[grabmyboner]

anyone got any good non hockey au fics they could recommend me??? <3

[tearsofshane]

SO MANY.

Mormon AU where Shane tries to convert Ilya but keeps ending up in his bed oh nooo

Ilya is a feral wolf-man and Shane tames him (think Tarzan and Jane)

College AU where Ilya is Shane's RA (power dynamics!)

Long Distance Letter Writing College AU (creators style is 😲)

Corporate AU (could be triggering for those who actually work in corporate and use Teams etc.

College AU where they meet on grindr (and they were roommates!!)

Porn Star Shane & Porn Director Ilya

Another corporate AU where Ilya is the CEO's assistant and Shane needs to make a complaint

A sweet college AU where they hate each other but not really, they're just idiots lol

Another corporate AU where shane is the IT guy and Ilya has so many tech issues so weird

Mafia AU where Shane is Ilya's hostage

Mafia AU where they join forces to become a yakuza/bratva powercouple

Another sweet college AU where they're not friends but that changes on a random road trip

Mafia AU where Ilya is Shane's guard dog and fucks him over his desk

THIS ONE Ilya is the new village priest and Shane is veryyy curious (corruption kink)

Frat Boy Ilya and Professor Shane (age gap!!)

Shane is a vet and Ilya picks up a stray dog that needs a Lot of checkups

What if Hollanov recorded Ember & Ice

THE Medic AU series

[redwinelewis]

MY MAN ON WILLPOWER | R. GRACE

type one shot (no part 2 requests please!)

pairing ryland grace x pilot!reader

summary you and ryland got hit by some kind of dust

word count 8K

content 18+. smut. sex pollen. fuck or die. masturbation (m). penis in vagina sex. riding. humour (i tried). crack. ryland's glasses stay ON during sex.

a/n officially the longest fucking thing i have ever written. i'm not truly satisfied with this but it's whatever. i hope u guys enjoy it. english is not my first language

masterlist | read on ao3

you and ryland have been staring at yet another mysterious gift sent by rocky like it was a trunk shot from pulp fiction.

you know, the one where— okay so nevermind. that's not important.

what's important was what rocky had sent, which was another cylinder.

you glanced at ryland. ryland glanced at you. then you both glanced at the cylinder.

it sat in the center of the lab table, perfectly still, perfectly silent, and deeply, profoundly suspicious.

“so,” you said, arms crossed. “before you do anything impulsive and deeply stupid, let’s review our options.”

ryland didn’t even look up. “option one: we open it and potentially discover advanced human knowledge. option two: we don’t open it and i slowly lose my mind wondering what’s inside.”

“option three,” you added, “we don’t open it and you will forever be curious about the content but hey, at least you'd still be alive!”

he glanced up at you with a grin that immediately told you he was not going to pick option three.

“ryland last time you said ‘this’ll probably be fine,’ we almost suffocated.”

“counterpoint,” he said, straightening and placing a hand on the latch, “almost.”

you sighed.

“i just don’t like it,” you said for what was probably the fifth time.

ryland made a thoughtful humming sound that meant the exact opposite.

“you don’t like anything that comes from rocky.”

you crossed your arms without taking your eyes off the object. “that is objectively untrue. i like the parts that don’t explode, corrode, or attempt to rewrite the laws of physics.”

“so.... none of it?”

“exactly.”

pause.

just when ryland reached for the cylinder, you spoke out again.

“and just for the record....” you said, voice flat, “i am deeply against whatever you’re about to do.”

“come on. what’s the worst that could happen?”

you dragged a hand down your face, already bracing for disaster. “okay, i need you to understand that that phrase is cursed. like, historically cursed. civilizations have fallen after someone said that.”

he ignored you.

of course he ignored you.

the seal popped before you could argue more. the cylinder hissed open with a soft, pressurized sound.

for a second, nothing happened.

you leaned forward slightly, squinting, peering into the opening, expecting.... something. a device. a sample. anything.

“okay.... maybe it’s empty—”

poof!

a burst of fine gold dust shot out of the container in slow motion, catching the light as it drifted upward and outward, directly into both your faces before either of you could react.

“oh— come on—!” you coughed immediately, stumbling back and waving your hands uselessly through the air. “why is it always airborne—”

“i didn’t—” ryland coughed too, turning his head and blinking rapidly. “i didn’t know it was going to do that!”

“it’s a mysterious alien container, of course it was going to do that!”

the dust settled almost as quickly as it appeared, vanishing into nothing. no residue, no smell, no visible trace that anything had even happened.

you both stood there, breathing hard, staring at each other.

“....okay,” you said slowly. “status report.”

he blinked a few more times, then patted his arms, his torso, like he might find damage. “uhhh.... lungs: functioning. skin: not melting. vision: normal.”

“define normal.”

“i can see you glaring at me, so, yeah. normal.”

you exhaled. “great. fantastic. we inhaled space dust and survived. love that for us.”

“see?” he said, already relaxing. “nothing to worry about.”

you pointed at him sharply. “you do not get to say that. you lost that privilege the moment you opened it.”

“fair.”

then there was a beat.

“so.... that’s it?” you asked.

he peered into the cylinder, turning it upside down. only the residue of the dust fell, nothing else was inside.

“that’s it.” he confirmed.

“okay,” you said finally, though your voice carried a thin edge of disbelief. “either that was completely harmless, or we just inhaled something that’s going to kill us slowly and mysteriously.”

“statistically,” ryland said, already turning back toward the console, “it’s probably the second one.”

“great,” you muttered.

“yep.” he clicked his tongue and made a double finger gun. “nailed it.”

only for a while.

only for a while, it actually seemed like he was right.

you two ran scans, double-checked the air composition, monitored your vitals like you were waiting for them to spike into something dramatic and undeniable. everything came back normal. no toxins, no foreign pathogens, no radiation spikes, nothing that explained the golden dust or what it was supposed to do.

it should have been reassuring.

it wasn’t.

because about an hour in, you noticed something off.

not dramatic. not alarming. but subtle enough.

you shifted in your seat, tugging slightly at the collar of your yellow jumpsuit. the fabric suddenly felt too close, too warm against your skin.

“hey,” you said, not looking up from your screen. you were in your station in the lab, your back facing ryland. “did the temperature go up?”

ryland glanced at the panel beside him. “nope. holding steady.”

“huh.” you leaned back, frowning. “feels warmer.”

“maybe you’re just stressed.”

you snorted. “yeah, because inhaling unknown alien particles was such a relaxing experience.”

you tried to ignore it.

it didn’t work.

because by the second hour, it got worse. worse enough that it distracted you from doing your job.

you were restless now, shifting every few minutes, hyper-aware of your own body in a way that was getting increasingly distracting.

“okay, nope. something’s happening.” you said, standing up. you zipped down your suit. it pooled around your waist and left you in nothing but a dark green tank top you wore underneath. now you looked like a formula 1 driver walking around the garage in the middle of a malaysian heat.

except you were pretty sure that the heat in malaysia was tolerable enough and the drivers were used to it.

this, whatever this was however, was far from it.

“i'm sure it's nothing—” ryland finally turned but then paused.

“what?” you asked as you tied your hair into a ponytail.

he was sitting still. too still. his posture was stiff, shoulders slightly tense, like he was holding himself in place. his jaw tightened and his eyes that were currently fixated on you slightly dilated.

“....ryland?”

he flinched, snapping back to the present. he fixed his glasses while his eyes withdrew, focusing on somewhere else but you.

“yeah?” his voice came out a little too quick. a little too tight.

you narrowed your eyes. “you okay?”

“fine. totally fine.”

“you don’t look fine.”

he let out a short laugh that didn’t sound entirely natural. “well, looks can be deceiving.”

“you’re flushed.”

“it’s warm,” he said immediately. “i’m…. internally warm.”

“....that’s not a thing.”

“it is now.”

you crossed your arms, studying him.

“you’re acting weird.”

ryland scratched the back of his neck. you did not miss the way he licked his lips. and there was a faint flush creeping across his face, coloring his cheeks and the tips of his ears, subtle but unmistakable once you saw it.

“nothing. nothing. um—”

you frowned. “are you okay?”

“yes, yes,” he cleared his throat while still staring at a very specific spot on the floor, like he was avoiding your eyes.

“okay....” you turned, walking back to your station, trying to not let his sudden weird behaviour get to you. it's ryland. he was always a bit odd, even back on earth when you first met him on the ship.

by hour three, thankfully you finished your work quickly because the heat was no longer tolerable.

“fuck....” you muttered under your breath, standing up and started pacing around.

ryland was still busy with his duct-taped-computers, probably working on the algorithm to translate rocky's melodic language.

he stopped typing on the keyboard and grabbed his notebook, writing something there now.

your paces halted. and unfortunately your brain decided that right now was the perfect time to let your eyes wander to his arms out of all places.

you didn’t know why but it just happened.

you didn't get to stop yourself. you brain drifted, catching on the absolute ridiculous size of his biceps. since when did he work out? the thought of middle school science teacher ryland grace going to the gym and working out during the weekends got more ridiculous the more you think of it.

you should have stopped. should have sat back down and worked or went to take a nap or— oh my god his veins—

you flinched.

jesus, what the fuck?

since when the fuck did you notice that?

nope. absolutely not.

you squeezed your eyes shut briefly, exhaling through your nose like that might reset your brain.

it didn't.

you sighed, audible enough just to your ears. your gaze flicked, just for a second, and then immediately snapped back to somewhere else.

that was a mistake.

because now you knew, and knowing made it harder not to look again.

your brain, completely unhelpful, decided to supply additional commentary. since when does he have arms like that? it asked, again, like this was new information, like you hadn’t been working side by side with him for months.

you squeezed your eyes shut briefly, exhaling through your nose. get it together. this was ryland. your crew mate. your friend. the only other human being alive within literal light-years.

and yet—

“oh, for fuck's sake,” you cursed under your breath.

“what?” ryland immediately turned, ears sharp enough to hear you. he looked concerned for a bit.

“nothing,” you said quickly. too quickly.

he adjusted his glasses. “that did not sound like nothing.”

“it’s nothing.”

ryland tilted his head. a hint of amusement decorating his face.

