I think part of getting better is complete ego death. Like you’re not above setting a timer for 5 minutes and focusing on a task. You’re not above doing a very simple 3 minute workout to start. You’re not above reading for 10 minutes a day when you first get out of your reading slump, even if you used to read for hours. You’re not above starting slow and then building up to where you want to be/where you once were. What you are above is total inertia. Doing something really is better than doing nothing. Radically accept where you are, radically accept your limits, and go from there. Don’t let your ego get in the way.
ilya being in a period of Bad depression and between playing games and going to practice he doesn't really have the energy to do much else and he just kind of collapses when he gets home and he hasn't shaved in days and his hair is unruly and he just feels kinda gross and ugly but doesn't have the energy to do anything about it so shane is like Not On My Watch so he drags ilya into the tub and washes his hair with his special curly shampoo and carefully shaves his face and lathers him in too much body lotion which means he has to stand stark naked in the bathroom for 10 minutes before he can put clothes on and shane tries his best to do his curly hair routine for him he gets the special towel and the curl cream and his eyebrows furrow in concentration as he scrunches ilya's curls to the best of his abilities and ilya sits on the toilet lid with tears in his eyes
i love the “hollanov has a crush on carter vaughn” take not necessarily in a “i think they would invite him to watch” way but more in a “ilya would accidentally let it slip while chirping at shane to fluster him that vaughn is at the top of their ‘would’ list and vaughn is a little thrown off and straight so he’s like “are you guys asking?” and ilya laughs and pats his shoulder and assures him “absolutely not, i do not share my shane, we just think you are good looking man, i like that you are pretty and fun and my shane likes that you are serious about hockey and have good grooming habits. is not serious, do not worry vaughny we will not be asking you to witness me and my beautiful husband ever” and vaughn low key is overjoyed about it, his teammates who are around and hear the exchange are sometimes like “that doesnt bother you? you dont find that a bit weird?” but vaugh genuinely is just like “rozanov just called me pretty and fun enough to hang out with and hollander thinks im good at hockey and clean enough for him, you could hand me a nobel peace prize and it wouldnt come close to this achievement” and eventually it gets out to the general public so vaughn is captioning his instagram posts shit like “#1 contender for being the hockey husbands third goes fishing” despite shanes mortification about this getting out and vaughns clear delight with it” way
“Your hair is so fluffy today. No, no, come back, let me— Yes. Thank you, baby.” 💘💘
furthering the shane loving ilyas hair agenda…….
Shane is out to get him. It’s the only reasonable explanation as to why he’d be walking around their kitchen, shirtless, with his glasses perched precariously on the tip of his nose. Ilya was here first, his laptop on the counter, because they learned the hard way that no work gets done in the office. A few emails for the Foundation and a short but pointed email from Farrah about how he should consider initiating some contract renegotiations now that he’s made the Centaurs a Cup-winning team.
Ilya doesn’t need more money. He’d rather see anything they have left under their cap going to Shane. Yes, he willingly took the pay cut when he signed with them, but Ilya still wants to see the man he loves paid what he’s worth. Generational talent. They didn’t win a Cup until Shane joined the team.
“What does this mean?” Ilya asks, around a yawn, “Indispensable?”
“Like, super necessary. It’s needed. Wyatt is an indispensable member of the team.”
Ilya nods, committing the word to memory. Indispensable. Well, by Shane’s definition, Ilya can think of quite a few things that are indispensable to him.
“Your dick is indispensable to me,” Ilya tries, pride blooming in his chest when Shane barks a laugh.
“I’ll remember that next time you start talking about my big useless cock.”
“He knows I am only being sexy when I say that,” Ilya pouts, “Besides, he likes it. He is not so fussy like you. I bet he is—“
“Stop talking about my dick in the third person, pervert,” Shane interrupts, but he’s still smiling. Suddenly, the emails don’t seem all that important; Ilya closes his laptop with maybe a little more force than necessary, resting his elbows on the breakfast counter and watching as Shane putters about the kitchen. Their kitchen.
