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[daily-like-a-prayer]

[medrawawi]

[my-castles-crumbling]

daylight - @jeggyverses-jegulus-microfic - word count: 264

It’s when James saw daylight peeking in through the windows of the corridors he was creeping through that he knew he was well and truly fucked. That there was no way in hell his friends hadn't noticed he was gone. 

It’s just…the hours passed by like minutes. Sitting there with Regulus, staring at the stars, laughing as the younger boy snarked about every joke he tried to tell….it’d been more magical than any lesson he’d experienced in his seven years here. How on earth could he have possibly kept track of the time?

And yes, at first, he’d been worried that he was bothering the Slytherin. But by the end…Reg genuinely looked sad to part. Like he almost wanted to ask to do something again.

Or maybe it was just wishful thinking.

But it didn’t really matter anyway because James was probably a dead man when he got back. His only hope was convincing Sirius that he was with anyone other than Regulus Black.

He crept through the portrait hole, practicing a story in his mind. He was so focused on this task that he didn’t see the figure waiting for him in the common room until–

“James.”

He jumped about a mile. Sirius was sitting there by the fire, looking expectant. 

“Ah! Uh, Pads!” He said, voice full of false cheer. “I was, um….out with…” His mind raced, trying to figure out what to say. 

It was then that Sirius held up the Marauders Map, a single eyebrow raised as he gave James a knowing look.

“Fuck,” James said eloquently, stomach dropping.

Fuck, indeed.

[my-castles-crumbling]

homeland - hollanov - @taylorswiftmicrofic - word count: 437 - click here to see my microfic archive!

It is not unusual to get a Rookie on the team who speaks another language. Shane’s used to playing with guys from all different countries, and has found many ways to communicate, even if he’s working with someone who doesn’t speak much English. Hockey is always a common language between every player, and that’s enough.

But when, in the second year he’s on the Centaurs, he and Ilya find out their newest Rookie is from Russia, it delights both of them.

Ilya, of course, is thrilled to have someone else from his homeland. They can discuss the places they’ve both been to, their experiences playing hockey in both countries. And Shane is happy that he is able to put some of his now-decently-proficient Russian to good use by making the new guy feel welcome.

But he doesn’t anticipate a big problem. 

It happens the first time they’re all introduced. 

Melnikov walks into the locker room with a smile on his young face, but obvious anticipation in his eyes. He speaks nervously, like he’s questioning every syllable. “Hi. I am…new player.”

So Ilya, eager and ever the talker, approaches him with a giant grin. “Добро пожаловать! Мы очень рады видеть вас здесь!”

And the Rookie’s eyes light up in recognition before he answers back in kind, his speech in Russian easy and comfortable.

But Shane feels a bit of warmth in his lower stomach as he listens to his husband’s confident, deep voice. A bubbling of something heady as his whole body reacts to the Russian flowing out of him.

It’s not a fluke.

As Ilya and Melnikov become fast friends, Russian becomes common in the locker room. And Shane becomes…easily worked up.

Ilya addresses it after a few days. 

“You are…mad?” he asks Shane one night after practice, sidling up to him with a small frown in his face. “You walk away every time I speak Russian with Melnikov.”

And they’ve promised honesty. It’s something they’ve agreed on after years of avoiding emotions and arguing over situations that could have easily been avoided. So Shane, grumbling and embarrassed, has to look his husband in the eye and say, “...no.”

“Then what?” Ilya pushes, clearly confused. “I don’t understand, Shane. You seem…” but then he obviously catches the mortification on Shane’s face. Because his face lights up with glee. “Ohhh,” he says, beaming.

And Shane wants to melt into the floor. “Shut up.”

Ily leans close, crooning into his ear. “Is sexy, hm? Reminds you of times I whisper in your ear while I–” 

“Fuck  you,” Shane mutters, walking off, his cheeks bright red.

Ilya’s cackles follow him.

[my-castles-crumbling]

love - hollanov - @hollanovmicrofic - word count: 188 - slightly NSFW - click here to see my microfic archive!

