hollanov babies headcannons cuz i cant stop thinking about them 😭😭
(this isnt scientifically accurate because it describes them as looking like both of them but i dont care)
Boy:
•everyone always describes them as girl dads but i love the idea of them having a son so much
• i think if hollanov had a son it would be the chubbiest baby ever. huge cheeks that ilya LOVES to gently pinch all the time. definitely has croissant arms and legs.
•literally the spitting image if shane, like black hair, huge brown eyes and freckles. ilya thinks its the cutest fucking thing ever.
•born with a full head of hair
•favours shane slightly more
•as he grows up, he becomes quiet and shy but always talks to his dads.
•loves hockey and loves when he can talk about it.
•autistic
Girl
•i think their daughter would be the oldest and being the first born, ilya and shane were definitely very overprotective of her
•looks more like ilya but shanes genes are still VERY strong.
•born bald
•curly brown hair and very light brown/green eyes.
•LOVES ilya and always has. her first words were absolutely “papa” and ilya was so happy he cried.
•very clingy baby and toddler.
•ilyas princess
both of them are so so spoiled by their grandparents, especially yuna. they’re both always so excited to see her.
synopsis: tashi does patrick's makeup and art realizes something.
(very slightly nsfw)
841 words
tashi was excited that patrick was finally visiting stanford again. she hadn't seen him in a month. i mean, she hadn't really missed him to be honest. just the sex mostly. but still, she's barely made any friends on campus and she's getting a bit sick of art and his whining. today, all she had done was gone to training, showered, and changed into some shorts and a t-shirt, knowing neither she nor him cared what she wore for his visit. she had been sitting at her desk watching some matches of her upcoming competition when she heard the door open and footsteps creeping up behind her before big arms wrapped around her. she sighed and closed her laptop, turning around and smiling, pressing a kiss to patrick's lips. ''hey.'' she says softly. ''hey, tash.'' patrick replies, running his hand through her long hair. he reaches down and grasps at the hem of her shirt before tashi grabs them and moves them away. jesus. he's more starved than she thought. patrick pouts slightly and looks at tashi. ''please?''. tashi shakes her head. ''not right now. she needs some time to warm up. she gets up from her chair and pushes patrick to her bed, straddling him and smashing their lips together. partick moans slightly and grasps at her hips.
they make out for as long as tashi can bear before she pulls away and smirks. "i wanna try something'', she replies with a smirk that scares patrick a little. tashi gets up and reaches into her desk drawer and pulls out her makeup bag, holding it up. patrick shakes his head. "no, no absolutely not, tash." this makes tashi smile and she nods her head over to her bed. patrick reluctantly trudges over and sits down. tashi smiles. "I've been wanting to do this for forever." she goes back over to bed and straddles him again. "i think my concealer is light enough for you, i'll just use that as foundation." she opens the bag and takes out the small bottle of concealer, unscrewing it and taking out the applicator. patrick looks up at her. "can't we do this another time? ive been waiting to see you forever." he's pouting now. god he's so fucking annoying. tashi shakes her head. "maybe this'll turn me on more for later", she mainly says this to shut him up but she's not against the idea of patrick in makeup. patrick sighs but props himself up on his elbows so she can work more easily. tashi smiles and starts smearing the makeup on his face. it's a little dark for him but who cares. patrick shivers as the stuff touches his face. tashi starts dabbing her beauty blender over his face. next thing was the contour, then bronzer, then eyes. she took out her eyelash curler and pat's eyes widened. "what the fuck is that?". "just trust me" she replies. he honestly doesn't know if he should trust her but he knows he won't get away from this. tashi curls his lashes, causing him to hiss when it pinches his eyelid. when she pulls it away she's a little shocked. his lashes were so fucking long. she was honestly a little jealous.