“you were staring at me,” he pointed out.

you jerked your gaze away. “i was not.”

“you absolutely were.”

“i was not,” you insisted sharper, which would have been more convincing if you hadn’t immediately glanced back at him again.

he let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “wow. okay. so it’s not just me. good to know.”

you pressed a hand to your forehead, giving up on your pretenses. “no, it is definitely not just you.”

you paced again a few more steps, trying to shake it off, but it didn’t help. if anything, it made you even more hyperaware of everything. your breathing, the air, him.

and by the fourth hour, denial was no longer an option.

“okay, that's it.” you said, pacing now because sitting still felt impossible, “we need to figure out whatever the hell this is.”

“yep,” ryland said, standing up simultaneously.

“define what you’re feeling,” you asked.

he hesitated. “uh, okay. so, scientifically?”

“obviously.”

“i feel.... distracted,” he started, frowning slightly as he tried to articulate it. “like my brain keeps derailing. and also—” he stopped.

he looked at you and held his gaze for a second too long.

“ryland.”

“....also very aware of you,” he finished.

pause.

“define 'aware'. like when you were staring at me?”

“i wasn't—” he stopped, then frowned, like he was trying to catch his own thoughts mid-escape. “okay, maybe i was.”

you crossed your arms. “why?”

“i don’t know,” he said immediately, which somehow felt worse than any actual answer. “i just— looked up and— there you were.”

“i’m always here!”

“yes,” he said, a little too quickly. “i am aware of that. conceptually. but right now it’s.... more noticeable.”

you stared at him.

“more noticeable.” you repeated.

he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “that sounded weird.”

“it sounded very weird.”

“i meant it in a normal, non-weird way!”

“there is no version of that sentence that is normal, ryland!”

“you were staring at me too!” he reminded.

you opened your mouth, then shut it again, abandoning whatever argument you were about to attempt. he got you there.

then you sighed. you realized that you both seem to be doing that a lot today.

“you know what? nevermind. just— are there any other symptoms? like what, hormones? perception? impulse control?”

“all of the above, probably.”

you exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to think. maybe it was—

“the dust,” you said suddenly, stopping in your tracks.

he went still. “what?”

you pointed at the cylinder. “it has to be that.”

“yeah,” he said, nodding slowly like he just pieced all the puzzles together now. “yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, that makes sense. mysterious alien substance, unknown effects, sudden onset of—” he gestured vaguely between you “—this.”

you raised an eyebrow. “'this?'”

“i don’t have a better word!”

“well, find one!”

“i’m a scientist, not emily brontë!”

you dragged both hands down your face. “oh my god.”

“okay,” you continued. “let's not panic. let us all calm down. so, we agreed we got exposed to an unknown particulate substance.”

“yep.”

“we’re experiencing.... thermal dysregulation.”

“yep.”

“and—” you hesitated, “—behavioral anomalies.”

he made a small, distressed noise. “that is a very scientific way to say that i cannot stop staring at your lips.”

you frowned. “you were staring at my lips?”

“and you were staring at my arms! we can do this all night!” he said defensively.

“did you just quote the sequels— nevermind. not important.”

you pressed your lips together. which, unfortunately, made his eyes drop there again.

you both noticed, and you both looked away at the same time.

“okay,” he said, pacing once, like movement might fix this. “okay, okay, okay, okay, we can figure this out. we always figure things out.”

“right,” you said, latching onto that. “we analyze.”

“we observe.”

“we hypothesize.”

“we do not panic.”

“we are absolutely not panicking.”

you were both very clearly panicking.

“let’s list everything again.” he said, forcing steadiness into his voice. “all symptoms. no judgment.”

“no judgment,” you agreed.

“elevated body temperature.” he started.

“check.”

“heightened sensory awareness.”

“check.”

“uh....” he hesitated, visibly struggling. “increased.... focus on.... specific.... features?”

you folded your arms tighter. “check.”

“compulsive attention,” he added weakly.

“check.”

he swallowed. “and a— a noticeable shift in, uh—”

“attraction?” you said bluntly.

he closed his eyes. “yeah. that.”

the word hung there, heavy but accurate.

you both went very still. because once it was said like that, clean, clinical, undeniable, something in your brain clicked into place.

not just the symptoms.

the pattern.

your mind started pulling threads together, faster now. the dust. the delivery method. the lack of any visible organism. the immediate onset being minimal, then escalating over time.

you frowned, thinking harder.

“okay,” you said slowly. “if this were any known terrestrial system, particulate exposure with delayed onset behavioral changes would suggest—”

“toxins,” he said automatically.

“but there’s no impairment,” you countered.

“cognitive function is intact. motor function is intact. we’re not disoriented.”

“right,” he said, catching up. “so not a neurotoxin.”

“and not a pathogen,” you added. “no immune response. no inflammation.”

“so it’s not attacking us.”

“it’s affecting us.”

you both went quiet again, thinking.

he ran a hand through his hair, pacing again, faster this time. “okay, so— delivery system: aerosolized particulate. effect: behavioral modification. targeted toward—”

he stopped.

you watched it happen. the exact moment the realization hit him.

his entire posture went rigid.

“....no,” he said.

your stomach dropped. “what?” you asked, even though something in you already knew but refused to acknowledge it.

he looked at you. then away. then back again, like he wished reality would swap out for a better option.

“no, no, no, no, no, no,” he muttered, shaking his head. “that’s— that’s not—”

“ryland,” you said, sharper now. “what.”

he gestured helplessly toward the empty cylinder. “there were no organisms. no plant matter. nothing visible. which means whatever this is, it doesn’t rely on traditional biological structures.”

“okay....?”

“which means,” he continued, words picking up speed like he couldn’t stop them now, “it could be a synthetic analog. or an alien biochemical system that doesn’t follow earth-based taxonomy. something that mimics a known function without the same physical form—”

“ryland.”

he stopped and looked at you.

you held his gaze.

“say it.”

he hesitated. like if he didn’t say it, it wouldn’t be real.

“....on earth,” he started, carefully, “there are airborne particulates that influence behavior in very specific ways.”

your chest tightened.

“they’re typically produced by plants,” he went on. “released into the air. inhaled. they trigger physiological responses that.... alter attraction. increase reproductive drive. reduce inhibition—”

your breath caught.

he exhaled, defeated.

“....pollen,” he finished.

silence.

thick.

absolute.

you stared at him.

he stared back.

“that’s not possible,” you said, even as your brain was already connecting it. "that's not fucking possible. what the fu—”

“i know,” he said quickly. “i know. there were no plants. there’s no visible biological structure. it doesn’t make sense.”

“so it’s not pollen.”

“it’s not plant pollen,” he corrected weakly.

you both paused.

“but it’s doing the same thing,” you said.

“yeah.”

another silence. longer this time.

he let out a hollow laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “that’s— wow. okay. that’s just— fantastic. amazing. incredible. we got hit with alien.... pseudo-pollen that—”

he stopped himself.

you finished it for him. “that makes people.... like this.”

he nodded, looking like he wanted to walk directly into space.

you swallowed. your skin still felt too warm. thoughts still kept drifting back to him.

to his hands. arms. the way he was looking at you right now.

you dropped your hands. wanna know the worst part of this? it's that now that you understood it, it didn’t make it stop. it just made it clearer.

“we’re in trouble,” you said quietly.

he nodded, equally quiet.

“yeah,” he said. “we really are.”

“and rocky just gave it to us with no warning?”

“to be fair,” ryland said, “he might not have known humans would react like this.”

you stopped pacing. “react like what, exactly?”

“like this,” he said weakly. “he probably thinks this is how humans reproduce. like, 'here, have some breeding dust, make more crew for the mission!'” ryland continued.

“oh, jesus.”

another pause.

longer this time.

he shifted his weight. “okay. solution-oriented thinking. we just.... wait it out.”

“wait it out,” you repeated.

“yep. it’s a chemical thing, right? it’ll metabolize, wear off, we go back to normal, and we never speak of this again.”

“not even a little bit.” you agreed quickly.

“not even in a funny anecdote way.”

“especially not in a funny anecdote way.”

he removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes shut tight while his other hand was gripping the edge of his desk for dear life. firm, almost rigid, like it was the only thing anchoring him in place. “good plan. great plan. love that plan.”

you stopped pacing and looked at him properly.

really looked.

the flush hadn’t faded, it had deepened. his breathing was just slightly off, not enough to be obvious unless you were paying attention, but you were paying attention now. and the way he was holding himself. tense, contained, like he was actively stopping himself from—

“ryland,” you said slowly.

“yeah.” he did not look at you.

“why are you holding onto the table like it’s about to float away?”

he let out a short, strained laugh.

“because if i don’t,” he said, voice tight in a way that made something in your chest twist, “i might do something incredibly stupid.”

your stomach dropped. “define 'stupid.'”

his eyes flicked up to yours, and whatever you saw there made your breath catch.

“i think,” he said quietly, “you already know.”

pause.

you stole a look at him. ryland had gone very still, hands braced on the edge of the console, head bowed like he was trying to think his way out of this. he looked just as wrecked as you are. tense, flushed, jaw tight like he was grinding through it.

the lab suddenly felt too small, like the walls had inched closer, like the air had thickened into something you had to push through just to breathe. you were still standing too close to each other. close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. close enough that every tiny shift felt amplified. and neither of you seemed able to take that one simple step back.

you both pretended to think. which would’ve been easier if your thoughts weren’t constantly derailing.

“okay,” ryland said finally, too quickly, like he’d been holding the word in his mouth for a while. he wasn’t looking at you. he hadn’t been looking at you for a solid minute now, which somehow made it worse. “solution. we need a solution.”

you nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “yeah. yeah, obviously.”

he paced once, twice, hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. “we don’t know the duration of the effect. could be hours, could be longer.”

“right,” you said, your voice coming out tighter than you meant.

“it might not get worse,” he said quickly.

you both paused.

“it’s definitely getting worse,” you said.

