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welcome ! ˚⟡˖ ࣪

hi all! i’m sarah (she/her), mid-twenties

i write on ao3 as anincompletelist & formerly soldouthaz. below you’ll find the links to all of the important things including fics, tag navigation, and more! both this blog and my fics feature 18+ content. no minors, please.

currently writing for: heated rivalry

thanks for stopping by, and enjoy! :D

HOLLANOVA JUST FOR YOU <333

--

“Please,” she whispers. 

“Please what?” Rozanova asks, watching her mouth. Jane watches her back. 

“Please​​, just—just…” 

She arches a thick, blonde brow. “Kiss you? Touch you? Braid your hair?” Rozanova teases, wrapping Jane’s hair around her finger and tugging until her head pulls to one side. “Come on, Hollander. You are so smart. Use words.” 

Use words is entirely unhelpful, Jane thinks, when there are lips on her jaw and a warm hand at her waist, every touch deliberately fleeting, engineered specifically to get her to break. God. What would that be like? To just give in and not give a fuck about what happens afterward? Is this what everybody does?

“My hair’s already braided,” Jane mutters, lashes fluttering against the tops of her cheeks as Rozanova’s mouth drifts to her pulse point. 

“It is,” she agrees. The pad of her thumb traces the criss-crossed patterned from her ear down to where the end stops just before the curve of her breast, and Jane’s breath hitches. “I think I would like to see what it looks like down.” 

“You saw it in the showers.” 

“Yes. Now I want more.” Rozanova’s pink, plush mouth takes a detour, presses firmly to her shoulder before tugging at her waist. “Turn around.”

--

<33333333333

--

Hollander uses the phones twice a week. 

Every Monday and Thursday he waits for the one third from the wall to be open, and then dials two phone numbers in succession. He leans with his elbow bent on top of it, forehead pressed to the fold, and waits a handful of seconds each time before he hangs up, saying nothing. Afterward he’ll stand there until someone else needs the spot, seeming to need the time to collect himself, and then he leaves. 

This is a routine that’d taken Ilya weeks to pick up on. Sometimes he wasn’t in the room to see it, other times he’d been distracted or hadn’t thought much of it. It feels accidentally sacred, to have uncovered this. And it isn't like it's Ilya's place to judge. Grief makes people do strange things, and there is certainly enough to go around in here. 

But however long it’d taken him to recognize the pattern, it takes only seconds to notice the day that it unravels.

--

OF COURSE!! a lot of it's pretty heavy so here's a somewhat neutral part sjhgfsjhgf x

--

“He needs a fucking hospital,” Shane hisses. 

“He does not want the hospital,” Svetlana insists, her back to him still. “He will be alone, and they will force pills down his throat, and if the press finds out, it will not be good for him.” 

“Fuck the press.” 

She spins to face him sharply enough that he nearly flinches. “That’s a bit hypocritical, don’t you think?” 

Shane snaps his mouth closed. 

--

WELL YESSSSSSSS :D

--

He lets himself picture it for a moment: evenings that end just like this one, cold beer sweating in his palm, shins dirty from kicking the ball around with the kids in the park, the former tan line where Shane’s wedding ring used to be nothing more than a memory now. Plenty of room for Ilya to put one there in its place one day, maybe. 

He pours fuel into the fire and glances over at Shane to memorialize it. The humidity has made his hair lay flat against his forehead, held in place by the hat he’d spun backward sometime around the swell of afternoon heat. It’s made his face pink, brings out the smattering of summer freckles across his nose. He’s sweating underneath the flannel of Ilya’s shirt, the collar damp like his upper lip as he lifts the neck of the bottle again. There’s a lovebite peeking out near his shoulder, the kind they don’t have to hide anymore, and Ilya knows there are matching ones on his hip, the inside of his thigh; everywhere that time and independence have granted him permission to indulge. 

Stay, Ilya thinks suddenly. Let me keep discovering things. God. Please don’t ever leave. 

It is exactly what he’d thought on his couch in Boston ten years ago. 

--

AND KINKTOBER:

--

YOU MAY <33333 (they are mostly half written do not let me fool you !!!!!! jhdgfjshgf)

--

Really? Shane types. You’re big enough to hold me down? 

Immediately, he receives: Yes. 

He chews at his lip, biting down on the too-sharp edge of a private grin. How do I know? 

You don’t believe me? 

How much do you bench? Shane asks. 

The response this time is just as swift. Shane’s heart drops into his stomach as his exact weight stares back at him from the screen—the one from just this morning, when he’d checked in his bathroom at home. The one no one else has seen but him.

The back of his neck erupts in pinpricks, goosebumps lining his arms. His phone pings again in his hand. 

Believe me now? 

--

OFCCCC <3

I got carried away editing this part when I went to the doc so this is definitely more than 100 words sorry ksjhgdfjsgf x

cw: implied violence

--

“Hey—what the fuck!” Barrett spits, blood staining the concrete floor at their feet. 

