Soda reading Ponyboy's essay and ratting him out to Steve like "You know Ponyboy thinks you hate him?" one day.
And Steve is just like flabbergasted. "I've known that boy since we was four! I taught 'im how to jump when he was two and spent hours teachin' 'im how'ta backflip an' frontflip when he was four! We use'ta hold his hands an' spin him off'a the ground on'a yard at school! The reason my teeth are forever fucked up is 'cause I slammed face first int'a the ground to catch 'im fallin' out'a tree when he was five! Talkin' about 'I hate him'! He's crazy!"
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words: 1.6k
warnings: kissing?
pairings: jameson hawthorne x avery grambs
summary: averyjameson wedding as god intended
note: the whole set-up and scenario thing is @averygrambsswife's idea #ourjavery but its lowk kinda buns sori
It filtered through the church's stained glass windows, scattering amber, crimson, emerald and gold across the worn stone floor. Light bled over ancient pews and climbed weathered walls, turning the little chapel into something almost unreal.
A fitting stage.
Jameson Hawthorne stood beneath the wide archway, Avery's hand laced with his. Electricity hummed where their fingers met. Not nerves exactly. Rather…anticipation. The delicious kind that came just before everything changed.
He curled his fingers around hers, earning the smallest shift in her expression. Most people would've missed it. Jameson didn't miss her tells. Her pulse fluttered once beneath his thumb.
She was nervous.
The realisation tugged the corner of his mouth into something dangerously close to a smile. Avery Kylie Grambs had outplayed billionaires, murderers and Hawthornes. She'd survived riddles designed to break people. Yet somehow, standing in a tiny church with him was what made her heartbeat stumble.
His Avery had an infuriating habit of being adorable without the faintest idea she was doing it.
She looked up at the altar, then back at him and corner of his mouth lifted. Without a word, they stepped forward together.
One step.
Then another.
Then Avery laughed. And, naturally, that was all it took.
Dignity became collateral damage as they broke into a run, hand in hand, racing down the aisle of the tiny church with the reckless joy of two people who'd spent far too long cheating death to bother bleakly walking toward forever. Their laughter echoed off the ancient stone, bright enough to rival the stained glass overhead.
Jameson would've bet every last penny of the Hawthorne fortune on that sound.
They reached the altar far sooner than either of them seemed prepared for. Two shallow stone steps lifted them onto the platform, and then there was nowhere left to run. Jameson turned to face Avery, their hands still linked between them, and for a long moment, all he did was look.
He'd looked at her a thousand times before. Across crowded rooms and deserted rooftops. Covered in dust, soaked through with rain, grinning because she'd beaten him at one of his own games. Yet, none of it compared to this.
The breeze slipping through the open chapel doors caught in her ash brown hair, lifting the loose waves so they framed her face in effortless disarray. Sunlight filtered through the stained glass, spilling over her jade green dress in fractured colours that shifted every time she breathed. Green suited her. Always had. It brought out the gold hidden amongst the hazel of her eyes. Eyes fixed on him with a softness that still had the power to knock the air from his lungs.
Jameson had never put much faith in angels. They sounded far too well behaved.
But if heaven had ever decided to make an exception, he imagined it might've looked something like the deity standing before him.
And somehow, against impossible odds, against fate, against every version of his life that should have ended differently, she was here.
With him.
"You know," his heiress said, her voice pulling Jameson from the dangerous territory of staring a little too long, "I'm starting to get a bit pissed off that I can't kiss you yet."
A cheshire cat smile snaked its way across his face.
"Patience, Saint Avery." He lingered on the title with all the sincerity of a sinner.
Her eyes narrowed.
"Oh, shut it, you-"
"Ahem!" The pointed interruption echoed through the little chapel. Both Jameson and Avery turned towards the open doorway in perfect unison.
An elderly woman stood framed beneath the arch, scarcely taller than five feet. Deep lines softened her face, and a simple cream coloured robe hung loosely from her slight frame.