The morning sun makes everything look vaguely orange-gold, streaming in through the large windows, amplified by the heavy layer of snow on the ground. Later, he thinks, they’ll go for a walk around the neighbourhood, holding hands and walking slow. Ilya will kiss Shane’s nose when it inevitably turns red from the cold, and Shane will try to find a way to shove snow down the back of Ilya’s shirt. Perfect.
He’s so busy daydreaming that he doesn’t realise Shane is behind him until one of his large hands is in his hair.
“Your hair is so fluffy today, baby,” He mutters, dragging his nails gently against Ilya’s scalp. It feels amazing, but Ilya is in the mood to be petty, so he ducks out of his husband’s grip with ease, shuffling over to the next stool. It scrapes against the tiled floor in a way that makes Ilya wince, but it’s worth it to see the way Shane pouts at him.
“Now who is the pervert? So obsessed with me, Hollander.”
“No, no, come back,” Shane laughs. He drapes himself over Ilya’s bare back, and Ilya melts into him instantly, the warm, comforting weight of him. He smells like coffee and toothpaste, and Ilya wants to kiss him until all he can taste is himself. Shane, it seems, has other plans; his hands are back in his hair, massaging his scalp gently and carding through the curls. Shane sighs in relief, nuzzling his nose against Ilya’s cheek. “Yes. Thank you, baby.”
love arranged marriage unfortunately. the idea of being married to a knight who's not even in the city, but away on the front lines. it's a benefit for your family, so they dont even question sending you to his home to await his return...
you meet him three months into the arrangement. He arrives after the sun has already set, his features set strong in the candlelight. His body is heavy with exhaustion and tension, his eyes dull and tired.
you've grown to hate this place, this castle gifted to him for war victories. The halls are barren, the garden yet to bloom. The maids are pleasant, but they keep their distance, as if you'll strike. Maybe your husband is the kind to hit. You wouldn't know.
When he looks at you, it's only in short bursts, his eyes suddenly low. There's a long stretch of silence between you and you consider introducing yourself, but decide against it. He knows who you are.
"The maid is drawing me a bath," he says suddenly and a sick feeling pours over you. This day was always coming, but you aren't sure you're ready to lay under a stranger.
"Am I expected to join?" you ask and his nose crinkles.
"No." He steps back and away. His departure is brisk and driven. You retire for the night by yourself and awake alone. Your husband is set to leave again in a few hours; a few soldiers have already gathered in the front garden.
"Don't you wish to give your new wife a goodbye?" one asks, unaware of your open window. "One night and you've already had your fill? Or has she been filled too much?"
"I refuse to believe she is real!" says another. "What kind of woman has worn down our brute and turned him into a family man? Should we expect a gaggle of children in the upcoming year?"
Your husband growls. "You will leave the poor lamb alone. She suffers enough."
That softens you. Just a bit. You rise from you bed and go to the window, leaning out enough to catch the men's attention.
"Until next time."
He watches you, expression caught between more emotions that you can count, then turns his gaze back to his mount. The two men share a look, wide, wide grins on their faces.
In his absence, he sends gifts. They are tiny things, sweets and oiled combs and scented oils and a porcelain figure of a cat, aimless in their direction towards you. Just simple niceties he could give to any woman in the world. You imagine he sends one to the lovers he has in every city as well.
(he must have lovers, you imagine. He hasn't touched you; he must be getting his fill with women in other cities, maybe women he actually loves. these are trinkets to keep his wife amused while she wastes away.)
none of the gifts come with a note.
one day a bolt of fabric arrives, yellow and ornate. It's only a small amount, not enough to make a dress, but enough for you to unravel and admire. It's beautiful and clearly expensive, golden threads woven into flowers and vines. Your father was a silk merchant; while you never wore the silks, you can recognize their quality.
the following week, the delicious man rides up on his steeds and presents a letter. The handwriting is rough. Knights that come from the lower class do not have the schooling of highborns; as fair as you know, your husband was born a street rat and worked his way theough the ranks to glory.
