You can call me Lark and I am 23 (they/them) and fair warning this blog will contain nsfw/18+ posts of different fandoms so minors please be gone ♡
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tannertan36

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Claire Keane
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@gildedlark
You can call me Lark and I am 23 (they/them) and fair warning this blog will contain nsfw/18+ posts of different fandoms so minors please be gone ♡

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Imagine if in the winter after Voleth Meir, the keep is sieged by fae. The witchers and Yennefer put up the best fight they can, but are quickly incapacitated, and can only watch in horror as the creatures march right past them, indifferent to their screams. Curses fill the air, and they all fight against invisible bonds as the ten creatures enter where the princes is hiding, where they’d told Ciri to run, hoping she’d be safe—
Silence resounds, however, when it was not Ciri the fae walk out of the keep with, but Jaskier. Jaskier, who takes one look at them and insists they be set free, and the leader of the small troop…listens?!
Already the first fae has disappeared into thin air, though, when Geralt finally makes it to his feet. Jaskier turns, attempts to say something to him, but one of the fae grabs his arm and then they’re just…gone. The bard he’s just gotten back is gone, and he’d not even had a chance to talk to him the past two weeks he’d been here. He thought he had more time, there should have been more time—
“Your bard will be returned shortly. His court needs him.”
Geralt blinked at the words, unable to react before the leader disappeared after uttering the only explanation the group of fae had given. Geralt stiffened at the pounding of feet on stone, watching as his Child Surprise runs into the courtyard.
He wants to be happy at her safety, grateful that she hadn’t been taken. Instead, all he felt was hollow as he fell back to his knees, mourning the man he’d never even thought to fear the loss of.
~•~
It took 39 days for the fae to return the bard. Five and a half weeks where Geralt found he couldn’t sleep, could barely eat. He knew he was worrying the others, that Ciri needed him to be more present, but he couldn’t help the way his feet dragged him to the courtyard every day. He didn’t know how to stop waiting, hoping this would be the day that Jaskier appeared, that his bard would be returned to him, that he could finally rest knowing the other was safe and home.
Geralt almost didn’t believe his eyes, when the leader of the fae finally appeared in a blinding light, Jaskier beside him, looking…for lack of a better word, ethereal. The bard was practically glowing, dressed in fine, dark green silk with bright gold embroidery taking the shape of flowers and leaves. He had a wreath of his namesake in his air, and his grin stretched from ear to ear.
Even the fae seemed to be smiling, a rather smug look on his face as he clasped his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. Geralt did his best not to scowl as he marched forward, eyeing the powerful creature warily.
“You should be proud of your bard. He is an honor to our court, and we look forward to hearing him play again at the next competition.”
Geralt inhaled sharply, unable to stop himself from lunging forward and pulling the bard behind him. He’d just gotten Jaskier back, he wasn’t about to let him be taken again—
The fae frowned at Geralt, and the witcher suddenly realized how tall the being was, how he almost towered over him. It didn’t help the witcher relax in the least, despite how Jaskier was hissing at Geralt to quit it—
“Handle him with care, witcher. We will not tolerate further mistreatment, no matter how much Jaskier claims you are necessary for his music-making.”
Again, Geralt froze, wrong-footed at the strange response. Luckily, the fae seemed to find his reaction amusing, his tinkling laughter echoing in the courtyard even as the fae himself disappeared from sight.
Geralt waited a beat, two, before Jaskier’s complaints of being cold finally pushed him to action. While beautiful, Jaskier’s clothes were clearly not suited for winter at Kaer Morhen, and the witcher found himself draping his own cloak over the bard as he ushered the man into the warmth of the keep.
It didn’t take long for the pair to reach the dining hall, and Geralt remembered it was dinner time as everyone froze at the sight of Jaskier just…strolling into the room and taking his previously empty seat, as if he’d never left. Indeed, it wasn’t until the bard was pestered with all manner of questions that Jaskier even seemed to notice that anything was wrong.
Yet, instead of answering the questions, Jaskier just…turned to Geralt, looking as confused as everyone else.
“Why didn’t you explain?”
Geralt stared at Jaskier, his face seemingly giving away…something, that made Jaskier’s own drop, expression turning sad and horribly accepting. Like he’s not even surprised that the witcher has yet again messed up.
Apparently deciding he’s done with Geralt for now (and it doesn’t hurt, it shouldn’t, not when Jaskier is still here at least), the bard looks to the rest of the table.