“yeah,” he admitted. “yeah, that’s fair.”

another stretch of silence followed, thick and charged and deeply unhelpful.

another beat. he stopped mid-pace, suddenly locking eyes on your lips again as you bit the lower one in concentration. a visible shiver ran through him.

you, meanwhile, were transfixed by the way his t-shirt stretched across his chest when he breathed. arms. shoulders. that stupid little strand of hair falling over his forehead.

it was ridiculous. you were both adults. professionals. stuck on a ship light-years from home with an entire species depending on you not screwing this up.

and yet.

both of you looked away at the same time.

he continued pacing, then he straightened slightly, like he’d latched onto something solid. “okay. i’ve got it.”

you perked up. “yeah?”

“isolation.”

silence.

“what?” your voice came out small.

“we isolate,” he repeated, more firmly now, like saying it again would make it more reasonable. “separate areas of the ship. minimal contact. we wait for the effects to wear off.”

you stared at him. “you’re kidding.”

“i’m not kidding.”

“ryland, that’s not a solution. t-that’s— what if it gets worse? what if it doesn’t wear off?”

“then we reassess,” he said, easy. “but right now, the safest option is distance.”

you laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “distance? on this ship? we share literally everything. systems, controls, workload—”

“yeah,” he said, gaining momentum, talking faster now. “we separate. different sections of the ship. minimal contact. we only communicate over comms when absolutely necessary. reduce exposure to.... stimuli.”

“stimuli,” you repeated flatly.

he made a small, helpless gesture. “i’m trying to keep this clinical.”

you stared at him. really stared this time.

“ryland,” you said slowly, “we are on a single-crew mission with two people.”

“yes.”

“yao and ilyukhina are—”

“i’m aware.” his voice was tighter this time, jaw clenched.

“we barely manage everything together on a good day.”

“we’ll adjust.”

“adjust?” you let out a short, disbelieving breath, shaking your head. “we’re already compromised. you said it yourself. attention issues, cognitive interference. you think splitting up is going to make that better?”

his jaw tightened. “it removes the trigger.”

“it removes the only person who can help when something goes wrong,” you shot back. “we don’t have backup. we don’t have a third crew member to pick up the slack. if something breaks, and something will break, we need both of us functional.”

“we are functional,” he insisted, but it came out strained, like he didn’t fully believe it.

you took a step closer without thinking.

his entire body reacted.

it was subtle. so subtle you almost missed it. but it was there: the way his shoulders went rigid, the way his breath hitched just slightly, the way his hands curled like he was holding himself in place.

that alone made your point for you.

you gestured between the two of you. “this is not functional.”

he didn’t answer.

you softened your voice, just a little. “we don’t know how long this is going to last.”

“it could wear off in a few hours,” he said, but it sounded more like hope than certainty.

“or it could be days,” you said quietly.

he didn’t argue.

“or weeks or never at all!” you added, pushing it, because you needed him to really think about it, not just cling to the best-case scenario.

“it’s the only plan that doesn’t make things worse. it’s better than the alternative.” he replied.

you stilled. “what alternative?”

he didn’t say anything.

which, unfortunately, was an answer.

you exhaled slowly, your chest tight. “okay. no. we’re not doing this vague shit. we need to actually say it.”

“we really don’t,” he said quickly.

“we do,” you insisted. “because if we don’t, we’re just going to keep circling around it and nothing gets solved.”

he dragged a hand down his face. “no.”

“ryland—”

“no,” he repeated, firmer this time. “we are not— no. that is not the solution.”

you stared at him. you've never heard his voice went that rough. that low. “it’s the only solution that makes sense.”

“it’s not a solution,” he shot back. “it’s—” he stopped, jaw tightening. “it’s not something we should even consider.”

“we both know what this is doing to us,” you pressed, voice low but steady now. “it’s not just going to fade if we sit in separate rooms pretending we’re fine. it’s getting worse.”

“i said no,” he repeated, sharper this time.

“and what happens if it peaks while we’re in the middle of something critical?” you continued anyway. “a maneuver, a repair, a calculation— what then? we just hope we can think straight?”

“we will think straight,” he snapped. “we’re not animals.”

“no, we’re worse,” you shot back. “we’re aware of it and still can’t stop it.”

he looked away first, jaw flexing, like he was trying to clamp down on something.

“we are not going to make a decision like that under the influence of alien—” he gestured helplessly, “—whatever this is.”

“we might not have a choice,” you said.

“we always have a choice.”

“do we?” you asked. “because right now it feels like we’re both in agony and pretending that distance is going to fix it.”

he flinched. barely, but enough.

“you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he said, quieter now. steadier. like he was forcing the words into place. “okay? whatever this is, it doesn't make that decision for us. you don’t—” he stopped, swallowing. “you don’t owe me anything. not for survival, not for the mission. nothing.”

your expression softened for half a second, before hardening again.

“this isn’t about owing anyone anything,” you said. “this is about reality. about what’s actually happening. we can’t function like this, ryland.”

“we can,” he insisted. “we will.”

“you don’t believe that.”

he didn’t answer.

you stepped closer without thinking. his shoulders tensed immediately, like proximity itself was dangerous.

“look at me,” you said.

he did.

“you’re telling me to isolate,” you said, softer now, but more intense. “to stay away from you, to fight this out on our own, when we both know exactly what would make it stop.”

his breath hitched. just slightly, but he held his ground. “knowing something doesn’t mean we should do it.”

“why not?” you asked. “if it works, if it stabilizes us, if it lets us actually do our jobs.... why not?”

“because that’s not a choice,” he said, the words coming out sharper than he meant them to. “that’s a reaction. that’s the pollen making the decision for us.”

“or it’s us making the best decision with the situation we have,” you countered.

“no,” he said, shaking his head, stepping back now like he needed the space. “no, that’s not the same thing.”

you followed without realizing.

“then what is?” you demanded. “we wait it out and risk compromising the mission? we split up and hope nothing goes wrong? how is that better?”

“because at least it’s ours,” he snapped.

the words hung there. then he froze, like he hadn’t meant to say it that way.

you frowned slightly. “what?”

he dragged a hand down his face, exhaling hard. “if we— if we do this, it shouldn’t be because we’re backed into a corner. it shouldn’t be because some alien dust messed with our heads and left us with one option.”

“it’s still us,” you said. “it’s still our choice.”

“is it?” he asked quietly.

that got you. because there was something in his voice now. something deeper than just logic. something personal.

“i don’t want that,” he went on, more quietly now, but more intense for it. “i don’t want.... something like that to happen because we had no other way out. because we were trying to survive it. i don’t want it to be something we look back on and think, ‘we didn’t really choose that.’”

you stared at him.

he looked away again, jaw tight.

“that’s not—” you started, then faltered. “that’s not what this is about.”

“it is for me,” he said.

there was a beat.

“we don’t have the luxury of waiting for perfect conditions,” you said, more gently now. “we have a mission. we need each other functioning.”

“i know,” he said. “i know that.”

“then stop pretending this is something we can just outlast.”

“i’m not pretending,” he said, voice rougher now. “i’m choosing the option where you don’t wake up later and regret it.”

pause.

you blinked at him. your voice came out quieter than you intended. “you think i’d regret it.”

“i think,” he said carefully, “that this isn’t exactly a clear-headed situation.”

you opened your mouth but no argument came out. because he wasn’t wrong.

“i’m just saying that it might fix the problem.”

“at what cost?”

a beat.

he stepped closer. just one step, but it closed the gap enough that the heat surged again, sharp and immediate, both of you feeling it.

his hands flexed at his sides like he was actively resisting the instinct to do something else with them.

“you think you won’t regret that?” he asked, voice lower now, rougher around the edges. “you think we won’t look back at this later and realize we only did it because we didn’t have a choice?”

you didn’t answer right away.

he shook his head, almost to himself. “that’s not…. that’s not how that should happen.”

there was something else in his voice then, something quieter, buried under all the logic and resistance. something that didn’t quite belong to the situation at hand.

“if we’re going to—” he stopped, jaw tightening, then tried again. “if something like that ever happens, it shouldn’t be because we’re trying to survive some alien.... whatever this is. it should be because we actually—”

you watched him cutting himself off. the way his shoulders were locked, the way his whole body looked like it was braced against something internal, something he was refusing to let slip.

“isolating wouldn't work,” you said quietly. “we can’t do this alone. not here. not now.”

“maybe not,” he admitted.

“then—”

“i’m still not doing that,” he cut in.

you blinked. “ryland—”

“i’m not,” he repeated, firmer now. “we’ll figure something else out. we’ll manage it. we have to.”

“even if it makes things harder?”

“yeah,” he said. “even then.”

you searched his face. trying to understand. trying to find the line he wouldn’t cross.

“you’re really that set on this,” you said.

“yeah,” he said quietly.

another pause.

“fine,” you said at last, though it didn’t sound like agreement so much as reluctant acceptance. “we do it your way.”

he nodded once.

“we isolate,” you added. “but if it gets worse—”

“we reassess,” he said immediately.

neither of you moved.

just stood there, separated by a few steps and a whole lot of tension, both of you very aware of how fragile that distance felt.

like it could disappear in a second.

like he might cross it.

like you might let him.

his jaw tightened.

his shoulders went rigid again.

and for a split second, he looked like he might—

but then he turned away.

“i’ll take the lab first,” he said, voice a little rough. “you can have the cockpit.”

you swallowed. “okay.”

“we’ll.... check in. over comms.”

“right.”

—

you weren't sure what time it was, but two things for certain: you were going crazy because sleep refused to come and the ceiling was mocking you.

you had been lying in bed, tangled in your sheets for what felt like hours but was probably just twenty minutes, staring at the ceiling, flipping from one side to the other like a rotisserie chicken. the gold dust still simmered under your skin, turning every shift of fabric into slow torture. your tank top clung to your damp chest. your shorts felt too tight, too rough, too everything. you rolled onto your stomach, then flopped onto your back again, kicking the blanket off with a dramatic groan.

