bitter inspiration

The Water Cure: Tag to 3x03′s “The Searchers.” Buck recovers. The team helps. Genre: Gen; Hurt/Comfort

It Don’t Break Even:  Tag to 3x04′s “Triggers.” Buck falls…and then falls apart. Slightly canon divergent.  Genre: Gen; Found Family; Hurt/Comfort

A History Of Violence:  Tag to 3x05, Rage.  Buck discovers Eddie’s new hobby. Angst ensures. Slightly canon divergent from 3.06.  Also includes a prompt-fill for @kayapronto​ :  Can you please write a fanfic where Bobby yells at Buck and calls him a disappointment and then the next day Buck is really subdued and doesn’t call anybody by their nicknames? And instead of calling Bobby his name or even cap, he just calls him Captain Nash?  Genre: Gen; Emotional Hurt/Comfort; Prompt Fill

Peonies And Peace:  Short tag to 3x07 “Athena Begins.”  After learning about Emmett, Buck visits Athena.  It goes better than expected. Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort; Found Family 

(God)Father’s Intuition:  Eddie knows something is off the second he enters the house. He just didn’t expect it to be so…wonderful.  OR Buck adopts a dog for Christopher, and Eddie is LIVID.  Post 3x03′s “The Searchers.”  Genre: Gen; Utter Cotton Candy Fluff; Shades of Buck/Eddie if you squint

Intervention: Buck has been through hell with the explosion and the tsunami and the blood clots. He didn't realize it affected more than him. Post 3x06's "Monsters." Genre:  Gen; 118 Firefam, Buck and Eddie; Buck and Hen; Found Family; Hurt/Comfort

Buck, Interrupted: Buck’s past year has been filled with so much trauma: nearly losing his sister, being crushed by a firetruck, and the tsunami. Here’s how he recovered. Post 2x18’s “This Life We Choose.” -OR- The five times Buck’s family and friends let him not be okay, and the one time they don’t. Genre: Gen; 118 Firefam, Buck and Eddie; Buck and Hen; Buck and Athena; Found Family; Hurt/Comfort; Angst; Recovery

Lasting Impression series:  First impressions said a lot about a man, and Eddie’s initial experiences with Evan Buckley indicated that he was cocky, insecure, needlessly competitive but fortunately a damn good firefighter.  OR Stand-alone moments from Eddie Diaz's friendship with Evan Buckley. Genre: Gen; Friendship, Buck and Eddie; Hurt/Comfort; Angst, Firefam 

I just wanted to write about Shane and Ilya being married. And Zendaya's angel wings.

When Shane and Ilya got married, he had been prepared for the outright, foaming-at-the-mouth hate, the debate from hockey commentators about how being the first husbands of hockey would negatively impact their game, and even the parasocial fanatics who seemed more invested in their future babies than they were. 

What Shane didn't anticipate was the sheer amount of invitations and opportunities—movie premieres, fashion shows, guest-starring roles, galas, talk shows, and podcasts, all vying for a piece of the groundbreaking newlyweds. Ilya, the Russian peacock, reveled in the attention, and enlisted Yuna’s managerial skills for a few endorsements, stockpiling cash for their retirement. Ultimately, he let Shane, who bore the compounded weight of racism and homophobia, decide what events they attended.

Shane reviewed scrolled through the list of invites compiled for the upcoming month. He mentally declined most of them, opting for a quiet, sex-filled summer at the cottage than nights being screamed at on red carpets in far-flung cities. And then he saw it.

He stopped scrolling as a rare thrill overpowered the panic and dread.

“This one,” he said to Yuna and her newly hired assistant. “And the after-party.” 

The assistant beamed brighter than the neon pink and green stripes in their hair. “You’ll need more than clothes for this one, Shane. You need FITS.”

“Oh, I’m well aware,” Shane said, scratching his cheek. He pinned Eden with a sharp gaze, trying to contain the smile on his lips. “You have my permission to go all out. Find a designer for custom...FITS. Tap Rolex and Cartier for jewelry. Assemble the team,” he commanded. “But don’t tell Ilya what it’s for.”

“He won’t care,” Yuna added, already eagerly tapping on her tablet.

Except Shane knew that his normally cavalier and unimpressed husband would obsess and cry and dance with joy at the thought of sharing the same oxygen with his favorite actor, which is why he was willing to deal with the preening and plucking and pomp of celebrity.

Six weeks, two fittings, and one panic attack later, Shane Hollander stood on the gray carpet and in a surreal space of awe and anxiety. It was a miasma of pride, fear, shyness, and wonder that he could be in the middle of New York City, walk through a gauntlet of photographers hand-in-hand with the love of his life. That more people waved and cried and supported them than didn’t. 

Shane posed, hoping it didn't look as graceless, sweaty, and terrified as he felt, and let his eyes glide over the tops of the photographers’ heads. Next to him, Ilya outright performed, hitting poses Rose had taught them effortlessly, and teasing with photographers and eliciting screams from the crowd by winking and popping his pecs. He looked glorious in the flowing silver shirt with the deepest V he’d ever seen, and the soft trousers that had been hand-pleated mere hours ago. 

There were touches of black in his ensemble, from the border on the collar and cuffs of his shirt and pants to the chunky jewelry at his neck, and the heavy eyeliner encircling his fiercely blue eyes. It complemented Shane’s traditional black outfit. It was as daring as Shane got—a formal vest, sans shirt, with black pants in the same silhouette as Ilya's. 

Ilya had picked out his jewelry himself, an ornate wallet chain, a stack of beaded bracelets, and the white gold medallion he always wore bearing their wedding date and birthstones in Cyrillic on one side, Japanese on the other. 

Shane knew the moment she arrived-–their entire reason for being there.

Everything crackled with shifting energy, like an approaching lightning storm that supercharged the ions in the air. The barked orders from the photographs and red carpet reporters became a ravenous roar of excitement. Shane and Ilya turned, and impossibly, they saw the tips of luminous ivory feathered wings gliding closer. 

As if it were choreographed by the gods, themselves, the crowded carpet parted and there she was: Zendaya, resplendent in actual wings and an exquisite couture gown against the backdrop of an amber setting sun and unimaginable fame. The summer breeze blew and dark tendrils were artfully swept across her immaculately blushed cheeks. She was masterpiece and muse in one glorious package.

Shane was never starstruck, and even he momentarily forgot how to breathe.

Ilya burst into tears. 

Shane leaned in to whisper, “Happy Anniversary, my love.” With courage he only had for Ilya, Shane took his hand and remained still, waiting for her to move towards them. When she approached, he stepped back, letting Ilya have his moment. His husband managed to compose himself and remembered to speak English, not Russian, yet he still gushed like a firehouse about how a role had saved him during the depths of his depression and how beautiful and talented she was.

Zendaya was clearly touched, albeit overwhelmed, by the outpouring of admiration from a giant, Russian hockey player, but accepted it with glistening-eyed patience, clutching his hands and thanking him with a sincerity Shane hadn’t expected.

They posed for photos, Zendaya, brushed the tears from Ilya’s cheeks, and leaving a dappling of glitter as if she were truly magical. 

She invited Shane into the photos, and squeezed his hand that was still shaking and mortifyingly clammy. “You inspired us, too,” she confessed, her cheek brushing his. She smelled like ambrosia.

They were whisked away in separate directions, leaving Shane awestruck. He looked back for a last visage of Zendaya taking her husband’s hand in the flash and glow of the spotlight.