“The fae have a music competition every four years, to see which court has the best performers. Usually it’s just for those who are fae or have fae heritage, but they make an exception for me I guess. Something about true talent and skill being welcomed.” Jaskier shrugged, clearly not bothered with remembering the specifics. “I guess I impressed them the first time, so I’ve been invited the last five competitions as well.”
Jaskier winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Although perhaps invited is a rather…sugar-coated word. I suspect if I didn’t come willingly, the fae would find a way to make me more…agreeable.”
The silence that followed Jaskier’s word was heavy, an oppressive blanket over the room.
Jaskier licked his lips. “Though what do I know? I’ve never exactly tried that hard to get away, not with their magic and fancy swords.” He laughed, like the words weren’t horribly tragic.
“First time.”
Jaskier hummed in question, turning to Geralt.
“How…how old were you…?”
Jaskier sighed, fiddling with the fork still in his hand in lieu of looking at Geralt. “I was 22. The competition was hosted by the autumn court, and we’d just split up for the year.”
The witcher frowned, knowing what Jaskier wasn’t saying. That the bard had likely woken up alone at their campsite, after Geralt had abandoned him, and been taken mere days later, unsure if he would ever return to the human world.
And…if Geralt thought hard, he could remember why Jaskier seemed so upset, earlier. Recalled the bard telling a tale of singing for the fae, of wowing the masses. He’d thought the bard had been embellishing at the time, talking about some court masquerade party or other, not…not this.
“Jaskier, I…”
Jaskier sighed, plastering on a large smile. “It’s quite alright, Geralt. It sounds quite far fetched if you’re not actually present to see the whole—” Jaskier waved his free hand around—“escorting.”
Lambert snorted, making a crude joke under his breath that had Eskel kicking his shin. Geralt didn’t really know, didn’t care what he said. Because suddenly a lot of things were making more sense: the way Jaskier had practically clung to him that spring, hardly taking any lovers for months after their reunion. How the bard had practiced day and night until the witcher told him to shut up, not stopping even at the bruised fingers and small cuts that formed. The bard was fervent in his desire to play, to perfect his pieces, to the point that he seemed almost manic with it.
Melitele’s sake, how did he miss that something was wrong—
“Jaskier, your hands…”
Geralt’s eyes instantly zeroed in on the bard’s hands. He found himself holding them before he even realized he was doing so, ignoring the squawk from Jaskier as his fork fell, looking instead for any damage he might have missed. The witcher was so foolish, he should have checked Jaskier for injuries as soon as he came back, why did he—
“Better than ever, Yennefer.” Jaskier yanked his hands from the witcher, rubbing his wrists. “Perks of the competition, actually—the fae heal all my injuries so that I may perform at my best.”
And that was…Geralt frowned, realizing what Jaskier was saying without speaking.
“What injuries did you have?”
This time it was Yennefer and, strangely, Vesemir who gave him hard looks.
Geralt had to force himself not to wince under their ire.
“Just some bruises and…burns.” Jaskier finally said, voice projecting forced calm.
Geralt opened his mouth—
“But they’re fine now, see?” Jaskier waved his hands in the air. “Good as new! And they even gave me a new lute, so generous of them! Of course, I do deserve some compensation I suppose, for helping them win first place. I—”
“Wait. You won?”
Jaskier scoffed playfully. “Come now, Ciri, I know it’s been a while since you’ve heard me play, but that is plain rude. For Melitele’s sake, your grandmother wouldn’t allow just anyone to play at your birthday banquets. Only the very best, I assure you. Why, one time—”
Jaskier continued to prattle on, telling the story of the time Jaskier had been gone at the fairy court and Valdo had been summoned in his place. Ciri laughed as he explained how the bard was practically thrown out before the princess even got the chance to hear him, with nothing but the clothes on his back.
Geralt glanced down at the now cold food, realizing he’d missed rather a lot about the bard it seemed. He hadn’t known about the fairy court, obviously, or the trips to Cintra or Jaskier’s injuries. It made Geralt’s stomach turn as the witcher wondered what else he’d missed about the bard.
“So which court do you play for?”
Jaskier, who’d been giggling with Ciri at his own impression of his nemesis, straightened at the question.
“The summer court, of course, seeing as my birthday is at the beginning of the season.”
The rest of the table blinked at him in confusion.
“So, because you were born in summer, you automatically play for the summer court?”
Jaskier nodded to Eskel.