"Siete voi due i ragazzi che hanno chiesto un celebrante per il matrimonio?" She spoke, and Avery looked at Jameson with silent confusion scattered across her face as his brain quicky went into translate mode.
"Sì, grazie per aver dedicato del tempo a celebrare il nostro matrimonio, signora," he replied politely.
The woman smiled, though there was the faintest flicker in her expression that made Jameson wonder if his pronunciation had wandered somewhere it shouldn't have.
He chose not to dwell on it. Italian had never been his strongest language, anyway. German, on the other hand...
The woman made her way towards them at an unhurried pace. Before she reached the steps, Avery was already moving. Of course she was.
She released one of Jameson's hands and offered the woman her own, steadying her as she climbed the steps. Avery did it so naturally she probably didn't even realise she'd moved. The woman thanked her with a warm smile before taking her place behind them, positioning herself between their shoulders, ready to begin.
Alright, Jamie, his own voice spoke in his head. This is it.
He remembered the rush of adrenaline that had flooded his veins the night he'd dropped to one knee on Avery's 25th birthday. At the time, he'd thought there was no greater high, no greater risk.
He'd been wrong.
This eclipsed it.
As he joined his hands with Avery once more, their officiant began to speak.
"I vostri nomi sono... Avery e Jameson, giusto?"
"Sì," the word left his mouth automatically.
Jameson glanced at Avery, his fingers tightening around hers before he realised how hard he was holding on. His pulse battered against his ribs with reckless insistence, each heartbeat louder than the last. Heat prickled behind his eyes, his vision threatening to blur.
He was getting married.
HE WAS GETTING MARRIED!!!!!!!
To Avery. His Avery.
The absurdity of it, the sheer impossibility, hit him square in the chest.
This was real.
He caught the unmistakable shimmer of tears gathering in Avery's eyes, and something inside him gave way.
The signora's English was a bit choppy, every sentence shaped by a thick Italian accent. Jameson barely registered the words. He knew them already. They'd been spoken in a thousand churches, on a thousand beaches, beneath a thousand skies.
None of those vows had ever belonged to him.
Until now.
"Jameson," the woman said warmly, "do you take this lovely lady standing before you to be your best friend, your lover, to have and to hold, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?"
His throat tightened. It was only two words. Two impossibly simple words. Two words that cost him nothing but meant everything.
A couple of tears escaped despite his best efforts. He didn't bother wiping them away.
"I do." The words sounded like a prayer falling from his lips.
"And Avery," the woman continued, "do you take this gentleman standing before you to be your best friend, your lover, to have and to hold, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?"
Avery let out a watery laugh that dissolved into a sob.
"I do."
Jameson smiled so hard it hurt.
"It is my great honour to pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss-"
He didn't hear the rest.
His hands reached out and cradled her face as he closed the distance between them, crashing his lips against hers with every ounce of love he'd spent years fostering.
She kissed him back just as fiercely.
His wife.
It didn't even sound real.
She was his wife.
His best friend. His favourite person. The love of his life. The woman he got to have and to hold, for better or for worse, and whatever else the signora had said.
As they breathlessly thanked her before dashing out of the chapel, they burst onto the sunlit grass hand in hand, shouting things like, "WE JUST GOT FUCKING MARRIED!" at absolutely no one before crashing into another kiss, and then another, laughing so hard neither of them could breathe.
Jameson found himself absurdly, overwhelmingly grateful that it had been just him and Ave - his wife - in that tiny chapel, tucked away from the rest of the world.
Of course, they'd have an official wedding. There'd be enough champagne to bankrupt a small country, enough guests to make any socially awkward person physically recoil (cough, cough, Grayson) and somewhere amongst all of that, they'd deal with the legal paperwork once they got back to the States.
But this?
This had been theirs.
No cameras. No photographers. No paparazzi. No headlines. No carefully curated images of the heiress and the Hawthorne.
Just them.
Just the memory of her hands clasped tightly in his, of sunlight bleeding through stained glass and painting impossible colours across their faces as they chose each other. As they tied themselves together for life.