-I have been told by my secund that I did not send you enuf fabric for a gown. I do not no these things.
The spelling mistakes screw a smile out of you.
"Wait a moment." You stop the boy before he can leave. "I wish to send something back."
You take your time and use your finest calligraphy, tucking your note in with a handkerchief you had spent the week on. It's fine work-- one that would please even the hardest of hearts.
-Dearest husband,
Please take this handkerchief as a sign of my thoughts.
Your patient and thoughtful wife
A second letter arrives within the week.
-are you cros with me? A scrap of fabric for a scrap of fabric?
The response is what makes you cross. The poor messenger boy has to stay the night while you percolate over a response.
-Dearest, sweetest husband,
A handkerchief is a traditional gesture of affection. I have embroidered the edges by hand, with your last name and your roses, and it smells of my perfume. It is a piece of me for you to carry. If you do not appreciate my kindness or if you think it will turn away your lovers, you may return it. I do not wish it wasted on you.
Your less than patient and less than adoring wife
The poor boy scatters off in the morning and returns a few days later.
tortured wife,
I wil cherish it. I am sory, pour lam. I wil do better.
I will never forget the flight I took to Paris in college and the tiny adorable child in the seat in front of me with his nose pressed against the window looking at the lights and squealing "OOOOOOH, C'EST MAGNIFIQUE!!!"
my friend and i had to leave an ice cream shop once because a small child who sounded exactly like JFK ordered some rum raisin and we couldn’t fucking handle it
the west wing fan wiki pages are so fucking funny its like here's minor man character we meet in less than 5 episodes, i can offer you his entire biography including childhood friends and favourite coffee order. and then the other side it's like this is recurrent woman character she went to school and has a page here, what else do you want
"believe me, she's not looking for a repeat performance."
unable to sleep, rose has plenty of time to think after that night at the club. | 2151w
rose stares at the ceiling. the champagne from earlier in the night has left her mouth dry and her temples fuzzy. there's water on the bedside, put there by shane before he kissed her shoulder and turned onto his side with the covers pulled up to his ear. drinking the water would mean moving, and moving would mean alerting the man lying next to her that she is awake, and if she alerts him to fact she is awake then he will feel obligated to turn back around and pretend like he hasn't spent the last three hours faking sleep. she can tell. he's too still, like a rabbit caught in a trap. so, rose stares at the ceiling.
there's a cobweb dangling from the lampshade. one lone thread, thick with dust, sways back and forth as if the room itself is breathing in tandem with them. she hasn't taken a full breath since the light clicked off. her chest aches.
that's all it is, she thinks, this constricting feeling. one deep breath, rosie, and you'll feel all better.
she closes her eyes and draws in a long, quiet breath through her nose but all it does is gather prickly heat under her eyes and wall up her throat. she swallows back the tears.
she can still feel all the places he touched her, careful and controlled, and the weight of him bearing down on top of her even as he held himself up politely by the elbows. the hollowed out, used, feeling between her legs stretches to her stomach where it churns against champagne and the three bites of sushi she had before going out to the club.
the night had gone well. right up until it hadn't.
"fuck, i'm sorry," he whispered into the crook of her neck, voice flayed raw in embarrassment even as his choked orgasm still echoed through him.
rose lay still. it was not the first time a guy she's been with has shot off early but this might be the first time they’ve tensed up around her like they expect to be shot for the infraction. when shane drew back, his dark eyes were panicked, darting across her face and showing too much white. she felt his cock softening inside her, slipping free, just like last time.
before she could offer even a lukewarm, "it's fine," he was discarding the condom with a quick, "shit, rose. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. let me . . ." and shuffling down to busy his mouth between her thighs because he was a thoughtful, earnest guy and that was why she'd liked him so much in the first place. he sucked her clit, lapped at her with the flat of his tongue, one hand grasping her tit, and let her rock down onto two fingers until she came. it was a sudden, sharp, cresting thing that left her wound tighter than she was before. under her gasping, he was silent. after, he kissed the inside of her thigh and wouldn't look her in the eye.