Lambert snorted.
“Seems stupid.” He said, stabbing at a piece of potato and popping it into his mouth.
Jaskier shrugged, tilting his head. “I mean, how else would they decide?”
Lambert just huffed, seemingly not having a good response to that.
“So let me get this straight.” Yennefer clasped her hands together in front of her. “For the last, oh, two decades or so, you’ve been taken every four years from wherever you are to perform for the fae. You have all your injuries healed, and apparently they feed and house you, as well as gift you with items sometimes if you perform particularly well. And afterwards, they just drop you off where they picked you up, like the past six weeks never happened. Correct?”
Jaskier paused, then nodded.
“Yeah, pretty much.”
Yennefer eyed him for a moment, but seemed to accept his answer as she too went back to her food.
“Anything else I should know about?”
The table turned to Geralt, most clearly surprised at the question. Still, the witcher focused on Jaskier, aware of the bard’s tendency to be rather loose with certain details sometimes unless prompted.
“Well, the competition takes place on a rotating schedule. This year’s was obviously held by the winter court, so four years from now it will be held in spring.”
Geralt nodded at the information, mentally preparing himself for the loss of Jaskier. Already, he felt dread pooling in his stomach at the idea of the bard in a land he could not reach, stuck somewhere for another 39 days where the witcher could do nothing to protect him.
Still, he cleared his throat.
“Anything else?”
“No, I think that’s—well…” Jaskier chuckled, the sound reminiscent of when he’d come running back to the inn to tell Geralt they’d better leave after bedding the wrong person.
Geralt squinted at the bard.
“I may be a little immortal. Just that, I haven’t exactly aged much since I helped them win at that first court. And the fae leader, Siger, said something about needing me for numerous competitions to come.”
You could have heard a needle drop in the silence of the room.
Jaskier chuckled, the sound a little more strained.
“The fae are very, very competitive.”
Ilya trying to outplay his demons
this means more to me than it should
marleau appreciation [comm for @hollanoveau 🤍]
I want a friendship between Shane and Cliff Marleau (sort of like an extrovert adopts an introvert type of thing). Pre-outing, they’re close enough that Shane comes out to him.
“Hey,” Cliff says, suddenly struck with the best idea he’s ever had. “I think I know someone you’d get along great with.”
“Marleau, I’m not really looking—“
“No, no, trust me. He’s a good guy, and one of the best hockey players I’ve ever met—aside from you, of course.”
Shane isn’t sure where Cliff is going with this, but he does know he’s not interested in anyone but Ilya.
“I know you mean well but—“
“Rozanov,” Cliff announces, grin a mile wide, and Shane blinks. Cliff, for his part, is incredibly sure this is a good idea; he knows that Ilya is bisexual, even if he doesn’t talk about it. Even Cliff is aware of the dangers with Russia. Even if the rest of the league hates it, they can fuck off.
Mistaking Shane’s silence for skepticism, Cliff continues, “I know he seems like an asshole, but he’s one of the best men you’ll ever meet. I know you’ve seen it—the whole rivalry thing is bullshit anyways, right? He’s actually a big softie…”
Cliff talks up Ilya, and Shane smiles, glad that Ilya has such a good friend—even though he isn’t sure how to tell Cliff that he and Ilya are already an item.

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you know Ilya is clutching his chest from the cuteness aggression
ilya sees this old trend where someone holds out a hand to their partner to see what their partner would give them so he comes over to try it with shane who’s on the sofa. he holds out his hand and shane gives him the remote. he tosses the remote aside. shane looks a bit confused. he gives ilya his phone. ilya tosses that aside. he gives ilya a pillow. ilya tosses that aside. he gives ilya his hand. ilya shakes it out. his face squints in confusion before coming up with an idea and rests his chin on ilya’s hand. and okay, well, the challenge is just to annoy your partner, but holy fuck shane looks so fucking cute with his big brown eyes looking up at ilya waiting for his approval so ilya just really has to smile and kisses him about it.
The night before Shane might win his third Stanley cup, Ilya sends him the clip of his Stanley cup win.
Confused, Shane immediately calls him.
"Is this some new and unique way to psych me out before the final, Rozanov? I didn't know you had money on Detroit."