“this is stupid,” you muttered into the dark, dragging a pillow over your face like that might solve anything. “this is so fucking stupid. i am the pilot of the hail mary. i’ve navigated black holes in simulations. i should not be this horny because of some stupid alien dust.”

another wave of heat rolled through you, settling low and insistent between your legs. you whimpered softly, pressing your thighs together, but that only made it worse.

your brain refused to calm, looping the same thoughts over and over again.

ryland’s voice.

ryland’s face.

ryland's arms.

ryland's hair.

just him in general. the way he’d looked at you before you separated. the way his voice had tightened. the way his shoulders had gone rigid like he was holding himself together by sheer force.

you groaned softly into your pillow, pressing your face into it like that might smother the thoughts.

with a frustrated sigh, you shoved the covers off and swung your legs over the side of the bed, the cool floor a brief relief against overheated skin. you sat there for a second, breathing, trying to steady yourself before started pacing.

“isolation,” you scoffed under your breath, pacing faster. “yeah, great plan, ryland. fantastic plan, ryland. terrific plan! it was never gonna fucking work.”

you sighed again before stopping to take a deep breath.

“okay,” you said to yourself. “it's fine. it's fine! you're okay. you're doing good. just— breathe. it’ll pass.”

you closed your eyes and tried to focus.

in.

out.

in—

“mhmmph—”

pause.

you blinked an eye open.

what—

“mhmphhh— fuckk—”

—the hell was that?

you tilted your head slightly, listening.

at first, nothing. just the low hum of the ship, steady and familiar. long enough you were starting to think that your brain was playing tricks on you.

but then—

“oh, please— please—”

it was soft and faint. slightly uneven. and came from the other side of the wall.

and the other side of the wall was ryland's room.

you froze. you heard it again. a low, muffled whimper drifted through the thin wall

unmistakenably ryland.

he was in the room next to yours.

awake.

and very clearly not handling this any better than you were.

he was trying so hard to stay quiet, really committing to the bit, but failing miserably. another whimper followed, shaky and desperate, quickly bitten off. the faint, rhythmic sound of skin on skin. a muttered curse. your name, whispered like he was cursing the universe for putting him in this position.

heat flooded your face so fast you probably matched the emergency lighting. you stood there, mouth slightly open, ears straining despite yourself.

is he—

no.

no way.

no fucking way.

another moan, softer this time, but unmistakably him. he was doing a terrible job at being stealthy. the wall might as well have been paper.

you paced faster, hands flapping uselessly at your sides like a malfunctioning robot.

dilemma time. big, stupid, pollen-fueled dilemma.

option #1: stay in your room. be responsible. respect the isolation plan he’d suggested earlier like the noble scientist he was. suffer in dignified silence until the dust wore off. maybe meditate. or count rivets in the ceiling. very professional.

option #2: march over there, bang on his door, and finally deal with whatever this is, together.

you stopped, pressing your ear against the cool wall, right where the sounds were loudest. another whimper from his side. your stomach flipped. your body voted very enthusiastically for option two.

“but he said isolate,” you argued with yourself in a harsh whisper. “he was all ‘we’re professionals, we can handle this.’ what if i go over there and he freaks out? what if it gets awkward? what if he opens the door with his dick in his hand and we both just scream?”

you frowned at the mental image. not very flattering thing to think about.

“fuck, no. i’m strong. i’m a pilot. i’ve done evasive maneuvers in asteroid fields. i'm on a mission to save earth. i can handle one night of alien-induced horniness without climbing my crewmate like a tree.”

you resumed pacing, arms crossed tight over your chest like that would somehow contain the fire. three steps. turn. three steps. the sounds from his room continued. another low moan, a bitten-off “shit” that sounded way too sexy for your sanity.

you stopped again, staring at your door like it was the airlock to certain doom.

your hand hovered near the door panel. you yanked it back like the button burned.

“no. professional boundaries. we have a mission. we have dignity. we—”

a particularly broken moan cut through the wall, followed by a muffled thump like he’d smacked his head against something.

you groaned, dragging both hands down your face. “okay, fuck it. i’m weak. i’m so fucking weak. if he doesn’t want this he can yell at me tomorrow when the pollen wears off.”

a beat.

“if.... it ever wears off.” you added.

before you could talk yourself out of it again, you marched to the door, heart hammering like a faulty thruster. you raised your fist and banged on his door, loud, impatient.

no turning back now.

inside, everything went dead silent. then frantic shuffling. something clattered to the floor. then the door finally slid open.

ryland stood there, flushed crimson, hair a disaster, breathing like he’d just run a marathon. his glasses were crooked. shorts wrinkled, barely even on, one hand still guiltily hovering near his waist. his eyes widened comically when he saw you.

you didn’t give him time to speak.

you grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled him forward, and kissed him hard.

he made a surprised noise that got immediately swallowed when you kissed him, the door sliding open the rest of the way as he stumbled back into the room.

for a second, he didn’t move. just froze, like his brain had short-circuited.

then his hands came up instinctively, one landing on your waist, the other tangling in your hair as he kissed you back with pent-up desperation. you stumbled forward into his room, mouths still locked, and kicked the door shut behind you with your heel.

the kiss was messy at first. noses bumping, tongues fighting. but neither of you cared. you poured every ounce of frustration and heat into it. his back hit the wall and he pulled you closer, hips pressing against yours so you could feel exactly how affected he still was.

after a long, dizzying minute you forced yourself to pull back just enough to breathe.

“wait, wait,” you said, out of air. “you were the one who wanted to isolate. if you want me to stop.... say it. we can pretend this never happened—”

“no— no, no, no, no. don’t you dare,” he said immediately.

you blinked. “what?”

“don’t say we can stop and then actually mean it,” he said, like that was a personal attack. “that’s— no. absolutely not.”

you huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “you were literally the one arguing against doing this.”

“i know,” he said. “i was wrong. past me was— misguided. naive. deeply out of touch with current events.”

“current events,” you repeated.

“yes,” he said, nodding once, very serious about this. “new data has come to light.”

“and that data is?”

“i need you.”

a beat.

“please.” he stared at you, eyes dark and glassy, lips swollen. his hands flexed on your hips like he was scared you’d vanish. for a heartbeat the only sound was your ragged breathing and the low hum of the ship.

“i tried— i really fucking tried to be good. but this dust is evil and you were just right next door and you look too good in that tank top and i’ve been losing my mind for hours. please.”

you raised an eyebrow, smirking. “oh, so that's what the staring was for earlier?”

“i.... well, i mean— yeah.” he stammered, realizing there is no point of pretending anymore.

you couldn't help but chuckled. “yeah, okay. the feeling's mutual.”

“yeah?” he laughed too.

“yeah.”

“can i kiss you again then?”

you smiled. “thought you'd never asked.”

this time it was him who surged forward, kissing you slower this time, deeper, letting the burn build deliberately. his glasses fogged up immediately, the lenses clouding over from the combined heat of your breaths. he didn’t take them off. didn’t even reach for them. just kept kissing you through the haze, like the fog made it somehow hotter. your fingers traced his jaw, his neck, the rapid flutter of his pulse. he shivered under your touch.

you walked him backward toward the bunk without breaking the kiss. when his knees hit the edge he sat down heavily, pulling you with him so you straddled his lap. the new position pressed you right against the hard line of him, making you both gasp into each other’s mouths.

slowly, you started undressing each other. your hands slid under his shirt, palms mapping the warm, flushed skin of his chest. he lifted his arms so you could tug it off. you tossed it somewhere behind you, leaving him in only his glasses. he returned the favor, peeling your tank top up inch by inch, kissing every new strip of skin he revealed. your stomach, the underside of your breast, your collarbone, until the fabric was gone.

his fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts. you rose up on your knees so he could slide them down your thighs along with your underwear. you kicked them away. then you focused on his shorts, tugging them down slowly, savoring the way his breath hitched when you freed him.

naked now, you settled back onto his lap, skin to skin. the contact was electric. you took your time, rocking gently against him without taking him inside yet, just feeling the slide and heat while you kissed him lazily, tongues tangling in slow, filthy strokes.

you reached between your bodies, wrapping your hand around him. he groaned loud, head tipping back, the sound vibrating through his chest. “fuck— your hand feels so good,” he breathed, hips twitching up into your grip. “please don’t tease me— been dying for this.”

“you sure about this?” you murmured against his lips between kisses, giving him one last out even as your hips rolled in a slow, teasing circle.

“never been more sure of anything in my life,” he breathed, hands gripping your thighs.

you laughed softly into his mouth, the sound turning into a moan when he shifted his hips just right. one of his hands slid between your bodies, fingers exploring with gentle, curious touches until you were trembling.

only then did you reach down, wrap your hand around him, and guide him to your entrance. you sank down inch by torturous inch, both of you moaning at the slow, perfect stretch. when you were fully seated you stayed there for a long moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in while your bodies adjusted.

then you started to move.

slow rolls of your hips at first, savoring every drag and press. ryland’s head tipped back, exposing the long line of his throat. you leaned in to kiss along his jaw, his neck, sucking lightly at his pulse point while you rode him with deliberate, unhurried patience. his hands roamed your back, your sides, your breasts, learning every curve like it was new data he needed to memorize.

gradually the rhythm built. your movements grew deeper, harder. the bunk creaked steadily. soft gasps and moans filled the small room. his fingers found your clit, rubbing tight circles that made your rhythm falter and your breath catch.

“ryland— fuck, just like that—”

“you feel so good,” he panted, voice breaking on the words. “oh, baby— don’t stop, please—”

it hit you like a solar flare. you cried out his name loud, clenching around him hard, hips stuttering through the waves. he followed right after, burying himself deep with a broken, guttural moan.

“yes— fuck— coming— inside you— god, you’re perfect— take it all—”

you collapsed against his chest, both of you trembling, hearts hammering in sync. his arms wrapped around you tight, holding you close while the aftershocks rolled through, glasses still fogged and slightly askew on his nose.

for a long moment, neither of you said anything.

you were half sprawled across him, one leg tangled with his, your arm draped somewhere over his chest like you’d both simply.... collapsed and decided to stay that way. the room was quiet except for your breathing, slowly evening out, though not nearly fast enough to feel normal.

ryland was staring at the ceiling.

very intently.

like it had just revealed the meaning of life and he was still processing it.

“....so,” you said eventually.

