodka into the first cup within arms reach, a plastic Raiders souvenir cup. Only then did Ilya allow himself, with trembling fingers, to search the article again.

SEARCH: rise landry sjane jollaendr *Did you mean: rinse laundry sane jollied

Fuck.

SEARCH: ROSE LANDRY SHANEHOLLANDER

The article popped up. Ilya steeled himself with a mouthful of vodka before clicking it.

That photo again. Shane smiling, holding the delicate hand of Rose Landry, in his stupid blazer over his stupid zip-up jacket. Ilya had never seen that outfit before. He looked very handsome.

Ilya forced himself to scroll and read the article.

"The two met at a mutual friend's party, according to unnamed sources. 'I've never seen Rose this happy,' the source goes on to say."

Rose Landry. How the fuck did that happen? Ilya couldn't fathom Shane Hollander in a coffee shop meet-cute, approaching some nice-looking Canadian girl in a yoga outfit, even less could he imagine him approaching an actress at a party (Hollander at a party? Whose fucking party?) walking right up to her and giving her a line, offering to get her a drink.

And yet again, Ilya thought bitterly, that's exactly how Shane had gotten him. His naive handshake behind the rink so many years ago. His earnestness worked on him, certainly it could work on Rose Landry.

He opened a new browser on his phone, punching at the screen with his thumbs, like his contempt for her would be sent telepathically through the screen.

SEARCH: ROSE LANDRY

Sure, she was cute. Pretty even. Very pretty. Exactly the kind of girl-next-door look that made sense next to Shane Hollander. They would look perfect on a billboard, some cologne advertisement, Shane all windblown, leaning against the mast of a sailboat, Rose Landry with her hands on his chest, under his open shirt.

Ilya had a faint memory of seeing a movie of hers, maybe once, maybe on the hotel television while on the road. Some sort of post-apocalyptic thriller, but mostly white noise to drown out the sound of Marleau and his girl-of-the-day in the next room. Strange, Ilya thought, as he exhausted her IMDB page and changed his trajectory to her Instagram, to think that she was now only two degrees of separation from him.

What did they even talk about? What could Shane Hollander have to say to an A-list actress (He flipped back to her IMDB. No, B-List.) that they would possibly have in common? Did they joke around? What could they possibly be doing together? Ilya took a big, acrid swig from the plastic cup full of vodka, wincing at the heat in his throat and leaning with his elbows against the kitchen counter so hard he thought he might crack the marble.

Ilya remembered a day in the locker room some years back in St. Louis, when he and Marleau miraculously discovered they had brought the same Ashley back to their hotel rooms on consecutive nights. "Sloppy seconds," Marleau had said with a wolfish grin. Rose Landry had his sloppy seconds.

And there it was, a searing hot coal dropped in the pit of his stomach, burning all the way down. The idea that he had tried desperately not to touch upon, that Rose Landry got to have a piece of Shane that Ilya greedily wanted all for himself.

Private little observations that Ilya squirrelled away and kept close to his heart like a treasure: the two lines that formed between his brow when his face was flush with pleasure; the pale, smooth scar from a shoulder surgery on his left shoulder that Ilya would trace with a calloused thumb when he'd press in from behind, the way Ilya could feel his pulse quicken under his tongue and reliably draw out a needy whimper as he kissed and licked that tender spot just under his ear.

None of it belonged to him anymore.

Like a prophecy, Ilya could see it in his mind: her, slinking through Shane's apartment like she owned it. They probably would go up the normal elevator, and she would probably smile and wave at his doorman because there would be no reason for her not to, no reason for him to hide her, no need to sneak her up a service stairwell under cover of night. She would probably be looking through his things, maybe browsing his bookshelves, picking up a family photo off the mantle, running her fingers over little tchotchkes Shane had paid someone else to arrange. Shane would follow her, hands coyly tucked into his pockets, modestly talking about what a deal he got the place for, what he planned to renovate, the apartment next door he was renting out, giving the same spiel Ilya had gotten. And when the conversation would come to a pause, thick with tension, he would lean in and kiss her. He'd be slow and tentative at first, perhaps even chivalrous, before gently pressing his tongue past her lips, just like Ilya had taught him.

