all the things she said (no one asked her)
˚⁎⁺˳ . ⊹ the club scene if the woman ilya was dancing with was a lesbian who was very concerned with the lethal levels of yearning happening around her and incapable of minding her own business.
˚⁎⁺˳ . ⊹ lesbian!reader. ilya rozanov x shane hollander, reader x svetlana vetrova, reader x not minding her business. reader is NOT shipped with either ilya or shane. reader speaks russian.
˚⁎⁺˳ . ⊹ very short silly one-shot. headcanons at shane hollander the bottom. woah what happened there
“Get off me, dude.”
The guy behind you pulls back immediately, to his credit, and you relax again. You feel a little light-headed; you’ve been on the dance floor for the last half hour, navigating sticky limbs and wandering hands, and the last thing you need is some jackass who won’t take no for an answer.
“Ya dazhe devushku sebe nayti ne mogu. Chert, chto on so mnoy delayet? Eto prosto zhalko.” The guy mutters, and you can barely pick up the Russian in between the bass of the music.
I can’t even get a girl anymore. Fuck, what is he doing to me? This is pathetic.
You grin at the familiar language, then whirl around, suddenly interested. “Kakoy paren’?” What guy?
The man behind you is huge, towering easily over you, blonde curls matted slightly to his head with sweat. He’s wearing an absolutely atrocious leopard print shirt open about three buttons too far, his cheeks stained red and eyes hazy.
“Chto?” What?
The guy’s slightly swaying in place, and you guide him off the dance floor, concerned. He collapses back into one of the cracked vinyl booths shoved at the sides of the club with a light push, and you settle across from him.
“Ty v poryadke, chuvak?” You okay, dude?
The table’s sticky, the heat of the club almost oppressive. You’re more than a little concerned for the man.
He raises his head to meet your eyes, squinting at you in the low purple light. “Do you know who I am?” He asks in English, accent thick.
“Am I supposed to?” You shoot back. “V takoy rubashke vy tochno zapomnites' okruzhayushchim.” With that shirt, you’d certainly be memorable.
He grins at the gentle ribbing, tugging at the collar of his shirt. “Eto podcherkivayet moi glaza, ne tak li?” Brings out my eyes, doesn’t it?
“Certainly distracts from everything else, sure.”
The guy’s clearly drunk, and when he reaches across the table to clasp your hands in his, you wince and squeeze his palms once, trying to be comforting, before withdrawing.
“Can you keep secret?” He asks, then repeats it in Russian, slurring the vowels.
“Konechno, da.” Sure, yeah. “Is this about the guy?”
He looks panicked, eyes cutting up to you. “Otkuda vy o nem znayete?” How do you know about him?
“You were doing some pretty heavy-duty yearning out there, dude. You talked about him.”
“Blyat.”
“Look, uh, if you want to talk, you can. I can put my two cents in.”
“Dva tsenta? Chto, chert voz'mi, eto znachit?” Two cents? What the fuck does that mean?
“Eto idioma.” It’s an idiom. You grope for the Russian equivalent. There are some words in your vocabulary you know only in a specific language; and, of course, most of the English idioms didn’t have a direct translation.
“Uh, like… lezt’ so svoimi sovetami.”
The guys nods in understanding. “Oke. I… uh…”
“We can speak in Russian, if you’d like.”
The guy opens his mouth, closes it. “You can keep secret, yes?”
You nod, once. The guy squeezes his eyes shut.
“Yest' odin paren'. I ya dumala, chto u nas chto-to poluchitsya, no on sbezhal, i u nego teper' yest' eta chertova ideal'naya devushka. I, konechno zhe, on povsyudu, kuda by ya ni povernulas'. Ya ne mogu ot nego izbavit'sya. Khotya ya i ne khochu ot nego izbavlyat'sya.”
There’s this guy. And I thought we were going somewhere, but he runs off, and now he has this stupid fucking perfect girlfriend. And, of course, he’s there wherever I turn. I cannot escape him. I don’t want to escape him.
“Mne ochen' zhal'. Eto neprosto. On zdes'? Pryamo seychas?” I'm sorry. That's difficult. He's here? Right now?
“Da,” the guy says, miserable, letting his head thunk back. “I cannot believe I tell you this.”
You let him have a moment. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Mm. No. Maybe I will dance.”
“Khochesh', ya pridu? Ty vyglyadish' sovsem rasteryannoy.” Do you want me to come? You're pretty out of it.
The guy pulls a face, but offers you a hand and pulls you up. “Vy govorite kak zhitel' yuzhnykh shtatov. Ya vas s trudom ponimayu.” You speak like a Southerner. I can barely understand you. “Speak up.”
“Oh, fuck you. I think that shirt’s loud enough for the both of us.”
The guy growls, shoving his face into your neck, and drags you back out onto the dance floor, laughing slightly. t.a.t.u’s All The Things She Said floods through the club, and you let the guy sway against your back.