He already knew Nash would give him the lecture of a lifetime. Libby would probably do the same through a flood of happy tears. Alisa would have around seventeen opinions.
And every single one of them would cry.
Yes, they'd done it behind everyone's backs.
Yes, they'd slipped away from the paparazzi, denying the world the spectacle it would've expected.
Yes, it had been impulsive.
Reckless.
But he couldn't bring himself to regret a single second of it.
All that mattered was the girl running beside him, smiling so hard her cheeks had to ache, tears spilling freely down her face as his own laughter mingled with hers beneath the Italian sun.
And as they disappeared into the evening, hand in hand, the words she'd spoken so long ago found their way back to him.
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One thing about Obsession (2026) that I enjoyed was that it almost asks you to feel empathy for the entity possessing Nikki as well as the real one. Like, obviously the things she's doing are horrific and fucked up, but I think the scene where Bear is asking her to "just be Nikki!" and she eventually just desperatly screams "I can't be Nikki!" does a really good job of showcasing the entity's inner feelings. She's been created with the sole purpose of loving this guy more than anyone else but no matter how perfect it is or how much he claims to love her, its not her that he loves, its Nikki. And any time she stops pretending to be Nikki, he reacts (albeit rightfully) with disgust and horror. She can't be Nikki because Nikki would never love Bear, and so Bear will never love her.
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we all know ilya is living drapery. the bisexual lean, the clinging to shane. but depression clingy is different from autistic clingy.
so i posit for your consideration:
autistic shane who becomes like a cat when he's comfortable with someone (speaking from personal experience)
yes, draping himself on ilya at every opportunity, biting ilya's face and then tearing off laughing when ilya jumps up to chase him, leaning his full weight on the top of ilya's head when he's trying to answer emails or be even slightly professional, sneaking his hands under ilya's tank or shorts just to self-soothe on his husband's warmest, softest skin
but also
leaning with his arms dangling over hayden's chest like a living backpack while talking to jackie (probably with the twins on his back), and hayden ignoring it completely
curling up against Yuna's side, shoulders touching, while they watch a game together, each person used to subconsciously dodging the other's wildly swinging arms at a bad call or goal
laying with his head on rose's lap when they go on a "bffcation" to cabo, each on their phones with drinks at their knees, showing each other memes and tipsy giggling
curling his arms around harris's neck and putting his cheek gently against harris's while harris scrolls through the photos he took for the latest social media campaign, talking excitedly about them
and some reporter asks ilya if he thinks shane is cheating on him bc ofc the tabloids have caught wind of this behavior and his face gets that particular smirk that means someone is about to be verbally defenestrated. "genius observation. they hire you at top of your class? breaking news: man is affectionate with loved ones. congratulations your pulitzer will arrive in mail in 6-8 weeks. no, truly brilliant idea for next Centaurs social media campaign. adopt a hockey player. ‘shane hollander: domesticated but not trained. may climb into pockets unsupervised.'"
of course it goes viral. of course shane reams ilya bc what was all that media training for??? and ilya just shrugs and gives him the big eyes like no one talks shit on you but me, but also fuck toxic masculinity and shane sighs and pets his hair and grumbles i knew i shouldn't have let you on tumblr
and of course harris absolutely loves the idea and begs shane to let them do it, which he acquiesces to.
shane's has an entire reel of him hanging off of people and shane is mortified bc he didn't even realize he was doing it but he's not actually mad bc it proves how many people he can be open and loving with, and the response is insanely positive
and then ilya's goes live and it leads with that infamous image of him skating away smirking with blood running down his chin.
and the caption says "ilya rozanov: feral. will bite. has bitten. will never be remorseful. beautiful fur, though." and the last picture is him in the locker room, gear half-stripped off, grinning at the camera with his curls wild and his lower half gear sitting just a little too low, the v of his hips framing his happy trail and nobody's quite sure which fur they're talking about.