time goes by as tashi, the perfectionist, carefully carves out patrick's eyebrows, paints on some eyeliner and mascara, and cakes his cheeks with blush. after what patrick feels is forever, tashi sits back and looks at the finished product. she snickers but feels heat rise to her cheeks. "oh, you look so beautiful." she teases. patrick rolls his eyes and gets up, heading to the mirror in the bathroom. he looks at himself and yells. "tashi what the fuck? i look like an idiot." but if he's being honest, he kinda likes it. he looks snatched as fuck or whatever. as if some sort of karma is coming back to him, someone knocks on the dorm door. his eyes widen. "tash, get that", tashi rolls her eyes but goes over to the door, opens it, and sees... art. he does that goofy smile of his when she opens the door. "hey. i uh- i thought we could go get lunch. is patrick here yet", the blonde said. tashi nods and lets him in. patrick calls from the bathroom, "who is it, tashi?". "come see." she responds. patrick groans but goes to meet whoever's at the door. "tashi, seriously i- art." the brunette stops in his tracks. he finally gets to see his best friend and he looks like an idiot. not that he cares what he looks like in front of art or anything. art's eyes widen and his mouth falls slightly open when he sees pat. "patrick... hey." tashi shuts his mouth with her hand and art only then realizes it was open. he can't control his face when his stomach is housing an army of butterflies and he can feel his pants getting tighter and his face getting redder. he takes a breath. "so, how about we just hang out here?"
literally my first fanfic ever so it's more of a test. very short
art donaldson x patrick zweig
582 words
synopsis: FLUFF based on artrick at mark reballato. their first kiss since patrick's recent breakup.
showered, clean, dressed in his pyjamas, in bed. what was missing? this is what art found himself thinking as he lay in bed 'studying', (he was not). patrick. that was it. he missed patrick. he hadn't seen his dormmate/best friend in days. he's been staying at his stupid girlfriend kat's house. art hated kat but he could never seem to understand why. she's nice, he supposed. one thing he's sure of though, is that he is NOT jealous. why would he be? sure, the two boys have been sharing casual kisses since they were 13. annddd cuddling. lots of cuddling. but so what? it's normal for boys to explore what they like. and it definitely didn't make art depressingly upset that they hadn't been doing any cuddling or kissing since kat came into the picture. he just hoped pat didn't notice how he curls up in bed every night almost shivering without human contact. he remembers it so clearly; the day after patrick and kat got together, art got changed and began to crawl into patrick's bed before he looked up. ''uh, hey man... i thought, maybe because i have a girlfriend now, we should... sleep apart for a while.'' art tried so hard to not show his face physically dropping at that. he nodded and trudged over to his own bed across the room from pat's. it was winter for god's sake! it's not weird to cuddle up to your homies when it's literally 0 degrees outside. safe to say art went to bed bitter that night.
art finally snapped out of his thoughts when he heard the door to the dorm open and close quietly. he took his fingertips out of his mouth which he didn't even realize were there. god, he needed to stop chewing his nails. patrick walks into the dorm looking absolutely crushed. he looks at art and smiles in a way that art recognized. not a real smile. ''oh, hey art. i thought you'd be asleep.'' he kicks his shoes off and flops into bed face-down. art raises an eyebrow and gets up, shuffling over to pat's bed and standing for a moment before extending his arm and poking his arm gently, receiving a muffled "hmmgh?'' from pat. ''what's up? you look fucking terrible," art said softly, how he always spoke. patrick slowly, reluctantly sits up on the bed. art's eyes widen. geez, he looked worse than he thought. patrick's eyes were slightly red and watery, below them looking puffy and darker than usual. ''she dumped me.'' is all he says. art furrows his brows. ''kat?'' patrick nods sadly. art sits beside his best friend, looking at him. ''what happened?'', patrick sighs, ''dunno. she said i dont pay her enough attention or something.'' hm. art could kind of see her thought pattern there. he hesitantly and slowly puts his arm around patrick, praying that he wasn't in a no-touching mood. pat leaned into art's touch, prompting a relieved sigh from the blonde. they stay like that for a while, neither of them knowing what to say. ''i'm sorry, man'', art finally blurts out. patrick nods slightly. ''it's late. lets get you to sleep.'' he continues, gently rubbing circles on patrick's shoulder. the brunette looks up, his eyes still sad but now there was a small smile forming. a real smile. without a word, patrick presses his lips to art's briefly, but long enough to count. art smiles dopily when pat pulls away.
notes: this fic was so so cathartic and healing to write, i love portraying characters with ocd. i think art has intense religious ocd and contamination ocd, but in this one i focused more on his magical thinking and his sense of insecurity that fuels it. consume with caution maybe? but i hope anon enjoys <3
The leaves outside fall in a red curtain, leaving only barren trees resembling bones. The sun seemed to be melting, dripping across the grey sky, and the clouds looked heavy as if lined with lead. The road Patrick is driving on seems to wind on and on forever, as far as the eye can see, and Art doesn’t know when it will end. Cold lingers in Art’s body, and he wraps his arms tighter around himself as he turns away from the window to look over at Patrick.