rose watches the gentle sway of the cobweb. a good housekeeper wouldn't let a cobweb linger, let alone build into a dusty rope visible even in the dim light filtering in from the streetlights below. unless his housekeeper doesn't touch his bedroom. some people she knows don’t like strangers in such a personal space. she doesn't care. she doesn't have secrets. she hasn't had true privacy since . . . she actually can't remember. she booked her first commercial at six months old, a local tv ad for diapers, and hasn't stopped since. acting carved away any shame until she was an open book.
she lets her head loll to the side. the sheet has slipped and she can see the scar on his shoulder. when she asked after the first time they tried this and eased the tension with small talk, he said it was from a hazing that went sideways when he was in juniors. he was light on the details, said that he fell into a fence spike in a crush of teenage bodies in the dark. he laughed it off but his eyes got that far away look in them she isn’t convinced he knows he has, and changed the subject. anyway, she has three hockey obsessed brothers, she could fill in the blanks.
at seventeen, rose had several ill-advised hook-ups with one of her brother's teammates. she cringes at them now, considers them one of her worst performances, but for all his swagger, the boy hadn't been able to hide how fucking obsessed with her he was. he was all grabby hands and grinding hips, his spit slick mouth hot on her ear as he parroted stilted lines he'd memorised from the porn he liked to watch, but she'd thought he was sweet, had been flattered by the attention, and liked the feeling of being wanted.
however, seventeen is a fickle age to be. attention never lasts and before too long they both moved on, but that boy, without meaning to, gave rose the beginnings of a frame of reference for desire she still carries with her. she knows when someone wants her. she knows how to make herself wanted. she's trades in desire every time she sets up a self-tape.
rose looks at the short hairs on the back of shane's neck. his breathing is slower now, deeper. he's finally found sleep. good for him.
he's asleep.
and he doesn't want her.
these two thoughts rise up out of the fuzz in her brain, neutral statements that still sting. she thought maybe he was just shy, an introvert who knows how to turn it on when required, but she knows. she knows and the knowing doesn't even require her to go deep down because she's been in this position before. she sighs and turns back to the ceiling and the slow dancing cobweb.
he probably doesn't even realise he's doing it, she thinks.
he holds his breath before she kisses him, like he's a child that hasn't yet learned they need to lean into a body check. her first boyfriend did the same. the second and third hid it better but the second was grimacer, and the third leaned so heavily into macho bravado that it looped back to uncomfortable for both of them. they all tried to want her, or at least tried to want the idea of what she could be to them, but they were all looking for something she could never provide.
shane is doing the same and she wishes wildly for a moment that it would be different. heat rushes under her eyes once more and she stifles a hiccoughing breathe with the heel of her hand before scrubbing a palm over her face.
it's not your fault, rosie. i know you thought this time it would be different, but . . . but what?
she glances at the back of shane's head again. his hair is mussed against the pillow and she realises for the first time since she's known him, his shoulders have relaxed all the way. she's struck by just how vulnerable the curve where his neck meets his shoulder looks in the dim light. for a solid minute, rose lets herself look before reaching for her phone.
she types 'gay hockey players mlh' into her search bar despite the growing certainty of what the results will hold. op-eds asking if any player will dare to be the first to come out sit next to schedules for upcoming pride nights. rose lets her phone fall to her chest.
he holds his breath before she kisses him. she looks up at the cobweb. before she kisses him. has he ever kissed her? she isn't sure now. probably not.
he freezes sometimes too, like he's come to the end of a script and doesn't know how to improv. when it happened at the club, she thought it was because miles caught him off guard, but then, he darted off to the bathroom and she spotted all those boston players across the dancefloor.
when he didn’t come back, she found him sitting on the curb outside with a hand pressed to his mouth and his eyes squeezed shut. she sat next to him, trailed a gentle hand down his back and he froze, just for a second, less than a second, before he smiled and that had been enough to chase away her worries because she didn’t want to consider a different truth.
