hi! i never sent you an ask before but i've been binge reading your fics for quite some time now amd i adore them, i really and genuinely like the way you write and it has become a comfort for me for the past few months. i read that you've been thinking of deleting this blog, and while i don't know your reasons since i'm no writer/author and don't run a blog myself nor i know your struggles since i know there's a real person behind this amazing blog, i kindly and in the nicest way possible BEG YOU to please not delete your blog. to put it simply it would feel like the monalisa being spit on and set on fire. i am NOT exaggerating your writing is truly amazing and a i cant count how many times i've opened tumblr only to read your fics. am i being selfish? most probably, and i want you to know that at the end of the day is your desicion but please remember that your writing is really appreciated and enjoyed (at least by me lol). i'm not asking you to keep running this blog if you dont want to either, maybe just leave it up for the lurkers or put it on AO3 thats totally up to you. i'm just a lurker who really loves your fics and wish for them to not become lost media bc it would be a shame🙏🏻🙏🏻 (its your decision anyway and i dont want you to think i'm trying to force you into anything, i just dont want you to think that you and your fics are not appreciated). sending lots of love to you, hope everything goes well for you always💗 SO SORRY FOR THE WORD VOMITING I RAMBLED LIKE A LOT
uhhh please don’t apologize, anon, this is maybe the sweetest ask i’ve ever received? i really appreciate you sharing how much you enjoy my writing! i feel like it’s not my best work, but i definitely do have writers myself whose old work i always return to who probably don’t think it’s their best work either. for now, i think ill keep things up! i can’t guarantee i’ll never delete, but i do really really appreciate your message, and it definitely has convinced me to let things stay for right now. i’m not sure if i will ever come back here and be active like i once was, but i think the blog will be staying up for a while
noooo 😭 if you deleted your blog that would be so devastating
i’m just not the proudest of the things i’ve written on this blog and haven’t been feeling that it totally represents me or even how i write. if there are any fics you’re a particular fan of, though, i’m very open to people saving my fics for themselves as long as they don’t repost!
Summary: Ilya comes home from walking Anya out in the cold to see his husband snuggled up on their couch. If he doesn't tell Shane how cute he looks in the next five seconds, he might actually die.
When Ilya pulls the door to their home open, the wall of warmth that slams into him is a welcome change from the cold winter air. He quickly ushers Anya inside, closing the door behind him so that he doesn’t have to hear Shane complaining about wasting precious heat, as if they weren’t both millionaires who could afford to spend a little extra on their energy bill.
Anya tugs on her leash with a whine, and Ilya shrugs off his coat, reaching for a towel they keep hanging by the front door. “Just a minute, sweet girl,” he says, dutifully cleaning off the snow that’s clumped into her fur. “Your dad will kill me if you get dirty water everywhere.”
A few moments later, Ilya deems her sufficiently clean and unclips her leash, watching fondly as she scampers in the direction of the kitchen where he knows Shane has refilled her water.
Speaking of… “Shane?” Ilya calls out, making sure his boots are lined up properly on top of the heater. “Where are you, любимый?”
“Living room,” is the faintly distracted response he gets, and Ilya starts making his way there, hoping to warm up with his husband. Ottawa winters are brutal, but someone has to take out Anya for her evening walk, and Ilya had very graciously volunteered when Shane had looked longingly at the book on Russian hockey history he’d started reading that morning.
In all honesty, he was excited to hear what Shane thought of it all. Hockey in Russia has always been different than hockey in North America, and Ilya has no doubt that Shane has at least something to say on “comparative effectiveness,” or whatever it was that he’d said when purchasing the book.
Then, Ilya stepped into the living room, and all thoughts about books and hockey and words in general promptly fled his mind as he took in his husband.
Shane was curled up in the corner of the couch, wearing one of Ilya’s old Boston hoodies that was a little too big on him (it was a little too big on Ilya too, which he may or may not have done on purpose—not that he’d ever admit any of those things). One of the drawstrings was being held between his lips, and Ilya knew that every so often Shane would lightly chew on it when he wasn’t paying attention. Shane claimed it was his favourite because it was the perfect texture, worn and soft in a way that Shane liked to rub his cheek against.