The road trip had been a spontaneous idea– something brought up at the last second over a shared joint. Patrick’s idea, of course, where he insisted that he and Art needed some time to ‘chill’ before school got too stressful for them, and Art had willingly gone alone. Of course he did, because he’d never been able to refuse Patrick before. The last few days before departing consisted of Patrick negotiating with a teammate to borrow his truck, while Art scrambled to finish his and Patrick’s schoolwork. Art began doubting if the road trip would really help him chill, as Patrick said, considering that even the idea of missing classes sent a spike of panic through his chest.
But he trusted Patrick. He always trusted Patrick.
“Hello, Earth to Donaldson?” Patrick’s snapping in front of his face, his brows furrowing and crinkling the skin around his eyes. “Taco Bell or McDonalds?”
Art grunts quietly, his hands fidgeting aimlessly with his sleeves. His Nana had sewed on multiple buttons and zippers onto the sleeves of some of his jackets, knowing how often he needed to fidget to quell his anxieties, and he was definitely taking advantage of it now. The world seems to spin around him and Patrick’s voice is faint in his ears. Did they lock the doors before they left? Did Patrick check the tire pressure like he said he would? What if he didn’t? Oh, God, what if–
“Donaldson.” Suddenly, Art can feel Patrick’s heavy hand on his shoulder, a grounding pressure against his impending anxiety attack. “Art, look at me.” Patrick’s eyes, like grass, like the ground. Art can put his weight on it, his feet can be stable on the ground. He meets Patrick’s gaze, who alternates between looking at the road and glancing concernedly at Art. “Talk to me, man.”
Art lets out a shaky breath, blinking quickly as he looks away. Patrick’s gaze is too knowing, too judgemental. Like he can see Art’s thoughts, see the spiral into insanity of those icy blue eyes. “Did you check the tire pressure?” he asks, his voice high and reedy, and he clears his throat. “I know you said you would, and I-I trust you, but I just- I need to make sure.”
Patrick’s brow furrows, and he nods. He knows all about Art’s tendencies at this point, knows how to see when Art’s thinking about it, but he still isn’t sure how to remedy it. Even Art doesn’t really know, so he doesn’t blame his friend. “Yeah, Art, I checked. Double-checked, nah, I fuckin’ triple-checked that shit. Even texted one of my pals to make sure I was doing it right. You don’t need to worry.” Those last few words are naught. Art always worries.
“Right. Right, right. I know,” Art exhales sharply, bunching up his hands in his jacket. The fabric wrinkles around his angry fists, and he can imagine how Patrick’s face would look in place of his jacket– skin tearing and revealing bloody sinew, eyeballs popping out and lips tearing apart to show rows of shiny white teeth– Jesus Christ. Art shakes his head, quick and sharp, trying to push the gruesome image out of his mind. “It’s just… you know. Tire blowouts are responsible for 11,000 car crashes each year. Which is– I mean, realistically, I know it won’t happen, it’s just…”
Art trails off. Realistically. It’s an awful word for him to stomach, every time his therapist says it to him. He knows that in the real world, awful things won’t happen to him every second. But it’s easy for him to worry, to think too much and spiral into his own world of violent and terrifying thoughts, away from the so-called ‘real world’. “I just don’t want you to get hurt,” he finishes, his voice soft and delicate. Patrick’s expression is one of pity, which makes Art feel even worse– he doesn’t want to be fucking pitied. He just wants to keep Patrick safe.