“just needed some air, babe. beer went straight to my head after the game,” he said and pulled her close, pressed one big hand to the small of her back and she’d shivered like she was seventeen when his thumb brushed across the edge of her sequin dress.
she got butterflies when she asked him if he wanted to get out of there and he said yes. honest to god butterflies. it seems silly. especially now that she considers that his smile didn’t reach his eyes and she’s almost certain that what she thought was the reflection of the streetlights were actually tears.
rose checks the time. she needs to get back to her hotel for her pick up. the makeup team will tell her off for drinking and for not sleeping. they’ll rib her about how her hockey player boyfriend kept her up all night, and she’ll laugh and let them think what they want to think because what else is she supposed do?
she slides out of bed, careful not to jostle him, and slips into the ensuite. the shower is huge, big enough for two - not that rose would know. blisteringly hot water sprays from the showerhead as she stretches her palms out, one to the slick tile, the other to the glass. plenty of room for two sets of broad shoulders if that’s what he wanted.
shane touches her like he thinks she might break. he handles her by her edges like you would crystal and, at first, she thought it was thoughtful reverence. now, she sees it for what it is: white knuckled obligation.
rose retraces his path across her body and washes his touch down the drain.
he would keep doing this, she thinks as she dries off and pulls on the spare set of clothes he insisted she keep at his apartment. he would push through. hurt himself. hurt me.
she stands in front of the mirror and raises her chin to look herself in the eye. i am the path of least resistance and he would make himself miserable to follow it.
and she understands. she understands now just as well she understood the first, second, and third time she found herself here, but they both deserve better.
she slips from the bathroom back into the bedroom’s suffocating quiet and looks up at the dusty cobweb.
shane doesn’t let the housekeeper into his bedroom because he’s afraid they’ll find out his secret. he let rose in and she worked it out anyway. she pulls a tissue from the decorative box on the bedside table and steps up onto the ottoman at the foot of the bed. a neat pile of clothes is folded next to her foot. her dress lies forgotten on the stairs.
the cobweb drifts in a lazy circle and flutters away from her when she reaches for it. she rises up on her tip toes, wobbles, but stays steady. it gives her just enough extra reach to pluck it from the lampshade and fold it away in the tissue. with a sigh, she hops down and pockets it.
they aren’t so different. eyes have followed her since she was a child. there are expectations she must uphold. if rose were to put her trust in the wrong person they could take her career out at the knees without even trying that hard. some texts. some photos. she trades in desire, that much is true, but to want it? to take it? well, that was a step too far.
a rustle from the far side of the bed grabs her attention. he’s awake, half swallowed by pillows, panicked, hunted, eyes wide like a little boy caught doing something he shouldn’t. his voice shakes when he tries to offer her an explanation for the night before. the season. the stress. she tells him it’s fine and means it. the lump of tissue in her pocket burns like a brand against her leg. she kisses him gently on the mouth because that’s what girlfriends do and ignores the sharp clench of her stomach when he braces for impact.
rose stands.
rose smiles and rose leaves.
as her cab whisks her through the sleepy montreal streets, she turns the tissue with its dusty cobweb over in her fingers and resolves that she will not be the wrong person for shane.
you dont have to be a parent to understand the horror of walking into a room to discover that the baby crawled out of his crib and onto that pottery wheel you forgot to turn off, and while the baby is spinning around and around, the dog is sitting there all calm, like a person, gently using his paws to fashion the babys soft cartilage head into something a little more modern. it might be the classic tale of bad parenting, but lets see where the dog is going with this
Since people liked this post of Ilya proving to the internet why Shane is a good partner, let’s have a sequel of Shane doing similar
Ilya is in a depression low and the fact that his hockey persona is still “biggest asshole” no matter what he does has been getting to him even if he won’t admit it. So Shane posts a photo compilation titled “Every Reason Ilya Rozanov Is NHLs Biggest Asshole”
-“Bullies his teammates” with a picture of Ilya doing a celebratory fist pump next to Haas with his face in his hands, in front of a tv showing Ilya getting first in Mario Kart
-“Bullies his competitors” with a picture of Ilya laughing and Scott Hunter looking like he wants to set him on fire with his mind as he holds a birthday card labeled ‘Woah! You made it to 100!’