Ilya thought it was his favorite because it reminded Shane of him, which his husband refused to confirm or deny.
There was a lightly weighted blanket draped over his legs, one of the few Ilya could actually stand because he knew that it would never compare to the comfort and relief that washed over Shane when it was Ilya draped over him instead.
Looking back up, Ilya’s heart squeezed in his chest as he took in the way Shane’s glasses had slid halfway down his nose. He took half a step forward, intent on readjusting them himself, when Shane scrunched his face up in the way he did when he was trying to push his glasses back up without using his hands, even though it almost never worked.
That’s what did Ilya in. Watching the way his eyes squinted and his nose wrinkled, making then freckles on his cheeks dance around like perfect little fireflies in the night, it killed him.
Ilya let out a noise that could nearly be described as wounded, but just had Shane looking over with raised eyebrows and an amused grin tugging at his lips.
“Can I help you with something?” Shane asked, not even bothering to close his book as Ilya stumbled over, clutching at his heart in a way that would have been concerning were it not for the lovestruck smile on his face.
Ilya was fairly certain that his “heart eyes” were making an appearance, but he didn’t care. Shane deserved all of the heart eyes.
“You are killing me, Shane,” he whined, flopping on top of his legs with a dramatic groan. “Your cuteness has killed me. I am dead.”
Shane, accepting that he probably wasn’t going to get back to reading any time soon, tucked a bookmark in-between the pages and set the book off to the side.
Looking at him from this angle, Ilya could now see Shane’s freckles up close—watched as they twitched in Shane’s valiant effort to not give in to the silliness and smile at his husband. And yet he could feel the slight shift underneath him as Shane rubbed his feet together, always a dead giveaway that Shane was feeling comfortable and a little giddy.
Fucking adorable.
“I am not cute,” Shane said, and Ilya had to remind himself that, no, Shane could not in fact read his mind, that he was just responding to the last thing that Ilya had actually said out loud.
Responding incorrectly, might he add.
“Oh, but you are,” Ilya all but purred, crawling up so that he could rest his chin on Shane’s chest. “I come inside from cruel, Canadian winter to see my perfect husband all snuggled up in my sweater, under a blanket, looking warm and cozy, wearing his stupid sexy glasses with his hair all fluffy.”
Part way through his little speech, an idea occurred to Ilya. One that he had to time this perfectly, or else it wouldn’t work.
It was a good thing that he knew his husband better than anyone else.
The moment Ilya mentioned his hair, Shane reached up with a frown in an attempt to flatten it, and that’s when he struck. With his arms out of the way, Ilya shoved his still-cold hands up Shane’s (his) sweater, pressing them against Shane’s warm torso with an evil grin.
Now, the heat was nice and all, Ilya always struggled to warm his hands back up after going outside, but the noise that Shane made was infinitely better. It was somewhere between a squeak and a squeal, and Ilya watched with satisfaction as Shane slammed his arms back down, only to press Ilya’s hand firmer into his sides.
“Jesus Christ!” Shane finally got out, a little breathless from the shock. “Did you not wear gloves? How the fuck are your hands so cold?!”
Ilya pointedly ignored those questions, because there was something much more important that he had to investigate. “What was that noise?”
Shane immediately flicked his eyes away when Ilya tried to meet his gaze, red already starting to burn at the tips of his ears.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said in a way that only confirmed that he knew exactly what Ilya was talking about.
“Well, in that case, I must hear it again.” Ilya said this very gravely, as though it was a great burden he had selflessly chosen to bear. “Because it might be the cutest noise I have ever heard. Like little mouse.” Shane met his eyes when Ilya’s fingers twitched, excitement making his eyes sparkle even if his grin was all nerves and anticipation. “Do it again.”