“He’s like, definitely in love,” Hammersmith whispers to Marleau, smirking and shaking his head as they both watch Ilya grin and blush at his phone a few feet away in obvious delight. “Man can’t go two minutes without checking his messages. I swear, something happened over the summer, because he’s not even hiding how down bad he is anymore.”

“Right? I think I heard him say her name in his sleep the other day,” Marleau replies, chuckling. He makes his deep voice high-pitched and longing. “Ooooo, Jaaane.”

“Nah, man, but imagine? How fuckin’ crazy-hot d’you have to be to lock down Roz? Like, she must have four tits or something!”

“Definitely a model.”

“An absolute freak in bed.”

“Bet she was, like, a stripper in the past.”

“Maybe lets him have threesomes.”

“Yeah, brother, bet she gets into it, too.”

“Think she lets him hit it from the back?”

“Definitely.”

They’re both so wrapped up in their conversation, neither of them notice that a picture of Shane Hollander, fully clothed but wearing glasses, has popped up on Ilya’s phone.

Thankfully, they don’t notice how hard Ilya gets, either. 

[my-castles-crumbling]

summer outfits - @shanesummerfest - word count: 291 - click here to see my microfic archive!

The best and worst day of Ilya’s life was when Shane Hollander hired a stylist. 

The best, because it means Rose fucking Landry is not the one who picked out Shane’s outfits this weekend. By extension, it means that Shane is single, and terrifyingly available again. Not compatible, which according to the internet is a very good thing.

The worst, because the stylist obviously knows how to pick out clothing. Before, Shane’s wardrobe consisted of about five different types of pants and three shirts, which he’d bought all different colors of so as to have enough clothing to last him a respectable amount of time. Ilya knows enough about Shane to understand that this is both because he doesn’t care for and understand the societal norms of fashion and also because he has very specific preferences of fabric. But this stylist seems to know their stuff, because Shane both seems to be comfortable in his clothes and looks amazing.

Which is exactly the problem.

Because the stylist has picked out shorts for Shane.

Not just any shorts. Not the normal shorts that Shane sometimes wears pre- or post-hookup or at the gym. No.

These shorts are obscenely short. Their 3-inch inseam and tight fit look downright slutty on Shane’s body and they leave so much of the man’s thighs bare that Ilya has to turn away and take several deep breaths.

It is the best day of his life. It is the worst day of his life.

“Hey, Rozanov,” Shane mutters to him as he passes him on the way to the pool, sending him a smirk that suggests he knows what Ilya is thinking.

And Ilya fucking chokes on his own spit trying to answer.

Yeah.  

He needs a swim.

[jesterlesbian]

Amber Glenn and Lena Lemon behind the scenes for HBO Max and Heated Rivalry

[my-castles-crumbling]

regret - hollanov - @taylorswiftmicrofic - word count: 335 - click here for my hollanov microfic archive on ao3

The question has been on Ilya’s lips for ages. Haunting him in his sleep and in his waking hours, bubbling to the surface of his mind every single time he sees a judgemental comment or a rude sneer. For him, this was never a question. He had nothing left in Russia and Shane was something akin to a miracle. There was no question about his choice.

But for Shane…

“Do you ever…regret it?”

His voice is hoarse and terrified as he asks, trembling a little in the late night while he and Shane sit together, pretending like the world is not shifting and changing around them outside their very window. Like things aren’t crumbling and rebuilding at the same time. Like their love isn’t being painted as the biggest sin in centuries.

But Shane–fuck, Shane. He just looks up at him with those dark, wet eyes and gives him a small smile. “Regret…?”

“Talking to me. When we were young. In parking lot.” Because yes, they couldn’t have controlled the narrative if they’d tried, but now that Ilya can look back with a clear head, he knows that that moment was it for both of them. The flapping of a butterfly’s wings that caused both of their lives to forever change. A moment when they’d been able to look at each other and fall desperately, even if neither would acknowledge it for almost a decade.

Understanding lights in Shane’s eyes and Ilya has no doubt that he gets it. They’ve been each other’s closest confidant for years now, and they comprehend each others’ emotions more than they understand themselves, most days. But still, he smirks. “Why? You think if I hadn’t, it would’ve been easier to kick your ass, all these years?”

He grins, because how could he not? “Maybe.” But inside, he’s screaming. Does Shane regret it?