I keep asking myself, wondering how / I keep closing my eyes but I can't block you out / Want to fly to a place where it's just you and me.
“I miss him,” he mutters in English, and you reach up a hand to pat comfortingly at his head. “Dumayu, ty vryad li soglasish'sya na seks iz zhalosti, verno?” I don't suppose you'd be up for a pity fuck?
“Nope. I don’t like guys. Nice try, though. Hey, what’s your name, anyway?”
He hesitates, but only for a beat. “Ilya.”
“Nice to meet you, Ilya. I’m Y/n.”
“Spasibo, Y/n.”
An easy silence falls over you, letting the low beat of the song guide your movement, before you feel Ilya suddenly go tense against your back, muscles locking. His face drops down into your hair.
And I'm all mixed up, feeling cornered and rushed / They say it's my fault but I want her so much.
“Blyat. On zdes'.” He’s here.
You flick your eyes up, glancing surreptitiously at a built guy in a plain white t-shirt staring at Ilya like a doe in headlights. He’s almost shaking. “Him?" You ask, incredulous. "And you're sure it's one-sided?”
Ilya’s hands drop to your waist, shaking slightly where they squeeze at your hipbones. “U nego yest' devushka.” He has a girlfriend.
“Then he shouldn’t be looking at you like that.”
Ilya’s shaking more now, and you let him press his face into the hollow of your throat.
“You okay?” You ask.
“Chert. Pochemu tak sil'no bolit?” Fuck. Why does it hurt so much?
The guy’s still staring at Ilya, drink in one hand. He looked like someone had just run him over with a fucking truck.
“Idi. Posmotri na nego. C’mon,” Go. Look at him. You encourage, trying to nudge Ilya subtly forward. He raises his head and makes eye contact with the man across the dance floor, but doesn’t move otherwise.
“On sdelal svoy vybor.” He made his choice.
Jesus Christ. Ilya drops his head to kiss lightly at your neck, eyes still locked with the man across the dance floor.
“Pozhaluysta. On ne dolzhen videt' menya v takom vide.” He murmurs against your skin, and you sigh before tilting your head back. Please. He cannot see me like this.
“This is a mistake,” You respond.
“He cannot know he affects me like this,” Ilya responds in rough English.
“This is why I don’t date men,” You mutter back. “Emotional range of a fucking teaspoon.”
“I am Russian. Cannot help it.”
“Shut the fuck up and dance, zasranets.”
The man in the white t-shirt vanishes into the crowd, and Ilya slumps like a puppet with it’s strings cut.
//
“A eto Svetlana.” And this is Svetlana.
As soon as the man in the white t-shirt had left, all of the fight had gone out of Ilya, and you’d been able to hail a cab and bundle him into the backseat.
Now, after managing to wrangle his address out of him, you were shoved into the back of a cab to make sure the Russian didn’t manage to get himself killed on the journey home. Ilya had done nothing but scroll morosely through his camera roll — which admittedly did lead to him offering to introduce you to his friend Svetlana, so there was a plus.
“I cannot believe you did not open with this. That was a major oversight on your part.” You slide the phone out of his hand to marvel at the beautiful woman on the screen. “I yey nravyatsya devushki?” And she likes girls?
“Too much, I think.” Ilya responds.
You pull a face. “No such thing.”
You feel a little guilty discussing your own romantic prospects while Ilya’s clearly having a meltdown, and reach out to drag a gentle hand through his curls. He’d crowded you on the left side of the cab, a solid line of warmth against your side.
“You want to talk about it?”
He clicks off his phone and shoves it back into your purse. His pants were basically painted on, the slut. You’d told him so affectionately earlier in the evening, when he’d shamelessly asked to deposit his things in your bag.
“Nyet.”
“Alright,” you shrug. “You want to hear about what I read in People this morning?”
“Skazhi mne.” Tell me.
“Well, you won’t believe this, but…”
//
ending headcanons:
you and ilya are papped leaving the club, and the internet explodes in dating conspiracy rumors. ilya posts a picture of himself on instagram in answer, face long-suffering, as you make out with svetlana in the background, draped across her lap. he captions it "i am not her type."
ilya, still feeling salty about when rose wore shane's jersey to his game, demands that you attend a boston match. you have literally never seen a game of hockey in your life, but get way too into it, screaming at the top of your lungs in russian, ilya's name on the back of your jersey. ilya fucking loves it but you are escorted from the box seats (oops).
ilya facetimes you in tampa from the bar right before he meets shane, worried that he looks silly in his red shirt. you tell him he looks fine. he still calls back twenty minutes later with the stupidest grin on his face to tell you that "hollander has his own personal stylist, so you will be mine, da?"
you and svetlana are instantly obsessed with each other. ilya will never know a moment of peace again.
when shane gets his bell rung, ilya calls you while he drives frantically to the hospital, so you can talk him down in quiet, slow russian while svetlana hooks her head over your shoulder and murmurs softly.