“Art. I promise you that nothing is going to happen,” Patrick says, his voice steady as he keeps a hand on Art’s shoulder. “Breathe with me, dude. Come on, in and out.” Patrick would have loved to make a joke about that, if he wasn’t worried about Art. It only serves to make Art more upset, knowing that his friend can’t truly be himself because of his stupid mind.
“Please don’t promise,” Art whispers, clearing his throat. “I’ll be really mad if it does happen, because then you’ll have broken your promise, and I know you didn’t mean to, but that’s just- that’s just how life works, and you- I-”
Art lurches up in his seat abruptly, eyes wide and panicked as he remembers. “Patrick– Pat, you left a cigarette– in the trashcan, it– our dorm is on fire, Patrick, we need to turn back, please–”
Patrick frowns, placing a hand on Art’s chest and gently pushing him back. “No, dude, it was just the butt of it. It wasn’t lit, Art,” he says gently, trying to coax his overworked mind back to sleep, but it clearly isn’t working– Art only remembers when his mind says, and his mind assures him that the cigarette Patrick tossed was lit. He can only imagine it now. Their dorm room that’s become home, aflame and lit by an angry red, matching the leaves that cascade around outside the car. Art’s baby blue comforter turning into ashes alongside Patrick’s raunchy Playboy magazines that he tucks under his bed, smoke curling out of the windows. And Art’s mouse plushie, crocheted by his Nana, the plastic eyes melting as the yarn shrivels and burns. It’s enough to make his chest tighten, and he bangs on the side of the car door.
“Patrick! We need to go back now!” he shrieks, mind completely overtaken by the idea of his home burning up. Patrick mutters something under his breath, checking in the rearview mirror before pulling over to the side and turning off the car. He unbuckles his seatbelt and faces Art, his face stony and serious.
“Breathe, Art, just breathe,” he insists, but Art’s too far gone, his eyes somewhere else as he watches the firefighters douse their dorm room, extinguishing the flame along with all the memories the two boys had made together. He doesn’t understand why Patrick isn’t as panicked as him, why he isn’t turning around and speeding back to MRTA. Maybe Patrick just doesn’t understand the levity of this situation, how serious it is, and Art’s gaze finds Patrick. Big blue eyes watery with tears, his nose red and cheeks flushed as he grips onto his friend’s shoulders.
“Patrick, if-if we drive back really fast, we could maybe make it in time to save something,” Art begs, tears pricking at his eyes. He can smell the ash that will rise from the remains of their dorm, and his entire body feels itchy. This is your fault. “I told you this was a bad idea, Pat, you’re so- so stupid for this!”
Patrick doesn’t flinch at the insult, one hand gently cupping Art’s jaw and the other wiping away his tears. “Art, look at me,” he says, his voice gravelly and low, as he coaxes Art’s eyes to meet his. His presence is grounding, even with how upset Art is, heavy hands feeling like weights that bring Art back down to reality. “I put the cigarette out before tossing it. I promise you, Art. And don’t tell me not to promise, because this is a promise that I can actually keep. The cig was burnt all the way out, there was nothing left of it. Our dorm is not on fire. Art, look at me.” Art’s eyes had begun to drift away, his chest rising and falling rapidly even as Patrick tried to reassure him.
“Say it with me, Art. Our dorm is not on fire,” Patrick says forcefully, and Art’s lips struggle to form the words, wanting desperately to believe it.
“Our- our dorm, it- God, Patrick, can’t we just go back to check–?” Art whimpers, snot and tears mixing and dripping down his chin. Patrick shakes his head firmly, squeezing Art’s shoulders.
“Say it.”
“G-God, our dorm isn’t on fire– it’s not on fire, our dorm is not on fire,” Art chants like a mantra, his eyes squeezing shut. His fists clench in the fabric of his jacket, nails digging into the soft skin of his palm. Deep red crescents appear in the softness of his hands, and Patrick desperately wants to lift Art’s hands up and kiss his palms, reassure him that everything is fine.
“You’re right, Art. It isn’t on fire, and it won’t be. You’re right,” Patrick says softly, his thumb absently stroking Art’s cheek gently. He watches the blonde boy suck in deep, shuddering breaths, his breathing evening out as he relaxes. He nods limply, his eyes downcast.