Shane and Ilya laying in bed post fuck, Shane sprawled on his back still, Ilya between his legs, Shane’s thighs loosely pressed to Ilya’s sides, Ilya is still inside Shane, he’ll stay like that till he too soft for his cock to stay there, because Shane loves it, feeling full till the last moment and Ilya does too, loves how Shane whines if he even feels like Ilya is going to pull out. Shane is all big wet brown eyes and sleepy blinks, his arms are wrapped around Ilya’s neck, hands holding on to his opposite elbows, cradling Ilya close to him. Shane’s stomach is still tensing and jumping, ebbing out the last of his orgasm and he’s nuzzling his nose and lips in slow nuzzles against Ilya’s curls.
Ilya adores him like this, like a kitten nuzzling, when he rubs his face into some part of Ilya- any part of him, like he’s trying to push his way into his body, covering his senses in Ilya, pleasure seeking with Ilya’s body.
Ilya shivers when Shane clenches around him, thighs shifting against Ilya’s sides as he adjusts himself. “Sorry” Shane sighs and Ilya shakes his head, smoothes his hands down Ilya’s sides, rubs a flat hand over his tummy. “No no, just sensitive, sweetheart” and then he’s pulling back from Shane’s nuzzling, looking down at him all flush faced and staring up at Ilya like, like something impossible, like Ilya could never have dreamed of- with reverence, adoration. He blinks heavy and his arms tighten around Ilya’s neck, as if making sure he’ll stay close.
“You okay?” Ilya asks and Shane nods, beams and there’s a smudge of saliva on his chin, his mouth is so shiny with spit and there’s some come wet between his pecs from his own orgasm and Ilya feels like an animal, a frantic thing a predator for how much he desires Shane, is consumed by him, how he needs him in the most human basic primal sense. He feels dizzy at being the one trusted by Shane to have this, his pleasure.
“Sooooo good” Shane exhales, his face happy and open, so fucking open, so comfortable in himself and arches his back in a small stretch, presses his shoulder blades down into the bed, wriggles his hips a bit and he’s going to kill Ilya one of these days.
“Soooo good” Ilya echos back, so happy he feels fucking stupid, cups Shane’s cheek and rubs his thumb over Shane’s pretty red mouth the dark pout of it, the full bottom lip that pushes out. Ilya leans down and bites Shane’s mouth, the whole shape of it between his cheek and then takes his bottom lip onto his mouth, bites and sucks at it. His hands open and warm rub up and down Shane’s sides in slow heavy touches.
“You are so good” Ilya mumbles as he pulls back, knocks their noses together and pulls back further to watch the way Shane’s head tilts forward to chase Ilya’s mouth.
“Always a good boy” Ilya rubs his lips against the corner of Shane’s mouth, feels the way he shivers with the words and drags his mouth down and bites at his chin.
“Was so fucking hot, always is, my perfect boy. my perfect perfect boy” Ilya kisses his way over Shane’s face as he says it, watches the blush splotch on his cheeks and neck.
“Your boy” Shane mumbles back and Ilya heart squeezes, pounds pounds pounds. Ilya’s hands smooth over Shane’s thighs, up to his waist and cuddle around him pulling them flush flush together, Shane up off the bed.
Shane turns his face, trying to find Ilya’s mouth again and Ilya smiles. Shane is always so extra kissey like this.
Ilya kisses his once, twice, a third time with a wet lick of his tongue and Shane is groaning happily into it, tangling his fingers into Ilya’s hair and pulling him in like their could be a physical way to be closer than this. Shane’s teeth mash against Ilya’s at his excitement to kiss, eagerness and Ilya pulls back slow, tiny peck as he pulls away, tilts his head up and down to rub his mouth over Shane’s swollen one.
Ilya pulls back enough to see his face, and dies again a thousand small deaths at the face of his love, dark eyes glowing and small smile warm and a sweet magnet to Ilya, mirroring each small movement of his head, a tiny thread of gold ties them together, Ilya is sure of it, the way they move as one.
“Yeah Shane, my boy” Ilya agrees and reaches up to smooth his fingertips over Shane’s mouth Shane nuzzles up into his fingertips and Ilya traces his swollen mouth, feels the exhales from his nose, pushes his fingertips in just so to feel the wet and warmth, where his tongue had just been. Ilya thinks he’d live between Shane’s molars if he could.