-“Bullies Hayden Pike” with a picture of Ilya and Jackie in the lake doing the Dirty Dancing lift while Hayden stands by with his hands on his hips and glaring
-“Stealing” with a group of pictures of Ilya wearing a Hollander 24 hoodie, wearing the Canadian Olympic fleece, and wearing one of Shane’s old jerseys
-“Dramatic” with a picture of Ilya in a feather boa at a karaoke night at a gay bar, eyes closed as he is clearly belting out some song
-“Takes jobs away from janitors” with a picture of Ilya in an arena post-game and picking up litter people dropped in the hallway
-“Bad role model to youth” with a picture of Ilya and a kid at one of the camps sticking their tongues out at each other
-“Child abuse” with a picture of Ilya playing paintball with a group of young boys
-“Animal abuse” with a picture of Ilya bathing an unhappy Anya in a kiddie pool in the backyard
-“Disturbing local wildlife” with a blurry picture of Ilya running away from a Canada goose
-“Encourages cavities” with a picture of Ilya letting trick or treaters take handfuls of candy from a bowl
-“Unfair sales tactics” with a picture of Ilya taking pictures with people at a Girl Scout cookie sale table, the table surrounded by a crowd of people waiting and holding cookie boxes
-“Trespassing” with a picture of Ilya shoveling a neighbors driveway
-“Fashion crimes” with a picture of Ilya in a pink baseball hat, a neon orange tank top, jorts, and neon green crocs
-“Not helpful at puzzles” with a picture of Ilya and David in front of a one thousand piece puzzle, both with their faces in their hands, pieces everywhere
-“Only falls asleep during movies when its his husbands turn to pick” with a selfie of Shane frowning at the camera and Ilya zonked out asleep on his chest
For all its faults Tumblr has truly ruined all other social media for me because my friends all have Instagram and are all trying to get me on Instagram more but every time I open Instagram there are like fifteen things screaming for my attention and when I get over myself long enough to start scrolling it's like. Where is my chronological dash. Where is the following-only option. Who are these people. Why are there so many videos. Everyone is screaming at me. And then before I know it I'm thirty minutes into scrolling and I haven't seen a single thing that I actually care about. At least on Tumblr when I see stuff I don't care about I know someone I follow has found a new interest.
Very generally speaking, when you see a black man in a piece of media, be it tv show, movie, video game, etc. there’s something you often see a lot of writers do. To go against the stereotype of black men (and black people in general) being dumb and lazy, you’ll see this black male character being smart and an achiever. 
The Black Nerd. A common character type, the nerd will always be very interested in all things nerdy: science, video games, mathematics, etc. In an continued effort to combat stereotypes, the Black Nerd will be lack athleticism, probably being asthmatic (the nerdiest of conditions). The Black Nerd will dress smartly, suspenders and bow ties. They’ll always talk smart too, using proper English with complex words.
Now, I don’t have a problem with a black character being a nerd, indeed black people are a people; we aren’t all the same and we all have varying personalities. The problem I have is that too often we see a distinct disconnect between Blackness and the Black Nerd. The Black Nerd doesn’t listen to hip hop or rap, only classical music. The Black Nerd only has white friends, the only other black characters are into not nerdy stuff. The Black Nerd never ever uses AAVE at any time in any context.
And again I must say that Black people, not being a monolith, there are no hard fast rules to being Black. I’m more than sure there are Black people like what I’ve described above, I’m not saying it’s impossible; what I’m getting at is that the only Black Nerd we see. There are Black Nerds that play basketball, that bump Kendrick Lamar, and use AAVE since it’s an ever changing dialect. I’m just saying there’s no one way of being a nerd and no one way of being Black.