"No, I am sending for a good reason," Ilya laughs. "I know it sucks for us that when you win all your team will be kissing their girlfriends and Pike will be making out all gross with Jackie, and we will not be able to. So, I wanted to show you exactly where I first kissed the cup. It was on the top, right over where it says Ottawa 1905, left of where it says 'Challenge Cup'. I remember because I did this on purpose. We weren't anything then, but I was thinking of you. I couldn't help thinking of you. So if you kiss the same place, it will be a little like we are sharing a kiss. And only we will know about it."
And Shane feels the air clean knocked out of his lungs and the back of his throat get tight, as he barely gets out, "Baby, that's... Thank you. I don't know what to say. I love you so fucking much. I'll make sure you see our kiss, okay?"
"I will be watching. I love you, My Shane. Go show the world why Shane Fucking Hollander is the goat, okay?"
On the night Shane wins his third Stanley Cup, he kisses their spot on the cup, thinking only of Ilya, and longs for a day where he can pull him onto the ice like Scott did with Kip.
On the night Shane wins his fourth Stanley cup, he hoists the cup into the air with his captain, they both kiss the same spot on the trophy, and then in front of the world, on his home ice, Shane Hollander kisses his husband, and it feels like a promise fulfilled.
Shane doesn't use the Pride Tape on his stick. He doesn't like the feel of it, he likes his specific tape and his routines. After the Fanmail Outing, a reporter asks him if he's going to use the Pride tape now and Shane is like "no? It's cool that other people use it but it's not for me" and people keep bugging him about it and someone online posts a big thing about internalized homophobia and Shane just posts online
"I'm not homophobic, I'm autistic, thanks for making me reveal something about myself I wasn't sure I wanted the public to know about AGAIN"
And Ilya, who never used the Pride Tape because of the whole Being Russian thing just posts a selfie of him and Shane post-fuck with the quote
"how can I be homophobic, my bitch is gay"

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Ilya and the Centaurs hanging out with all of Ilya’s old teammates after playing Boston. Ilya does his disappearing act (aka going outside to talk to Shane for 30 minutes) and the Centaurs and the Bears are chatting and they start talking about the person they all have in common when Bood kinda shares a look with Hayes and goes "So, like, when he was in Boston was he this..."
"Scarily obsessed with Shane Hollander?" Cliff chimes in " Yeah, we're all a little worried he moved to Canada to stalk the man."
Everyone at the table gives a half hearted laugh at the "joke".
Ilya comes back, not even smelling like cigarettes smoke and the first thing he says is "Did you see the deke Hollander pulled against the Admirals goalie tonight." and no they had not seen it because they had all, Ilya included, been playing hockey at the time. Which means that from their perspective he had just been outside looking at Hollanders highlights for 30 minutes and suddenly everyone at the table is just a little less convinced. Like Cliff was just joking.
Probably.
Rozanov was almost definitely not stalking Shane Hollander.
That would be crazy right?
Myshane sleeps best on his tummy. It’d a subconscious thing, he just always ends up face smushed into the pillow and stomach pressed to the mattress his hand curled up into his neck. Sometimes a pillow pulled into his chest, or trapped under his leg.
He knows it’s bad for his posture so he usually tries to be good and sleep on his back but often wakes up on his tummy. David’s heart had gone soft when Shane had fallen asleep on the couch at their cottage last summer, on his stomach and open mouthed deep sleeping. It had taken him back to baby Shane, who would curl himself up on his stomach on his bed or on David or Yuna’s chest, hands tucked up under his chin like he still does now. He’d always loved to make himself cosy, loved best of all falling asleep snuggled up to one of his parents.
Anyway- Ilya doesn’t find out until the cottage of course, this habit of his Shane’s, how he’ll wake up and Shane will have slipped out of the cradle of his arms and be sprawled on his front head turned so his cheek is all mushed into the pillow. Ilya started to realise on the nights Shane was extra sleepy, he’d subconsciously shuffle them so that Ilya was on his back and Shane could roll on top of him, he’d let out a happy little grunt and tuck his arms to his chest, hands under his chin and be asleep in seconds. Sometimes Shane tried to fight it, and he’s tuck himself down on his back or his side and Ilya would hear his breathing even out. Sure enough he’ll wake up to Shane soft whine and rolling in bed, shuffling until he’s onto his stomach, his brow going lax and lips pouted with a content sigh, arm thrown out on top of Ilya or his thigh hooked up over him.
Ilya loves it, he finds it sweet when Shane will go from watching a moving tucked against Ilya, big heavy tired blinks and then just sigh and wriggle until he’s on his tummy, and then in two breaths he’s out, deep heavy in sleep.