“so,” he echoed.

another pause.

you shifted slightly, propping your chin on his chest so you could look at him. “on a scale from one to ‘we should never speak of this again,’ where are you at?”

he didn’t look at you.

“....i’m considering faking amnesia.”

you snorted. “wow. rude.”

“i’m kidding,” he said quickly, then paused. “mostly.”

“mostly,” you repeated.

“okay, no, that sounded worse than i meant it,” he said, finally turning his head toward you, eyes wide like he was trying to fix it in real time. “i don’t regret it. i do not regret it. i just—” he gestured vaguely with one hand, which was difficult considering you were partially pinning him down, “—need a second to emotionally catch up with my own life choices.”

you raised an eyebrow. “your life choices led you to space.”

“for the record, i did not consent to that.”

fair, but you ignored him. “and then to alien pollen.”

“unfortunately, yes.”

“and then to me.”

he hesitated.

“that part i’m less willing to categorize as a mistake.”

you stared at him for a second.

then narrowed your eyes. “that was almost smooth.”

“thank you,” he said. “i panicked halfway through it.”

“i could tell.”

another stretch of quiet settled in, but it was different now. looser. like the tension that had been buzzing under your skin all day had finally burned itself out, leaving something softer in its place.

“....for the record,” you added after a moment, “your ‘being quiet’ plan earlier? terrible.”

he made a strangled noise. “oh my god.”

“like, impressively bad,” you continued. “i heard everything.”

“you did not hear everything.”

“ryland.”

he covered his face with both hands, cheeks heated up. “i would like to be ejected into space now.”

“denied,” you said immediately. “we need you for the mission.”

“please, just kill me already.”

“also,” you added, very seriously, “for future reference, the wall is not soundproof.”

“i have gathered that,” he said into his hands.

“just making sure.”

he peeked at you through his fingers. “....are you going to bring this up again later?”

“oh, constantly.”

“i walked into that one.”

“you really did.”

another quiet moment passed.

you could feel his breathing steady under you now, less uneven, less strained.

“....hey,” he said after a while.

“yeah?”

there was a small pause before he spoke again, like he was choosing his words more carefully this time. “are you okay?”

it caught you off guard.

not the question itself, but the way he asked it. steady. grounded, like he needed the answer to mean something.

you blinked, then nodded. “yeah,” you said, softer. “i am.”

he turned his head then, just enough to look at you properly, like he needed the visual confirmation to go with it.

“okay,” he said finally, the word carrying more weight than it should have. “i'm glad.”

you nudged him lightly with your shoulder, a small, grounding kind of contact. “you?”

he let out a breath that sounded like it had been stuck somewhere in his chest for a while. “yeah. i think so. which is honestly surprising, given.... everything.”

another quiet stretch settled over you, but it wasn’t awkward. not really. just calm, in a slightly surreal, post haze kind of way.

eventually, the exhaustion caught up with you. real, actual exhaustion this time. not the restless, jittery kind from before.

you shifted closer without thinking, your head settling more comfortably against him.

he stilled for half a second then relaxed. his arm tightening just slightly around you.

“also,” he added, voice softer now, almost drowsy, “for the record…. i don’t regret it.”

your chest tightened. you didn’t lift your head, didn’t look at him. just let the words settle somewhere quiet inside you.

“…me neither,” you murmured.

that was the last coherent thing either of you said.

because a few minutes later, the exhaustion finally won.

[str-481]

DOMESTIC LANDOSCAR

Lando Norris / Oscar Piastri | Anthology | Ongoing

A collection of domestic landoscar drabbles and oneshots.

Currently ongoing with no future plans. I’m always welcome to ideas/request, however I won’t promise anything.

you, by my heart | ~ 0.6 k

set in december 2025

summary “God Osc, so needy, whining so much over a few kisses,” Lando breathes out, unlatching his mouth from Oscar’s chest and resting his chin against his sternum.

He’s looking up at Oscar through his lashes. Oscar whose head is tilted back, dangling weightless. Oscar whose knuckles are turning white where he’s gripping the edge of the dining table Lando leaned him back against. Oscar whose mouth is slightly parted in a silent moan.

His Oscar.

or domestic post season landoscar inspired by the 4 shaped bruise Oscar had on his chest.

original post

you, along my neck | 1.5 k

set in january 2026

summary “Fuck off,” Oscar scoffs, moving back to their dinner.

Oscar tries not to think about it. About how many times he traced that mark when he was alone in bed. Tries not to think about how good it looked against his skin. How much he liked carrying around a piece of Lando everywhere he went. And he definitely tries not to think about how much he wants to do the same. How much he wants to see Lando with a twin marking to his.

How good an 81 would look against Lando’s tanned skin.

or domestic preseason landoscar where Oscar gets revenge for Lando’s possessive behaviour.

original post

soft mornings | 1.1 k

summary The first thing Oscar feels when he stirs is the sun kissing his shoulders. Rays peaking through the open windows, heat dancing along his freckled skin.

Second, is soft kitten breaths against the back of his neck, Lando nosing the hairs at his nape, breath fanning over his skin with every even exhale.

or soft, lazy, spring mornings with landoscar.

☆☆☆

[yiiiiiiiikes25]

Mother of a Spartan King

I. ONE LITTLE GOD FALLING OVER ANOTHER

hollanov | nc-17 | 26k so far | chapter 4/7 | updates fridays

Lily, 9:19 a.m. i mean they were right just early. we hadnt won our cups yet but yes cocksucking faggots took over the major

Ilya knows what he wants; he can wait out a year.

APRIL 17: chapter four*

lawyering, cookie rec, issues in equipment management *keep an eye on the appendix this week!

chapter three

dyke hiking, hotel linens, joyrides

chapter two

a couple, a scandal, the circling press, the Dedham, MA L.L. Bean

chapter one

npr, justice for jackie pike, lesbian disguises

tags: alternate universe - canon divergence, post-season-1: the BOS-MTL year, unconventional format/news media/social media/epistolary, saw trap theory, dom ilya rozanov, sub shane hollander, established relationship, gender/labor/homophobia/misogyny, plot-driving lesbianism, shane hollander learns some stuff about himself, ilya rozanov drops $12G at arc*teryx, hockey politics, contract negotiations, vermont sometimes, justice for jackie pike

content warning: homophobia, misogyny, sexual violence, implicit racism. the sex hasn't gotten rough yet but probably will soon. happy to answer questions if you need detail.

much thanks to the crew who continues to intermittently let me corner them to gibber and exploit their editing skill: @or-dhuilleag, @flightspathfic, @whatimages, @knucklecurve, @mintawasalreadytaken, & @sorrybutblog.

series title from c.p. cavafy's in sparta work title from the footsteps banner image of a terracotta head of a woman, greek, 3rd-2nd cent. BCE

[24x81]

You fuck all your girls like this?

shane/ilya. rated explicit. 5.5k. under-negotiated kink, feminization, misogyny.

read on ao3

[hollanov-fics]

Do you have any recs where Ilya ends up playing for Montreal instead of going to Ottawa ?

i do!!!!

Haunting Your City

by mightyd0lphin

“What is there to talk about?” “What’s there to talk about?!” Hollander scoffed, shaking his head. “You’re playing for my fucking team!” “I know.” “Why did you have to go and get traded?! You realise we’re going to have to see each other every day from now on, and play together, and-” “Yes,” Ilya interrupted. He didn’t want to know how long Hollander’s list was. “I know.” Hollander took a deep breath. “Okay, listen,” he said. “Just so we’re clear - we don’t know each other outside of playing against each other, right?” “Right.” “And we can’t- can’t hook up anymore.” ~ OR: Ilya gets traded to Montreal in October 2014. He's lonely, and angry, and he misses Boston. He doesn't know if it helps that Hollander is there or not. title from Buckle by Florence and the Machine

Roster Adjustment

by emphasisonthehomo

“Have been traded.” Ilya says. What? “What?” Shane’s hand clenches around his phone. “Yes,” Ilya says. “Word has not leaked yet, but I wanted you to know first.” OR It turns out it doesn’t matter if Ilya has loyalty to Boston or not, when he’s traded to Montreal in at the beginning of the 2017-2018 MLH season.

[24x81]

by the neck on a piece of string

ilya rozanov character study [shane hollander, irina rozanova, grigori rozanov; referenced suicide, dysfunctional family, dog leifmotif]. 2.7k. mature.

You want to say, I think my father saw something terrible in me the day I was born. You want to say, I think my father has known me better than I have ever known myself. You want to say, I think my father saw himself in me. You stand in the shape you have been made into and the rest moves to you. Your father asks you anything, you turn to face him. He holds out his hand, you rise to meet it. His hand, mighty and guiltless, on the back of your neck, on the side of your face, on your shoulder. He never hurt you, not once. Your body is nothing but hurt.

[hollanovarchive]

Outside POV

This is an ongoing list that will be updated as I read more !!

🏒 Semantics | 2.8k

Pike calls Lily after Shane's concussion, full of restless panic and a complicated sense of responsibility at being the only one who knows about their relationship.

🏒 I Do It For You | 3.0k

jj and hayden visit shane at the cottage & jj realises there’s more to rozanov than he ever knew

🏒 Pretty Boring | 3.2k

4 times shane was less boring than people thought. including hickeys, never have i ever, being in the room next door to them at a hotel, and a russian rookie

🏒 Hidden Devotion | 3.7k

snapshots from the centuars pov of ilya rozanov moving too ottawa

🏒 Lost In Translation | 4.5k

The Centaurs' newest rookie speaks Russian. It's too bad that Shane and Ilya don't know that.

🏒 One Day You Will Understand | 5.6k

everyone asks 'why Ottawa?' Ilya's neighbor, Kate, just happens to figure it out first.

🏒 Slipping Through My Fingers All the Time | 8.2k

3 times Yuna is surprised by Ilya Rozanov and one time she isn't anymore

🏒 Contingency Plans | 8.3k

Ilya needs a place to go, and Hayden's happens to be the closest. It turns out to be a good thing

🏒 you know i think about you all the time (my deep misunderstanding of your life) | 14.4k

Hayden finds himself unlearning everything he thought he knew about Ilya Rozanov

🏒 Ottawa Centaurs - The Mockumentary | 39.7k

This is what happens when the social media manager for the Ottawa Centaurs just finished rewatching the entirety of The Office for the 3rd time

[aphelionatseven]

in other universes...