“Yeah… yeah, I’m right,” he whispers, his voice taut and wavering. “Thanks– Thanks, Pat.”
Patrick smooths out Art’s hair, squeezing his face. His touch is gentle and soft, like a mothers would be, and it’s a new side of him that Art rarely sees, even as his best friend. “Don’t mention it,” he says gruffly, eyes scanning over Art’s face. “Just… just chill, okay? You just need to relax.”
It’s shitty advice and he knows it, but what else could he say? He didn’t understand (and Art didn’t expect him to), but Patrick just wasn’t sure how he could fix this. “Just pick Taco Bell or McDonald’s, Artie. That’s all you gotta worry about. Leave the rest up to the Zweigster,” Patrick puffs his chest out, relishing in the tiny laugh he gets from Art.
Art’s silent for a moment, gears churning, and Patrick can see the numbers that hover above his head– his mental math of counting calories that will keep his daily intake under 1,250. No more, no less. He’s very specific about it. “Taco Bell,” he finally decides, and Patrick nods, starting the car up again.
The engine rumbles under their feet, then fizzles out. Patrick isn’t surprised, his teammate warning him that the truck was a piece of shit, and he turns the key again. Still, the engine only revs weakly before sputtering and coughing, smoke seeping through the cracks of the hood. Patrick and Art exchange a glance, and Art’s blue eyes are easy to read. Shit.
The evenness that Art worked so hard to achieve is starting to disappear, his breathing becoming jerky and unnatural as he and Patrick clamber out of the car, observing the smoking hood. Patrick’s more pissed than anything, but Art looks downright petrified.
“It’s fine, Art,” Patrick insists, his heart breaking as he hears the asthmatic wheezing sounds from Art that sound so similar to the broken car. He pops the hood open, blinking back tears as smoke engulfs his face, obscuring his vision. “Worst comes to worse, we have to call Triple A and maybe just try to find a hotel nearby–” he turns around to see Art, leaning against the truck heavily as he sobs, gasping for air.
“What the fuck do you mean nearby?! We’re on a highway in the m-middle of nowhere, and nobody else is driving past– but sure, Patrick, let’s go find a fancy four-star fucking suite!” Art’s voice is shrill, his eyes bloodshot as he glares back up at his friend. He’s wringing his hands so tightly, the tips of his fingers begin to look purple from the lack of circulation, and the indents from his nails are a rusty red color. “I told you this was a terrible idea, I– you promised me! You said that everything– everything would be okay–” he breaks down into big, full sobs that wrack his entire body, leaving him slumped against the car door. Patrick’s in shock, unsure of what to say. He’s never seen an episode get this bad, not the point where Art begins fisting his pretty blonde locks as if aiming to tear it out.
“Whoa, whoa whoa whoa, Artie– hey, dude, look at me,” Patrick attempts his tried-and-true method, his voice soft, but Art seems deaf to anything that isn’t the onslaught of thoughts that seem to swarm his busy mind.
Art’s standing straight now, pacing anxiously along the length of the truck. He mutters under his breath, knuckles knocking against his skull in an orderly pattern. Patrick recognizes that compulsion; eight smacks to the head, wait five seconds, then seven. So on and so forth until he reaches one. Supposedly, as Art told him, if he did that and was patient, everything would be resolved by the time he got to one. Patrick wasn’t sure if he could get a tow truck in that short timespan.
Meanwhile, Art’s too busy panicking about their situation to think about anything else. His mind is running wild with visions of him and Patrick being picked up by some crazy truck driver, their brains splattered in the back of a van, a wild animal coming up and tearing them apart. Every time he tries to rationally dispute it, another even worse vision seems to appear, sending him spiralling further. This wasn’t fair. He just wanted to keep Patrick safe.
He didn’t realize Patrick’s hands were on him until the brunette yelled, loud and jarring, snapping Art back into reality. He’s like a life jacket that’s tossed while Art’s head was underwater, and the blonde takes a big gulp of air as Patrick observes him. Peering, curious, concerned more than anything.