-𓃠

WELL YES !!!!!!!!!

--

“Do you need us to pick up anything on the way?” his father asks, distant through air conditioning and road noise. 

Shane’s laugh, wet and abrupt, buoys the thick stillness of the empty bathroom. They don't even have any clue what's happening. He lifts his head and doesn’t think about how they could raid a Babies-R-Us and still probably not be as prepared for all of this as he’d like to be. 

More subdued, he says, “No. No, just—get here. Please.” 

“As soon as possible,” his mother promises. “Do you want to stay on the phone with us?” 

“No, I need to get back. I just had a couple of minutes.” 

“Okay. Text us the information. We’ll see you soon, honey.” 

“We love you, Shane,” his dad says. 

“Love you too.” 

He feels just slightly less claustrophobic when he hangs up, with his parents coming and Ilya’s cross around his neck. He lifts a hand to press against it through the fabric of his shirt, reaches for the door handle and tries to stomach the fact that the next time he sees his parents, he’ll be one himself.

--

[ send me an ask to help me make headway on my wips, or make your own post to play along yourself! ]

HE IS SO DEAR TO ME <333333

--

Fuck. Fuck. Another text comes through just as he finishes reading. On instinct, he clicks Lily when it pops up. 

Shane. 

Do not leave that fucking game. 

He stands in front of his stall feeling paralyzed, gripping his phone too tight in his sticky palms while the rest of the locker room buzzes around him, keeping the energy up for third period. 

“Hey, man.” Hayden nudges him. “You okay?” 

“No,” Shane admits before he can stop it. He can’t stop seeing Svetlana’s texts behind his eyelids; in pain, not sure, going to the hospital. He doesn’t think he could play right now if he tried. “I need to—I need to be somewhere else.” 

--

OFC <3

--

The clink of Ilya’s spoon stops. Shane can feel the eyes on the side of his face. “You are getting back together?” 

“That’s none of your business.” 

“I think it is,” Ilya maintains, setting the cutlery into the sink eerily calmly. “It could affect our business, no?” 

“Maybe I’ll quit,” Shane levels. “Ethan says he has a friend who’s looking for someone with bioengineering experience.” 

“Oh, good, because I hear that Ethan is very reliable and honest about things.” 

“Fuck you,” Shane says. He abandons the table altogether, letting his chair scrape the tile as he stands. “You don’t know anything about our relationship.” 

Ilya latches onto it like glue. “So you are back together?” 

He scoffs. “God, you’re insufferable.” 

Grabbing his coffee off the table so harshly that some spills onto his knuckles, Shane stalks back toward the living room. Ilya follows.

--

ok this is like 200 words instead of 100 but I won't tell if you won't ok x

--

“I’m just sayin’,” Marly reasons, table thunking beneath their palms as they slap another set of cards down, “now is not the time to be adopting a stray, Roz.” 

Ilya slides his winnings aside. “He is not a fucking dog, Marly.” 

“Seriously, man. You’ve already got some time shaved off for good behavior, it’s not gonna look good when you’re risking all that for this kid that’s only got three years anyway.” Thunk. Marly’s voice lowers. “Besides, half the time I hear he’s the one who’s goin’ around askin’ for—” 

“Drop it,” Ilya snaps. Marly sighs as he collects both cards. The table is quiet for a moment, the breeze rattling tree leaves above their heads as brittle, broken bits float down onto the wood. 

“I know you wanna do the right thing. And I think that’s admirable, Roz, really. I do,” he says. “But some people… you just can’t save ‘em. Not when the problem is themselves. You’ve seen it. You know that s’much as I do.” 

He waits until Marly’s busy re-shuffling the deck to let his eyes flick up to the other side of the yard. Hollander has finished his exercising now, sitting in the dirt with his elbows folded over bent knees, his forehead bowed to rest on them while his shoulders heave. As if he can feel Ilya’s gaze, his head lifts, and Ilya watches the pink of his tongue appear to wet his lips just before they twitch into some small, sad semblance of a smile. 

“It’s your go,” Marly tells him. 

Ilya reaches for a card.

--

<33333 !!!!

--

“Shane motherfucking Hollander,” Svetlana says. “If you did not exclusively like men, I would kiss you right now.” 

Shane coughs into his fist. “Acknowledged.” 

“But you are super gay, so I will find someone else to kiss instead.” She blazes on before Shane can address the super thing, pointing at Ilya. “Get up. We are celebrating tonight.” 

Ilya glances down at himself and then back up at her. “Why get up? I am already dressed.” 

“Fine. I am going to get a little bit less dressed and then we will go. Sound good?” She turns back to Shane again. “Shane, you are welcome, as always.” 

He smiles. “I’m okay, thanks.”

--