“What? No way—Ilya!” Ilya took advantage of Shane’s half-hearted protest to move his hands higher, curling his fingers into Shane’s ribs in search of that noise.
The giggles came easy, Shane rarely bothered to fight them anymore. He just threw his head back and laughed as Ilya explored under his sweater, batting ineffectually at his hands if he lingered in one spot for too long.
Every so often, Ilya would get another squeak, and each time he felt like he was going to explode with how much he adored this perfect, trusting, adorable man. How could a grown man even be this cute? It was very unfair, in Ilya’s professional opinion.
“OhmyGod, Ilya—plehehease!” Shane cracked when Ilya wormed his hands underneath him, poking and tracing around Shane’s lower back. His hands had long-since warmed, but Shane was too sensitive for it to matter much. “Please! I can’t—”
He broke off into giggles, eyes squeezed shut and smile near-blinding. Ilya had to fight off the sudden urge to unhinge his jaw and eat him whole, or maybe squeeze him tight until he popped.
Instead, he hummed contemplatively. “I think you can, мышка. But, since I am very nice, I will make you a deal.” Ilya’s fingers slowed, and Shane cracked open his eyes to look warily down at his husband.
“What kind of deal?”
“Is simple,” Ilya tap tap tapped his fingers, grinning when Shane visibly stifled a laugh. “You admit that you are cute, and I will have mercy on you. Sound fair?”
A choked noise escaped Shane’s lips, although whether it was at the proposition or at the way Ilya’s fingers had picked back up their gentle trailing was up for debate. The conflict visibly played out across Shane’s face. Did he give in and let Ilya win?
Or did he submit himself to more of this before be gave in and let Ilya win?
Really, Ilya won either way. In an effort to help his husband decide, he lightened his touch even further and skimmed his nails up Shane’s spine in a way that would have him curled up into a ball were it not for the 200 pound menace laying on top of him.
This earned Ilya one last adorable squeak before Shane’s hands flew to his shoulders, slapping him frantically. “Okay! Okahay I’m cute! Ilya please!”
Rather than removing his hands from their comfortable spot, Ilya simply flattened his palms against Shane’s back, smoothing away the last of the sensation.
“Yes,” Ilya said happily, “you are.”
Shane let out a long breath, fingers coming up to play with Ilya’s hair in a way that made his eyes droop.
“Hey, no sleeping yet,” Shane said, willfully ignoring the fact that he was the one actively causing said sleepiness. The nerve of some people, honestly. “You owe me a kiss after putting me through all that.”
Well, Ilya supposed that he could make an exception for one hockey-playing, freckles-having husband of his.
He used his knees to shift himself up, Ilya took a moment to just look at Shane—the rumpled hair, the lingering grin, the pink that still glowed high on his cheeks—and marvel at how lucky he is to have him for himself.
Then, before Shane could get too impatient, Ilya carefully slotted their lips together, falling into the easy rhythm of kissing Shane. It didn’t get heated like it so often did, it simply remained slow, soft, loving. Taking the time to savour each other and revel in the fact that they had made it. That they were here, together.
Ilya pulled back, resting his forehead against Shane’s nose. “Красивый,” he whispered reverently into Shane’s throat before reclaiming his spot on his chest.
They both shifted around for a moment, settling into each other, before Shane asked, “Did you just call me cute again?”
“Mm, no,” Ilya murmured, nudging his face into Shane’s chest until he got the message and started playing with his hair again. “I called you beautiful.”
Shane’s fingers stilled for a moment before resuming their steady motion. “Oh,” he breathed, and Ilya could hear the smile in his voice. The way he still sometimes got bashful when Ilya complimented him, after all these years.
“Well,” Shane said, pressing a kiss into Ilya’s curls, “I think you’re beautiful too.”
A joke sat on the tip of Ilya’s tongue—an I know or an Of course you do, it’s me.
Neither of them found a way into the air, the moment was too sweet to be ruined with a quip. Instead, he nestled into his husband-turned-pillow and said, “Я тебя люблю.”