So Shane’s smile fades, and seriousness splashes across his freckled face. “Nah, Rozanov. I’ve never regretted it. Not that. Not once.”

Ilya relaxes. “Okay. Me, too.”

“Good.”

[my-castles-crumbling]

miss - hollanov - @hollanovmicrofic - word count: 206 - slightly NSFW - click here for my hollanov microfic archive on ao3

“I mean…listen,” Marleau says drunkenly, spilling his drink a little as he shifts on his barstool to face Ilya with a thoughtful expression on his face. “Listen, man. I’m an ally, right?”

“This is starting in very promising way, Marly,” Ilya responds, smirking.

“Nah, nah! Put your dick in whatever you want!” the taller man beams. “But like…” he leans in conspiratorially. “D’you ever miss it?”

Ilya tilts his head to the side. “Miss what?”

“Pussy, Roz,” Marleau grins. “Girls. Like…their bodies. Tits. Ass.”

But Ilya just snorts. “Marly. You are ass man, yes?”

And the Boston player nods seriously as if this is the most obvious question to ever have been asked.

Ilya takes out his phone, scrolling for a few moments before he settles on something, holding up a zoomed-in picture of someone’s ass in tight yoga-type pants, the person clearly in the middle of bedding over. “What do you think of this ass?”

Marleau, too drunk to realize the trap, looks at the picture, his eyes nearly popping from his head. “Damn. Who’s that caked up, brother?”

But Ilya just beams. “My husband.”

The other man’s shout of shock is totally worth the fact that Ilya is forced to buy the next round.

[my-castles-crumbling]

baby - hollanov - @hollanovmicrofic - word count: 338 - click here for my hollanov microfic archive on ao3

“Sorry,” Ilya says hoarsely, after texting Shane for the second time that day requesting medication. He’s sprawled in bed, a raging fever having completely knocked him on his ass and even stopped him from playing a game the day before. 

Shane, who doesn’t mind playing nurse at all, stops at his boyfriend’s mumbled words, pills and cup of water in hand, giving him a truly mystified expression. “What? Why?”

It looks like it takes all of Ilya’s available energy to pull the English words from his lips. Sitting up, he gestures for the pills. “For…being bother,” he grumbles, eyes cast downward. “I am baby when I am sick.”

Which…is fine. Shane gets truly miserable when, on rare occasions, he gets sick. Stuffed noses and tight breathing are absolute sensory nightmares for him, so he knows he’s insufferable in those instances. He can understand when people aren’t their best when ill.

But Ilya’s been fine. Just laying in bed, drinking his water, sleeping and playing on his phone. Not a single complaint or request, aside from a need for medication. He even sent Shane away, not wanting him to get sick as well.

“Ilya…what the fuck? You’ve been fine,” he says firmly, moving onto the bed and looking the other man in the eye. 

“I am not…too much?”

This is what makes Shane move forward and pull Ilya into an embrace, despite his own misgivings and Ilya’s earlier protests. This, and a sudden picture in his mind of a fourteen-year-old Ilya sick in bed with nobody to care for him. A sixteen-year-old Ilya shivering and cold, with nobody to hold him. An eighteen-year-old Ilya alone at home, even when he needed someone to help him. 

And when Shane does hold him, the giant, muscled Russian man gives off the smallest whimper. It makes Shane’s heart break. “Baby…whatever you need. I’m here,” Shane reminds him softly, pressing a kiss to his head.

Arms wind around Shane’s waist, pulling him close. They stay that way for the rest of the night.

[mothsartart]

Rumors circulate that princess of pop Liliya Rozanova is dating PWHL Victoire captain Jane Hollander after recent Instagram post. Link.

[castformi-deactivated20241025]

dystopia au where we are all assigned one of two chosen genders at birth

[peppylilspitfuck]

Thanks to ultrasounds, the genders can be assigned before birth.  The people are so excited to conform they throw “Gender reveal parties” to make sure their offspring exist in a strict binary since before they can even form thoughts. 

[slightlykylie]

Children are color-coded according to their binary assignment. 

[darkersolstice]

One of the genders is seen as inherently inferior.