It’s cute, another thing that Ilya loves about him, a little Shane fact that lives in his mind. When Shane is fighting sleep with a spinning mind, fidgeting and worrying, Ilya will get his hand on Shane’s shoulder and mumble “roll over baby”, smooth him onto his stomach and rub Shane’s back, big open palm figure of eight between his shoulder blades, little kisses over the back of his head and neck till he settles.
Ilya will do what he can whenever he can to facilitate Shane’s preference no matter where they are. On the bus he’ll lean against the window and pull Shane to lay on his chest. On long haul flights he’ll do the same, tuck Shane on top of him with his hand petting the back of his head.
Loyalty (1869)
— by Briton Rivière
Loyalty (2025)
— by Ilya Rozanov
I love the idea of Shane being not just good at hockey but good at all sports, to the point where it fascinates and infuriates the other Centaurs
Because what do you mean they went to the batting cages for some silly fun to watch everyone flail at an unfamiliar sport, only for Shane to need three practice swings before figuring out the force and timing needed to start hitting every single pitch? What do you mean he sets the course record at the mini golf place they have the Pike twins birthday at? What do you mean he learned how to play cricket over a long weekend in the UK? What do you MEAN your Canadian ass that grew up on a calm, tiny lake went to visit Rose in LA and just learned to surf from “some guy” one of the days she was busy??
Shane doesn’t get why they all think it’s so crazy. He’s a professional athlete, he’s good at full body and mind control as well as adaptability and hand-eye coordination, and he’s so used to being the best in the world at hockey that he views being mundanely good at anything else as barely noticeable. He argues with Troy over whether he counts as being good at basketball just because he killed them all at the basketball shooting game at a Dave and Buster’s
They all start making bets to see who can find a sport Hollander isn’t good at. Harris is convinced he’ll win with figure skating because Shane’s muscle memory will want to work against him with a technique that’s so similar but also so different, only for Shane to come out of an afternoon learning from his old friend who was at the Olympics with the ability to do simple jumps and spins and is insisting the whole team learn so they can incorporate it into plays. Harris is not allowed to make suggestions after that
Ilya just sits back and lustily watches his husband destroy their friends at volley ball, wrestling, tennis, broom ball, and ultimate frisbee. Shane participates in an all pro athlete Ninja Warrior event to raise money for charity and Ilya can’t watch the clips of Shane flying through the course like a bat out of hell unless he is able to fuck Shane immediately after it ends
napmaxxing

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hollanov on separate bedrooms
jackie: yeah separate bedrooms can be a blessing! i love hayden but sometimes i need my own space
shane: ????
hayden: it’s healthy for couples to get a breather! and it makes it more romantic when we share our bed again <3 even tho you kick in your sleep babe ahah
ilya: okei….
(later, at home)
ilya: don’t you ever dare sleep in a separate bed from me i will hunt you down
shane: fuck no never — also when you kick me in your sleep i just kick you right thefuck?? like grow a pair hayd, jeez
ilya: ok i see your point but maybe hayden shouldn’t kick his wife
shane: you’re right jackie should just kick him harder
ilya: exactly! we should be marriage counsellors, solving everybodies problems ))
Hollanov said if i'm not living in your chest, I don't want it! 😤
ilya rozanov who’s known to boston as the mysterious fuckboy from russia who chirps like he’s getting paid for it and is crazy good at hockey. one day a teammate is absent from a few games in a row and turns back up to practice with a fucking newborn and they’re all in their hockey gear fawning over this tiny baby. then once everyone’s said hi before practice, the crowd parts and ilyas just stood by the doorway, a literal deer in headlights staring at the bundle of blankets in his teammates arms and-
“do you wanna hold him?”
ilya’s moving forward before he can process the words and everyone’s holding their breath as he gathers the newborn into his arms, pausing to take his gloves off first. it’s a few tense seconds before the baby babbles and shifts slightly before tucking his head into the crook of his arm and swiftly falling to sleep.
ilya looks up to see his whole team stifling grins, “i think we’ve found the new babysitter” and he bites back a chirp because he doesn’t want to wake the baby he’s holding so delicately to his chest.
he’s stuck on the sidelines for the whole practice while he rocks the baby through the slams against walls, waving its little arm towards its dad when it eventually wakes up.
and yeah pictures surface soon after of fucking rozanov staring down at the baby in his arms with the fucking softest eyes and twitter has a field day proving he’s a softie at heart