Well, not quite. Ilya had to interrupt his own sick fantasy. Shane Hollander didn't go for the kiss, not exactly. Ilya knew this because the memory of it was still fresh and tacky in his mind, Shane being backed up against the very kitchen counter where Ilya now was growing steadily hammered. "Should we talk," Shane had asked rhetorically, his pink lips parting and chin tilting back in open invitation. No, Shane didn't kiss so much as he presented his lips for kissing, just like he would, down on his knees, present his mouth for fucking.

Maybe Shane would be holding her by her sharp hips, tiny, frail thing that she was. He could picture Shane deliberately being gentle, delicate, reminding himself to be soft, fighting his muscle memory to grip against the heft and muscle of another man. He'd skim his hands up her shirt, and find her soft breasts there, instead of the firm muscle of Ilya's pec.

Eyes a bit wobbly now, Ilya opened a new browser tab.

SEARCH: ROSE LANDRY TITS

Completely tasteless, Ilya thought. He closed the tab.

He opened another tab, swigged another mouthful of vodka.

SEARCH: ROSE LANDRY TOPLESS

Much classier, but Ilya teetered the edge of drunken self-awareness enough for his face to burn in shame, as he quickly closed the tab and let his imagination fill in the gaps.

His hands on her tits. Probably nice, normal-sized tits, from what Ilya could glean, and they'd probably fit so perfect in Shane's big hands. He would graze a thumb over a nipple, making her gasp softly.

"Take her shirt off," Ilya would say. He's not quite sure when or how he got there, in Shane's condo, but he's there now, watching the scene unfold and sitting on the kitchen island.

And Shane would nod, follow his instructions like always was so good at doing, and fumbling hands would pull her flouncy little top over top of her head. Her hands would be on him, then, unaware of Ilya's presence. Her fingers would run up the ridges of his stomach, fingers exploring under his shirt until she works his tee shirt off, her lips pressing against his neck, his chest. All the while, Shane's eyes would be on Ilya, waiting for instruction.

"Go ahead," Ilya would say. "You know what to do next."

Shane would nod, and drop to his knees, pushing up her skirt with his hands, pulling down her panties to her ankles, watching for Ilya's approval all the while.

"Good. Ever eaten pussy before, Hollander?"

"Shut the fuck up," he'd say, in a wobbly voice, before tentatively shouldering between her thighs and pressing his tongue in between Rose Landry's legs, still making sure Ilya was watching. Ilya would watch the muscles in Shane's jaw work as he lapped at her like a loyal dog. Her head would tilt back and her hands would be in his hair, but Shane is only watching Ilya, and--

Ilya couldn't remember when pulled his cock out, didn't realize he was stroking himself, quick and dry, until he startled himself with a groan he couldn't choke back, and was spilling down his knuckles, white streaks splattered against the island cabinetry.

As soon as the post-orgasm haze cleared, a thick, white-hot bolt of shame shot through him. With his clean hand, he cleared all of his browsers, slid the phone far across the counter like it had burned him.

As he kneeled down with a paper towel to clean up the mess down the front of the cabinets, he had a hard time recalling the last time he felt so fucked up.

[hudconvent]

heyyyy… you wanna read ilya’s voyeurism fantasy torture nexus sooo bad…..;))

[hudconvent]

okay another pet peeve of mine in fic. so-and-so whined/whimpered/moaned/yelled/shouted/squealed. these are all fine to me. screamed? no... quiet down...

[hudconvent]

i hope i am like an annoying little sister to you. except if i'm older than you. then i hope i am like a sage and wise older sister to you. unless we are the same age. then i hope i am like a codependent twin sister that has a strange telepathic connection to you

[hudconvent]

i hate hate hate what im writing and the emotions make no sense but im 6.5k words in so i gotta see it through … and youve gotta read it unfortunately

[hudconvent]

when i have to write plot and action instead of writing flowery and frankly quite clunky and bad metaphors and descriptors. death by a thousand cuts and the cuts are me writing "he said" "he replied" "he crossed the room to grab something" "He sat back down" like OMG........THIS IS AGONIZING