[major inspirations from here & here ]

[ereardon-deactivated20260430]

Jake "Hangman" Seresin

You Again [Miniseries]

It’s been five years since you last saw your childhood best friend and first love Jake Seresin. But fate, or coincidence, has you back in Jake’s life and he’s desperate not to lose you again.

Slow Burn [Full length series]

After a one night stand with Hangman disrupts the fresh start you were looking for when moving to San Diego, the unexpected pregnancy forces you and Jake learn how to live with each other and tolerate one another. As the months go by, you slowly get to know the real Jake beneath the facade he puts on, but when old flames and work obstacles threaten to topple everything, your new relationship is put to the test.

As It Was [Full length series]

When Jake Seresin calls to tell you he’s accepted a permanent position at Top Gun, you’re elated to finally be living in the same city as your best friend. But everything changes when Jake tells you his news — he has a new girlfriend, and he’s serious about her. And while you want to like her, for Jake’s sake, something about her feels wrong. Jake's arrival in San Diego also puts you in the direct path of Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw, who has set his sights on you despite being Jake’s sworn enemy. Every move Rooster makes, Jake intercepts. What game are these two playing, and why is Jake more concerned about you moving on with Rooster than he is about his own relationship? 

He'd Let Her Go [One-shot]

Jake meets the love of his life in college, but after years together he realizes the best thing he can do if he really loves her is to let her go.

My Girl [Full length series]

Jake Seresin could be the answer to all of your dating woes. He’s the full package: steady job, mature, dependable, attractive to a fault. The polar opposite of every guy your age and he’s everything you’ve ever wanted in a partner. But there’s one roadblock: he’s a single father to four-year-old Ellie. Jake is looking for a level of commitment you’re not quite sure you’re ready to give, and he’s not willing to bring someone into his daughter’s life who isn’t there for the long haul. And even if you are stepmom material, is Jake ready to let someone back in his life while still mourning the recent loss of his late wife? 

Above The Fold [Full Length Series]

As editor-in-chief of Farrington College’s newspaper, you have an ethical duty to journalism to unearth the truth. So when you catch wind that the college’s oldest fraternity is about to be banned for elicit behavior, you’re intent on getting to the bottom of the dissolution of the fraternity. But their suave president Jake Seresin will do anything he can to stop you from getting the full truth. Breaking the story about DPhi’s decades of misconduct could win you a national college journalism scholarship, and the prize is free tuition to your grad school of choice. That is, if you can get past the arrogant and headstrong Jake to uncover the truth behind DPhi’s allegations. Jake has made it his mission to stop you, and it’s clear he despises you for tampering with his fraternity’s politics. Or does he? 

Robert "Bob" Floyd

One Night [One-shot]

You have your eyes on Bob at the Hard Deck, but have to shoot down Jake Seresin first.

Gas Station Tears [One-shot]

After your boyfriend dumps you, your car stalls out in a gas station parking lot. Luckily, Bob Floyd happens to be there to fix your car. Can he fix your heart, too?

It Was Never Him [One-shot]

You catch your boyfriend Rooster making out with a girl at the Hard Deck and only one person can comfort you in the aftermath: Bob Floyd. 

What Are You Thinking? [One-shot]

Bob Floyd is a quiet man. Sometimes you have to ask him what he’s thinking just to know what wheels are turning inside of his head. He always gives you a response, until one day, years into your marriage, he turns the question on you. 

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw

Come Back [Full length series]

Eight years ago, Bradley Bradshaw was just a college boyfriend who broke your heart. Now, he’s back in your life after a coincidental reunion, and he’s adamant about starting up a friendship. Will it be possible to be just friends with Bradley, or is he inevitably going to end up ruining everything you’ve spent the better part of a decade rebuilding?

Too Far Gone [One-shot]

Your life changed forever the moment you fell for Bradley Bradshaw. But his life wasn’t an easy one to fit into. He had more baggage than lost and found at JFK airport. You were always one for a fixer upper. Bradley could be your ultimate passion project. But was he too far gone for you to save him? 

His Best Friend's Wedding [Two-part series]

Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw has been your best friend for a decade. He’s also your fiancé’s best man. So when he shows up at your hotel room the night before your wedding, it’s just because he’s your friend, right? 

Rhett Abbott

A Place Like This [Full length series]

Rhett Abbott has never met a girl like you. You’re a corporate city girl in Wabang on borrowed company time — he thinks there’s no way you would waste it on him. So when you fall for the local bull rider, you’re both a little surprised. What will it take to get Rhett to realize he can give you everything you’re looking for? And will Rhett be able to reconcile the fact that your job is literally to dismantle Wabang and break apart the only place his family has ever known?

Other writing

I ask him for stories

Heat

At Sea With You

[ereardon-deactivated20260430]

As It Was [Masterlist] — Full length Series

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

Summary: When Jake Seresin calls to tell you he’s accepted a permanent position at Top Gun, you’re elated to finally be living in the same city as your best friend. But everything changes when Jake tells you his news — he has a new girlfriend, and he’s serious about her. And while you want to like her, for Jake’s sake, something about her feels wrong. Jake's arrival in San Diego also puts you in the direct path of Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw, who has set his sights on you despite being Jake’s sworn enemy. Every move Rooster makes, Jake intercepts. What game are these two playing, and why is Jake more concerned about you moving on with Rooster than he is about his own relationship? 

Status: Series is complete!

Overview:

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Epilogue

Dream cast moodboard

Tag list: @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @blue-aconite @abaker74 @vir-tual @justanothermagicalsara @hiddleless @lexhalstead3 @stevieharringtongf @katiebby04 @clairedelarosa-blog @chiffondaydreams @evans-dejong @thechillingadventuresoftayla @hopefulinlove @teenwolf01 @emptyloverofmine @zablife @lgg5989 @tallrock35 @shanimallina87 @kkrenae @maggiedanikka @whateverbagman @marantha @materialgirl01 @percysaidnever @mandylove1000 

[ereardon-deactivated20260430]

Thinking about these three 😭

[artist173]

patiently waiting on a landoscar stream…

someone wrote a fic 🥹🥹🫶 thank you sosososo much!!

[superhusbands-superfan]

A Hockey Secret

For absolutely no reason at all, I feel like folks might enjoy this tonight. This is set after The Long Game, so beware there will be spoilers. Also some celebratory drinking, secret sharing and reflections on leadership.

Summary: While drunkenly celebrating, Shane shares a secret with Ilya. Word count: 2.2k

Shane is, maybe, the drunkest Ilya has ever seen him. It’s understandable, really. They are celebrating.

As if he can read Ilya’s mind, Shane flashes a silly, lovesick and extremely drunk smile at him.

“We fucking did it,” Shane says, his voice quieter than Ilya expects it to be. Almost like he can’t believe it.

“We did.” Ilya is entirely certain it’s true. He’s also unsure how to handle feeling this much pride and happiness while staying on his feet. They had done it.

Today — or maybe it was technically yesterday? He hasn’t looked at a clock in hours — the Ottawa Centaurs won their first Stanley Cup. His and Shane’s first, together.

It’s already Ilya’s favorite achievement. Hockey achievement, anyway, he thinks, twisting his wedding ring around his finger.

Shane chugs whatever is left in the red plastic cup one of the rookies shoved into his hand about 15 minutes ago. Ilya really hopes it had been full of champagne because Shane does not need more hard liquor when he’s already looking at Ilya like this, and Shane has never been a huge fan of beer. Stanley Cup celebrations should only ever involve things you like, as far as Ilya is concerned.

Shane drops the empty cup on a nearby table and tugs Ilya into a sloppy kiss.

Oh good, Ilya thinks, it was definitely champagne.

The kiss is more than welcome, of course, but Shane’s intensity is another sign that he’s very drunk. His husband is many wonderful things, but he is still so shy about affection like this in public. Ilya thinks he probably always will be, even if they play for Ottawa with these people they love — people who love them — for years to come. It’s just who Shane is.

It’s adorable.

Shane breaks the kiss and leans his forehead against Ilya’s, still grinning.

“You’re sure this is real?” His words slur together the smallest amount.

Ilya pretends to think about it for a second. “Mmm. I am sure I saw you score twice tonight. I am sure I saw Hazy,” Ilya turns his head away from Shane’s and raises his voice a little so it will carry through the space, “get us a fucking shutout!”

As he expects, even just saying it this way — the most subdued way he’s said it all night — elicits a heartfelt cheer that ripples through the entire crowd of teammates, partners and other assorted family members.

Somewhere around here, Ilya knows that whichever teammates are closest to Wyatt just jumped on him and shook him senseless in their excitement. He sort of hopes Wyatt has a headache, courtesy of too much beer and his many, many happy teammates refusing to leave him the fuck alone.

Relishing the noisy joy, Ilya presses a kiss to Shane’s temple. “Very real, yes?”

“You scored, too,” Shane says, as if Ilya needs the reminder. As if he’s the one drunk enough to have forgotten a single moment of this day. “Plus the assist on the power play.”

“Yes,” Ilya says, smirking. “So impressive, I know.”

The look Shane directs at him is too soft and full of love for Ilya’s playful, cocky comment. Then, abruptly, his expression turns almost mischievous. Maybe a little shy.

Shane leans into him. “Can I tell you a secret?” Shane wobbles as he asks and catches himself by winding an arm around Ilya’s waist.

“Of course.” Trust is the foundation of their relationship. They’ve always kept each other’s secrets. They just have far fewer of them now. “Is what husbands are for, I think.”

“This is a hockey secret,” Shane says, nonsensically.

A hockey secret?

“Maybe you did not hear,” Ilya says it like he’s sharing a secret of his own, “but I just won the Stanley Cup without any top secret Hollander hockey moves.”

Shane smacks his shoulder and leaves his hand on Ilya’s chest. “We did that to-geth-er.” The words come out of Shane’s mouth strangely musically.

It reminds Ilya of Shane inviting him to the cottage that first time, high on painkillers.