Ilya Rozanov used to be the hockey king of insta thrist trap. Between shameful displays of the dick arrow and the broadness of his back, every so often traced with marks, the people were salivating. Thirst straps were periodically interrupted by pictures of him going wild at the club, in the dump a picture of him with a girl he definitely took home that night. Wild life hot athlete in a package. Then suddenly nothing since Tampa Bay's all-star game except for professional hockey announcements definitely written by his team. Until a fateful wedding picture photo dump that was actually the announcement of the thrist straps returns. Except the subject isn't him exclusively. Actually he's more like a rare treat on his own feed because all his post are about Shane Hollander looking extremely hot and sexy whenever and wherever. Laundry day, gym, bed, cleaning the living room, hiking, it's a Shane Hollander Fan page.
you know i think ilya would get off on choosing shane's clothes for him. shane doesn't really care about fashion so much as looking acceptable for the situation, so when ilya asks to style him before charity galas and important dinners and re-do his array of game day suits, it's not exactly a hard sell.
suddenly, shane is in proper black and white formal for the first time ever, a designer suit jacket with a little point to the shoulder that makes him look all sensual and broad. accessories keep making their way in. a snakeskin belt, a loafer that doesn't look like it's from 2005, a signet ring. and of course, ilya always ties the rolex in, wear the one with the emerald face, i'll put you in a matching sock and maybe some gemstone cuff-links. his casuals remain casual, but every once in awhile he sneaks in a pair of impeccably tailored $800 jeans, or a vintage acid wash muscle tee ilya had to fight tooth and nail for on ebay. he puts his baby in cashmere sweaters that would make princess diana cry.
and people notice. of course they notice. there are theories, who is the stylist, is it a social media stunt, a new sponsorship everything their influence. and yes, a part of him is resentful he can't claim credit, but when shane asks him once, while ilya delicately folds his silk pocket square, why do you do this for me? ilya runs a hand over his dress shirt, groping at his pecs, and says, they all wonder why you look so pretty. is because i want my boyfriend to look pretty for me. they wonder, and i know. i know it's for me. it isn't for you, malysh. is for me.
one day, ilya thinks, he'll walk in with the hottest man in the nhl on his arm. he'll put him in diamonds and a fur coat, and they'll all know. but for now he just pats shane's chest and sends him out with cuff links that have ilya's initials engraved.
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Autistic Shane has echolalia which is why he likes to randomly switch to a Russian accent and repeat back all the little Russian phrases and accented words Ilya says. At first, Ilya thinks he’s making fun of him like some weird form of chirping, but he eventually realizes Shane is just Like That TM (being his cutie patootie self.)
Shane: *sounds progressively more Russian during a conversation*
Ilya, thinking Shane’s making fun of him: that fucking asshole?
Ilya: neveroyatnyy
Shane, whispering in a perfect Russian accent: ✨neveroyatnyy✨
Ilya, clearly wasn’t supposed to hear that: ????!!
Ilya drops several Russian curses while they fuck once, and Shane just moans them right back. (Maybe Ilya fucks Shane three ways to Sunday afterward, and maybe he starts speaking Russian more during sex, but that is NO ONE’S business!)
Shane speaking to JJ during warm-ups: *unconsciously copying his accent*
Ilya, eavesdropping: No, that’s our thing >:(
Shane has genuine difficulty staying quiet and not echoing when Ilya gives his monologue over the phone, but he thinks it would upset Ilya if he did. (And Ilya will never admit it, but each time he said “I love you” in Russian, he hoped Shane would say it back in his little echo, even if he knew Shane didn’t mean it. (He would.))
Shane in the hospital, high as a kite, in a Russian accent: bye bye :)
Ilya, heart eyes 15000%: fuck this, fuck you, nurse I am having heart attack
This is also why Ilya believes Shane could learn Russian in two weeks because SOMEHOW (with his echolalia) Shane is really good at replicating the proper pronunciation.