“Art,” he says quietly, a sense of vulnerability being heard. “Let’s… let’s sit down, okay?” He leads Art to the back of the truck, pushing aside some crates to make a space for them to sit. He hops onto the truckbed, waiting for Art to obediently follow– and of course, he does. He sits next to Patrick, tiny hiccups shaking his body as he wrings his hands incessantly. He knocks his knuckles against the side of his head, down to six times now.
“Can you look at me? Art, can you– hey, can you look at me?” Patrick says gently, taking Art’s hands in his to prevent him from his compulsions. Art’s watery eyes meet Patrick’s, full of fear and regret.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice trembling, and Patrick shakes his head emphatically.
“No, dude, don’t be sorry. You don’t have shit to apologize for, just… just let me talk for a sec, yeah?” Art nods jerkily, and Patrick gently squeezes Art’s hands.
“It isn’t your fault.” He lets the words linger in the air, echo through Art’s war-torn brain, waits for it to sink in. It only seems to bounce off of Art, though, and Patrick shakes his friend gently. “Art. None of this is your fault. This is just, it’s shitty luck, that’s all it is. There was nothing you could have done to stop this.”
Art’s quiet, struggling to pull his hand out of Patrick’s grip; five seconds have passed and it’s time for five knocks on the head. “I could have,” he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut. “I didn’t double check the lights before we left, and– and I stopped counting the lampposts halfway through the drive because you started talking to me and I got distracted, I’m sorry, I know it’s my fault–”
“Art– Jesus, Art, no!” Patrick exclaims, gripping Art’s hands tighter. “What you think isn’t always true, Art. You not double checking the lights when we left doesn’t equate to our fucking car breaking down. Things– it doesn’t work like that, okay?” Patrick reassures him, scrambling for words that will appeal to Art. “Sometimes people just have shit luck. It’s not something you can control, and it fucking sucks that we can’t. But no matter how hard you try, sometimes good things will happen, and sometimes shitty things happen. You can’t control it.”
He watches as Art’s breath evens out, eyes squeezing shut to tune out anything else. “I just– I want to protect you,” he confesses quietly. “And… I can’t. But if I just try… if I just count, then maybe it’ll be worth something to you.”
His words only seem to make Patrick’s heart fracture further, his expression softening as he listens to Art speak. “You’re worth so much to me, Art,” he says, an easy vulnerability in the way he speaks, something that’s rare to see in teenage boys. “You gotta understand that, Artie, I don’t care if you popped the tires on purpose or some shit– at least we had this memory to share, right?” He pauses, waiting for acknowledgement from Art. “I know you’re doing your best. And I see that, I appreciate it. It’s nice that you’re trying hard, you know? God knows I never fuckin’ do, but… you don’t have to, Art. You just gotta be here with me.”
Art’s expression morphs into something solemn and quiet, a deer at the edge of a highway, watching a truck barrel towards it. “I want to try,” he whispers, “I contribute– nothing. I can at least… pretend I’m useful.”
“Yeah, I know you wanna try, man,” Patrick mumbles quietly, running his fingers along the scarred knuckles of Art’s hands. “It’s good that you do. But just because you try, doesn’t mean it’ll work. It sucks, but it’s just the truth.” He follows every shift in Art’s expression, the twitch of his lip and slow blinks. He lets go of Art’s hands, pulling him closer by the shoulder, and squeezing gently. “You don’t need to contribute anything. You do it just by being here.” A pause, long and drawn out, syrupy like honey. “I love you, man.”
Art’s chest feels tight, and he buries his head in the crook of Patrick’s neck, blonde curls tickling Patrick’s chin. “I love you too,” he mutters, his voice muffled and weak. He’s nowhere near better, but his mind slows, until his thoughts are simple enough for him to comprehend. It wasn’t your fault. You can’t control life. And it’s okay that you can’t.
And when Art looks up to meet Patrick’s gaze again, instead of being met with the silhouette of numbers and statistics, he just sees his friend in his shining glory.
It’s just Patrick. Art’s mind grows quiet, and it’s more beautiful than anything.
I want so much to sit on his lap, hold his cheeks, kiss the dimples and his lips, then smell him like a fucking dog and tell him what a good boy he is for me. 😪
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