“Yes.” Ilya feels helplessly fond and he’s certain that’s written all over his face. He doesn’t care. “We did.” He kisses the tip of Shane’s nose. Shane smiles at the attention. “So what’s this secret?”

Shane looks up at him, blinking in confusion. “What?”

Ilya laughs. Seems he won’t be getting any Hollander trade secrets tonight, after all. “You are so drunk.”

“Yeah,” Shane says, smiling. He leans more of his weight onto Ilya. “You’re not, though.”

“No,” Ilya says. I wanted to remember every single second of this night perfectly.

He’ll do plenty of drunken partying in the weeks to come. But the memory of the night he won his first Stanley Cup is a beer-soaked blur, so he’d decided early on not to go too crazy tonight. He’s had a couple beers, done more than one shot and is generally having plenty of fun. He’s nowhere near as far gone as Shane, though.

It’s rare and intoxicating in its own way, Shane feeling safe enough to let go like this. Ilya isn’t sure Shane freely or drunkenly celebrated any one of his three previous cup wins, so Ilya’s been encouraging and enabling him.

“You want more champagne?”

“Noooo,” Shane says with a slow shake of his head. “Baaad idea.” Those words seem to trigger something, and Shane’s eyes go wide. “Oh! Right!”

“What?”

“Don’t tell anyone, but this was the easiest season ever.”

Oh, Ilya thinks. Shane’s hockey secret. “You mean because of this team? Like, you feel safe here?”

“No, no.” Shane’s face crumples in adorable confusion before brightening. “Well, yes! I love this team. Love being here. Love playing with you all the time.” Without any warning at all, in perfect Russian, he adds, “I love you.”

Ilya’s heart does its predictable Shane is speaking Russian flutter. He’s so glad they’ve already won the cup, because Ilya is so fucking happy that he’s not sure he’ll be able to pull off intimidating again for at least several weeks.

“I love it too,” Ilya says. He’s always relieved to hear Shane say he loves playing in Ottawa. He’s especially happy to hear it now, while Shane is this loose and uninhibited. “But what do you mean, then?”

“I mean it was the easiest season I’ve played since… I don’t even know. Ever?” Shane laughs, delighted. “You know me. You get me. You’re a great captain. We have a great team, a great coach.”

It all sounds a lot like a “yes” to the question Ilya had asked before, but he’s not about to tell Shane that. He’s clearly working up to something.

“I think…” Shane starts, pausing to bite at his lip in a way that has Ilya worrying he might split it.

Ilya brushes his fingers along Shane’s shoulder and down his arm to encourage him to keep talking.

Shane smiles at him, takes a deep breath, and drunkenly whispers, “I think maybe I really hated being team captain?” It’s a question and not, all at once. Shane laughs again, as if the revelation is silly and unimportant. As if he’s not talking about something he spent years of his career doing extremely successfully.

As if everyone on this team — their team — hasn’t been calling them co-captains, playfully, since basically their third week on the same roster. As if Ilya hasn’t been idly thinking about how to tell Shane that, actually, the title can be his again if he wants it back. Or that they can switch off each season, maybe, even though that is guaranteed to become dangerously competitive.

Shane is still talking, blissfully unaware of the way his words are rewiring some of the things Ilya thought he knew about his husband.

“I hate managing… personalities.” Shane says the word like it’s offensive. “I never really knew how to calm down nervous rookies or help someone in a slump. I was terrible at giving inspiring speeches after a bad loss. Or pumping the team up before a game. I just — ” He sighs like he’s tired just thinking about it. Then, like a switch flips, Shane smiles. “You are so good at it, Ilya.”

“You are good at it too, Shane,” Ilya says, because he is sure of this. “You do not lead a team to back-to-back cups if you are a shitty captain.”

Shane flushes, pleased by the reminder or the praise or both. “Maybe.”

“Definitely.”

“Whatever. My point is — this season, with you… it was just hockey.” Shane settles both hands on Ilya’s shoulders, bracing him for whatever he is about to say next. “Pure, simple hockey. I just… got to play hockey.” He shakes Ilya a little, buzzing with excitement. “And it was so fucking fun.”

Oh. Easiest season ever. Fun. Oh.

Ilya loves this talented, dedicated overachiever so much.

With one glaring exception, Shane has never been great at doing anything other than what is expected of him.

Everyone expected him to be captain, so he was. Everyone expected him to be a good captain, so he was. No one bothered to ask if that was what Shane wanted. And it had been that way for years.

He sounded shocked confessing this secret, so maybe Shane hadn’t even known that he disliked being captain.

Ilya's heart hurts for Shane.

He also isn’t sure he can believe it.

He worries about how much coming to play in Ottawa cost Shane. He took so much shit for the playoffs loss last year and he’s getting paid less than he should to play here. He gave up everything he’d worked to build in Montreal, which Ilya imagines still stings even if the team had been ungrateful assholes about it all, in the end. He had to start from scratch and find a place for himself on a new team. That’s never easy, even if you’re a player as skilled as Shane.

Ilya’s getting better about accepting that it’s only fair for both of them to occasionally make sacrifices for the other. He knows that, on paper, he gave up a lot for Shane: left Russia permanently, left his team in Boston, moved to Ottawa.

But he also knows that, in the end, he didn’t actually lose anything. He gained a family in Shane and Anya and Yuna and David. He found the rest of his family here, too, on this team.

Ilya is so happy here. So the idea that Shane might not feel like he lost anything, either?

Well.

Shane’s smiles had been more frequent this season, both on and off the ice. Ilya had noticed. He assumed and hoped it was some combination of being out, being newly married and living with his husband and their adorable dog full time. He hadn’t let himself dream it might be because of changes on the ice, too.

If anything, Ilya had thought maybe the changes on the ice had come at the expense of a few smiles, actually.

But here Shane is, telling him the exact opposite.

It feels too good to be true.

“Noooooo,” Shane whines, breaking Ilya out of his thoughts. He’s frowning a little. “It’s a happy secret. Don’t be sad.” The stern instruction is how Ilya discovers he has tears in his eyes. Shane’s ridiculous pout makes him laugh. It’s weak and wet, but it’s a laugh.

He blinks a few times. Shane squeezes his shoulders.

“I’m good,” Shane says, so earnest Ilya can’t do anything but believe him. “Really.”

“Promise me?” Even as Ilya asks, he realizes he doesn’t actually need Shane to promise this. He knows it. Trusts it. Trusts him.

Now that Shane has said it, and he’s thought about it, it makes perfect sense. If someone had asked Ilya if his husband would enjoy a job that is a never-ending and always-changing combination of motivational speaking, planning social gatherings and navigating interpersonal issues, he would have said no, of course not.

Strategy and leadership is a part of it, of course, but that’s not something a captain does alone. Shane is unquestionably part of the team’s leadership, with or without a C on his jersey.

“I promise,” Shane says. He sounds as certain as he does when he tells Ilya that he loves him.

“Okay, moya lyubov,” Ilya says, because what else is there to say, really? “I am glad.”

Shane is about to kiss him again when Bood yells, “Hollander! Roz! Get your asses over here!”

Shane starts in the direction of Bood’s voice, but he hesitates. He looks at Ilya, searching.

“Hey.” His voice is soft and his dark eyes are less clouded with alcohol than they’d been just 30 seconds earlier. “You okay? We can go home.”

Ilya’s touched that Shane’s checking in. Between that and the reminder that home is here, in Ottawa, 20 minutes away and they’ll go there tonight, together… His chest feels tight.

“I am okay,” he says. He means it. “We should go see what they want, yes?”

Shane takes Ilya’s hand in his, squeezes it once and then tugs them in Bood’s direction.

ao3 link (for when she's back from the war & because there's a chapter 2 😉)

[orbitingspacejunk]

my storm, my ship, my shore, my sea

Inspired by beautiful fanart by @xiry228

Pairing: Lando Norris/Oscar Piastri, Lando x Oscar, landoscar Word count: 2.4k Tags: Post Singapore GP 2025, Sleeping Together, Established/Developing Relationship, Light Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Cuddling, Non-verbal Communication Summary: They still shared a bed almost every single other night, but they knew that post race nights were a whole separate affair. They'd been in the game long enough to know what they were like after the GPs, worn down to the bone after hours at track and hours at press; their emotions running high and their patience running low. He hates that even in his worst moments he can't stop needing Lando, not even when he is the maker of those moments. Post Singapore GP 2025, Lando and Oscar struggle to balance their need for space and their need for intimacy. A/N: I finally cleaned up the start of this little drabble that I wrote under xiry's art, added some logic to the logistics, and posted it on ao3.

(full fic under the cut)

Oscar takes his time going around the paddock after the race. He takes a quick shower in hospitality to wash the sweat and the Singaporean humidity off of himself, and then hangs around doing little things here and there, nothing strictly required of him immediately, but nothing that would look odd for him to stay back for either. By the time he gets back, Lando is already in the kitchen putting dinner together.

They'd been doing this whole sharing living space while out on race weekends thing since the start of this year, but it still felt odd sometimes to come back to not-a-hotel-room. It had been Lando's idea, claiming he'd been getting sick of hotel rooms after six years in formula one, and saying he couldn't be unfair and leave Oscar to deal with the same fate, that it wouldn't be teammate like of him.

They got it through the management, somehow, formally putting in a request to book them in either two-bedroom hotel suites with a kitchen, or some off-hotel property or airbnb, far away from the chaos of the rest of the team. Lando made it sound believable somehow, spinning tales around performance pressure, personal space, and how they needed to be able to decompress if they were to fight at the front of formula one this year. If anybody suspected there being a deeper reason, they were silenced by a blank, pointed stare from Oscar.

People were welcome to think what they'd like inside the walls of their heads, but Lando and Oscar weren't ready to have a formal conversation about this with the team yet. What they had was still too fragile to be placed under the microscope of their workplace protocols and PR machinery, to delicate to be turned into a thing—a situation to be handled.

They'd been doing this thing since the end of Oscar's rookie year, but it was only mostly through their second season that they'd begun to stop pretending it was either going to boil over or go away on its own, and started coming at it seriously. They both knew it ran deeper than a casual teammate dalliance now, if those even existed. They still hadn't figured out the whole shape of it, but they'd at least stopped running away from it and from each other.