Sleep took him gently, but thankfully not before he heard Shane’s “Я тоже тебя люблю” in return.
I am begging you to write ANYTHING heated rivalry!! I legit even remember you saying you’re from Canada its perfect and you’re writing would work so well for it!
:(( aww thank you thank you! that’s so sweet! i’m not saying no, there might be some in the future!
I just read your Smosh fics from back in 2020 and they were adorable! And I've been wondering if you're still into Smosh, and if so what are your thoughts on the newer cast members?
thank you! i cringe reading them in hindsight but 2020 was not anyone’s best i think.
I have been getting back into it slowly lately, with a few videos here and there. for starters i am very glad anthony is back, seeing him and ian together in videos has healed something in me. of the new cast members that i am somewhat acquainted with, i really like angela, i think her and shayne are so funny together. i also really like arasha and amanda!
"Clark Kent, Daily Planet staff writer and long time collaborator of Pulitzer Prize winning journalist, Lois Lane, has recently caught media attention after his two left feet got him into yet another public fumble. Kent, as pictured in the image below, managed to knock over a 17-story champagne tower at a recent Wayne Foundation Gala, and internet users were quick to label the event '#ChampagneGate.'" The grin on Bruce's face as he read the article from his phone could only be described as impish, his eyes glistened with mischief as he watched Clark's face deepen into a dark blush.
"Bruce," Clark warned, his voice a low rumble. He shot Bruce a glare that lost all of its heat when he immediately had to avert his eyes, embarrassment making his face redder and redder the more he looked in Bruce's direction.
"Other words of interest used in the article include 'bumbling,' 'ditsy,' and 'endearingly incapable'." Bruce smiled, trying hard not to give into the embarrassed puppy eyes that Clark was sending his way. "I am, unfortunately, quite endeared by you, so I've got to agree with that one, but don't you think the dorky, clumsy reporter thing has gone a little too far?"
"Whatever, playboy," Clark groaned, bringing his hands up to cover his face, "don't pretend like it wasn't your fault."
"My fault?" Bruce scoffed, "it's not my fault you're ticklish. How was I supposed to know you'd take it out on my poor champagne tower?"
Clark couldn't see it, but he could absolutely hear the shit-eating grin on Bruce's face. He was done feeling mortified for one night. "Well," Clark said, his own playfulness coming out. He turned around on the bed, face still tinged red, developing a predatory grin of his own "I think now you’re just asking for it.”
"What’s that?" Jason asked, grinning devilishly down at Roy, who was pinned on the bed beneath his thighs, "stop saying tickle, tickle, tickle?”
"Jay- Jason, I swear to god," Roy grit out, voice pinched.
"What?" Jason asked, with that smug, lopsided smile. There was a twinkle in his eyes that normally drove Roy crazy in the best ways, but it did something different now, directed at him in this new context.
"Jay, please," Roy whined, voice coming out much needier than he intended, "you know I can't take the teasing."
"Why?" Jason's fingers fluttered over Roy's bare skin beneath his shirt, "does it embarrass you?"
"No, but-"
Jason broke character for a moment to level Roy with a deadpan look. Roy laughed nervously, both at the expression and the feeling of Jason's fingers still ghosting over his sensitive, bare skin.
"Okay, yes. Yes, it embarrasses me. This is embarrassing," Roy admitted, "can you just get on with it?"
"I don't think so," Jason said with a short laugh, "I'm not letting you off that easy."
Roy squirmed beneath Jason, his face reddening more and more as the light tickling continued.
"Does it tickle here?" Jason asked, fingers barely ghosting over Roy's bottom ribs. Roy's breath hitched, coming out in quick exhales as he fought back the giggles. The higher Jason's fingers rose, feather light and playful, the harder it got for Roy to stay still, for him to not burst into frenzied, panicked giggled.
Stopping just underneath his armpits, Jason leaned in, his lips touching Roy's ear, voice a low rumble. "Tickle, tickle, tickle."