[yothobro-deactivated20200505]

This all sounds really effing creepy when you put it that way

[rooksandravens]

#BECAUSE IT IS

[fuckyeahfeminist]

And if you deviate from the assigned gender you can be disowned by your family, fired from your job, and beaten by authorities.

[rodserlingofficial]

[bisexual-engineer-girl]

This is like one of those YA dystopian novels where you’re born as one of the bads or one of the goods

[medrawawi]

[books-books-smolderinglooks]

Young Royals S1 - Happy 5 years! 💜

[piwonplaylist]

and we all say “thank you hbo”

[my-castles-crumbling]

longing - hollanov - @hollanovmicrofic - word count: 295 - click here for my hollanov microfic archive on ao3

Now that the secret is out, the fans have been a bit…relentless. Not in a bad way, not always. But the ones who are supportive; the ones who are beyond thrilled that Ilya and Shane are an item; the ones who even had bets that something deeper was going on….those fans have become something akin to dedicated, coffee-fuelled detectives. Pictures of longing looks from their rookie year and onward have resurfaced, thousands of people scouring the Internet for every time Ilya and Shane glanced at each other for so much as a few seconds longer than they should. 

Normally, Ilya finds it entertaining. But today, he wakes up to his twitter feed going absolutely insane, and texts from Marleau, Barrett, and Sveta all chirping him relentlessly. 

It doesn’t take him long to find the damage.

It’s a screen grab of a game—early in their career, judging from the shape of Ilya’s face in the video. And in the moment captured, Shane slams Ilya into the boards, spitting mad about something, before skating off with the puck.

And Ilya lets out a small smile, clearly mouthing ‘fuck me.’

It’s definitely incriminating. 

The reactions on twitter are just as thrilled. 

Damn @ ilyarozanovnumber1, down bad huh? Can’t understand how we didn’t see it sooner. He’s foaming at the mouth. My mans just happy to be in the same room with THE Shane Hollander huh? Same tho.

But as he chuckles, reading the retweets and wondering how Shane is going to react about this particular reveal, he does a double-take. Because ShaneHollanderOfficial has retweeted the post.

And he still reacts the same way, ten years later. 

Suddenly, Ilya is wide awake, and does not care about Twitter at all. 

He has a very sexy phone call to make. 

[my-castles-crumbling]

birch tree - hollanov - @creativepromptsforwriting - word count: 355 - click here for my hollanov microfic archive on ao3

“Oh my god Ilya, no!”

Shane’s voice is full of annoyance and stress as Ilya, beaming and sweating, approaches the giant birch tree in the middle of the trail. They’ve been hiking for upwards of two hours, heads down every time they pass someone so as not to be recognized, and are now both energized and exhausted. 

Ilya’s also ridiculously turned on, watching the way Shane attacks the difficult path with the determination and precision of a panther, the sweat catching in every curve and plane of his muscled body, his shirt sticking to his chest in a way that leaves nothing to the imagination. But that’s kind of a given.

And now they’ve found this: a tree with names and initials carved all over the worn bark. So Ilya makes a decision without thinking too much.

Tugging the utility knife from the backpack Shane insisted on carrying, Ilya approaches the tree, a grin on his face. It’s only when Shane again yells out that he turns.

“What?” he asks, a pout on his face.

“People will–” Shane starts, looking nervous.

“Only our first letters,” Ilya tries, feeling far more attached to this idea than he probably should. And luckily for him, Shane deflates a little.

“Yeah. Okay,” he says, a small smile forming on his perfect face.

So Ilya gets to work, cutting ‘IR+SH’ (Because he’s the better hockey player so he should go first) into the tree, stepping back to admire his handiwork when he’s finished. And when he does, Shane looks too, an odd expression on his face.

“It’s…” he murmurs, as if he can’t find the words.

But Ilya gets it. There, on that unassuming tree, is the first real, permanent proof that they are together. That Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander are not rivals. They are so, so much more. 

It makes Ilya feel dizzy with desire. “Is…perfect,” he mutters, turning to Shane and capturing his lips in a hungry kiss.

Years later, he posts a picture of that exact spot on the tree for the whole world to see….but only after he fucks Shane up against it.