"Hey," Lando says softly, finishing spooning the reheated rice from Oscar's meal pack onto a plate with his chicken and salad before handing it to him as he walks in. He looks up at Oscar when he does so, eyes soft and open, face gently inquiring. There's a tentative hope in there that Oscar no desire to deal with right now.

It's a mellowed out version of how Lando had been looking at him immediately after the race, eyes firmly on him despite Andrea in their middle when they were being interviewed about the constructors' win. But it's still far more than Oscar has the physical or emotional capacity to unravel right now.

He takes his plate, says a quiet thank you while avoiding Lando's eyes and heads to his bedroom. He can hear the soft sigh Lando lets out behind him as he walks off. He shuts his door firmly behind himself.

A few races into this season, they'd figured out that they were more or less going to be fighting each other for the championship. As elated as they were to have the privilege to make a play for their life's dream, they were also aware enough to know that it wasn't exactly going to be conducive to their relationship with each other.

So, like the world class motorsport athletes used to thinking through systems and strategies, and planning things down to the millisecond they were, they put protocols in place. They talked through scenarios for all possible outcomes, predicted how they could feel in the moment, and then put down rules to follow for when things went bad. One of those measures was their sleeping arrangements.

They still shared a bed almost every single other night, but they knew that post race nights were a whole separate affair. They'd been in the game long enough to know what they were like after the GPs, worn down to the bone after hours at track and hours at press; their emotions running high and their patience running low.

They'd worked out that the best course of action would be to give each other space when they needed it. But having that conversation at the end of every race was almost more draining than simply putting up with the proximity, so they'd decided to default to sleeping in their separate bedrooms post race nights. The last thing either of them wanted to after a hard race was scrape the bottom of their emptied emotional barrel to find kind words to tell the other that they didn't feel particularly fond of them in that moment and needed them to temporarily sod off.

But they also needed a way to let the other know when they didn't feel like that way and would actually be open to sleeping together, please, if possible. So they agreed upon a silent signal, leaving their door ajar if they wanted to share a room, and all the way shut if they didn't. It had been working quite well so far, they'd managed to avoid post race arguments and saying things at night that they'd regret in the daylight almost entirely.

By the time Oscar emerges out of his room to put away his empty plate, it's hours later and Lando has already gone to bed. Oscar had deliberately spent too long killing time in his room to avoid running into Lando again. As he walks to the kitchen, Oscar doesn't need to look in the direction of Lando's bedroom door to know it's cracked open. With how Lando had been acting towards him since the race ended, he'd expected as much.

He puts the dish in the sink and retreats back to the safety of his sealed room. He shifts around on his bed, trying to find a comfortable position and willing himself to go to sleep. His body is wrung out, Singapore isn't kind even on the best of days. His heart, though, is even more twisted up and stretched thin. Too much had happened tonight for him to even begin processing. He knows he needs rest before he can attempt to make sense of any of it. He doesn't know how he feels, he doesn't know what he wants to do about any of what he feels, and he especially doesn't want to think about any of the things that others expect him to be doing about what he feels. But, his mind has other ideas.

He tosses and turns for an hour, trying to get his brain and body to come down from the high, to not act like he was going at 300 kph anymore. His skin feels itchy all over despite the shower and the fresh clothes. The sheets feel too smooth and too rough at the same time. The mattress never settles into a comfortable press against his spine.

He knows what's wrong, he knows what he needs, but he can't ask for it. Not tonight, he doesn't even know if it will help, it might just make things worse.

After another fifteen fruitless minutes of trying to get himself to do what he struggles to do alone on the best of days, he gives up. He walks up to his bedroom door, hesitates for a second, then jerkily reaches out and twists the knob, pulling the door slightly open on its hinges. He knows Lando's door is still open, he knows he could walk there and slide into his bed right this very moment if he wanted to. But he can't. Not tonight, not after everything. He can't go all that way yet, he still needs more time.

He returns to his bed and curls up on his side. It's around 1 am now, and the chances of Lando still being up are very low. His body would be similarly exhausted, and his mind probably less scattered and agitated than Oscar's after that podium. He knows there's no use waiting, hoping, pretending he isn't doing either of them.

He hates himself a little in that moment, hates his heart that can't stop yearning after being beaten and bruised like that. He hates that even in his worst moments he can't stop needing Lando, not even when he is the maker of those moments. All of Oscar's strings wrapped tightly around his fingers pulling his limbs into twisted shapes, dragging his body along the stage to meet his own end and fulfill whatever narrative arc he'd written for him; amuse all the ones who'd sat down to watch their story unfold.

It's less than a few minutes before he hears the soft creak of Lando's bedroom door being pushed further open and his soft, socked footsteps making their way on the hardwood floors of their hallway. Oscar lets out a soft, involuntary exhale. He doesn't really know what he had been wanting, but he feels his body loosen all the same.

Lando pushes into his room and crosses over to the other side of his bed. Oscar doesn't turn or react even as Lando pulls the covers up and slides in behind him. Only when Lando wraps his arm around Oscar's waist does his body give in, all tension seeping out of his muscles in one fell swoop. He pushes himself back tightly against Lando, eliminating any space between them. He feels Lando's firm chest press against his back, fitting perfectly against his spine the way the mattress never did. Oscar pushes his legs back until they are tangled completely with Lando's—thighs sliding between thighs, calves wrapping around shins, toes pressing into ankles—until neither can tell which limb belongs to whom. The room was warm, almost too warm, but Oscar hadn't realised how cold he'd been despite it until he found himself encased in Lando's warmth, his body far too used to this sensation to adapt to its sudden loss.

Lando, mercifully, does not speak. Oscar doesn't know if he could handle that right now, even so much as hearing his name escaping Lando's lips would feel like a cut deep enough to draw blood. Lando just drops his forehead to rest against Oscar's nape until his lips graze softly at the tip of Oscar's spine. Oscar shivers, despite himself. Lando only curls his arm tighter against his torso, sliding his hand up to his chest.

Oscar reaches out, needs to, without thinking. He feels like he's in free fall, like he's adrift in the middle of the sea at night, the black starry sky reflecting onto the waves and becoming one with them, horizon blurring until he's not sure which way is up and which way is down. He needs something to hold onto, something to anchor himself. His hand comes up to catch Lando's on his chest, fingers intertwining and pressing until he's squeezing them too hard to pass off as normal.

He loosens his grip abruptly. But Lando doesn't pull away, only adjusts his hold to more fully cover Oscar's hand with his own. His heads shifts to come around and hook his chin onto Oscar's shoulders, his curls brush softly against Oscar's cheek and ear. Oscar hadn't realised how much he missed that sensation until now. He feels his brain wind down, thoughts getting slower and more spaced out, slowly trickling out of his skull entirely. His breathing gets less rapid with Lando's smell flooding his senses, the scent of his citrus body wash, their shared laundry detergent, and the lingering singed rubber from tonight's race reminding him of all Lando was, a racer, his rival, his.

He knows they're not out of the woods yet. This resolves nothing, they're still going to have to talk tomorrow. Both between themselves and then with the rest of the team; the debrief from night races always being pushed to the next morning. He knows what's coming. Too many uncomfortable words and feelings, too much honesty and vulnerability required of both of them.

He loves Lando, and he loves racing. He even loves racing Lando, but he would be lying if he said the constant strain of the title fight and the complicated conversations it kept forcing them to have with each other wasn't getting to him. After each race he felt like he needed to flay himself open for Lando to see, so that he could find exactly the places where Oscar had shattered and pick the pieces up. Sometimes all Oscar wanted to do was shut himself away from the world, away from Lando, never let anyone see how much he hurt, but he knew where that led. And he didn't want that. He would do this a thousand times over if it meant he could have Lando curled up around him like he was right now, his warm breath tickling across Oscar's cheek with every exhale, his chest moving in tandem with Oscar's back, the soft press of his skin enveloping Oscar in every direction.

He didn't know what he was doing. He didn't know what either of them was thinking getting themselves into a situation like this. Teammate title fights were complicated enough without throwing a whole romantic relationship into the mix. He felt wild and reckless, pushing boundaries that were never meant to be pushed. That no one else has survived pushing. He felt a little insane, seconds away from catastrophe, the way he didn't even feel even in the car, anymore.

But Lando hadn't been able to sleep tonight either. He'd come within minutes of Oscar opening his door, like all he'd been doing was keeping his ears peeled the whole night to know when he was allowed back in. That was a bit crazy too, that after a success like Singapore, after getting ever so closer to the championship of his dreams, all he could think about was Oscar. If Oscar was okay, if he still had Oscar, if he could touch Oscar.

Maybe Oscar was insane, but Lando was insane right there with him. Maybe they were both just the right amount of crazy to actually keep this wild, terrifying, and untamable thing between them somehow alive and breathing through to the end of this year.

[monacobby]

small wonder

lando norris/oscar piastri | explicit | chapters 1-3 (of 4)

Lando’s always liked feeling small— grinning up at men as they tower over him, the way their strong arms engulf him, being manhandled onto a mattress, body manipulated into whatever position they want. It’s supposed to be the same with Oscar. It isn’t. Or: Lando's big obsession with all the little things about Oscar.

read on ao3 | archive locked

[cosmicscuderia]

Spectral of a Home

nortrell | major character death | 1.6k

for the @nortrellficfest

Lando wants to scream, wants to find a megaphone so he can stand in the middle of the street with it held to his mouth. He mattered! Lando would proclaim. He mattered to me!

[drivestraight]

SIGNIFICANT LOVER | willmack, chaptered fic

While on IR, Will gets a boyfriend.

special ty to @scuderlia as always for helping craft this beautiful boyfriendverse with me…

fic cover by @apollothyme ty forever my love ❤️

internalized homophobia, internalized biphobia, and ENDGAME WILLMACK!!!!!

blurb:

Mack hated himself for feeling this way, but he couldn’t help it. A part of him hates Will, for having to mess it all up. He doesn’t mind that Will’s gay. It just would’ve been so much easier if he wasn’t.

UPDATES EVERY SUNDAY.