ClaraKent



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    Never mind the next two weeks, the next eight hours stretched endlessly in front of him. He had no idea how to occupy his time. His house was basically empty, which sounded sad but was really a good thing, evidence he’d built himself the life he wanted – where he always had something to do, outside and with other people. Ilya had been restless for as long as he could remember, had never been able to sit still. He’d gotten in trouble for it as a kid at the dinner table and he got in trouble for it as a full grown man on the team bus. He’d gotten in trouble for it when the doctors had been trying to take the x-ray, his leg jumping without his permission.

    Ilya gets injured, stops leaving the house, loses his mind, learns to read tarot, and sends Shane Hollander a lot of photos.

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    16 Jul 2026

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    Shane Hollander learns there are both pros and cons to accidentally adopting a kitten with your situationship.

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    11 Jul 2026

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    He drives to the airport with an unshakeable urge to pull over and turn around. He smokes four cigarettes in a row before he boards the plane, then chews an entire pack of gum on the flight to try and cover the worst of the smell.

    He exits the airport half-hoping that Shane has chickened out of the whole thing. Then he spots him, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel in the most boring suburban dad car Ilya has ever had the misfortune of laying his eyes on, and he’s so happy to see him that his legs feel unsteady beneath his weight.

    --

    Or, the cottage, Ilya's version: an extended ep 6 featuring my take on what happened in the gaps we didn't see.

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    10 Jul 2026

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    “It’s okay. I don’t need anything.” 

    “I am not going to eat in front of you while you have nothing, Hollander,” Ilya scoffs. He plucks a can of cold ginger ale from the top shelf as casually as he can manage and slides it over the island, interrupting Hollander’s fidgeting thumbs. “You must be hungry, yes? It’s been hours since you left hotel. I can make something. Easy.” 

    “Make… what?” he asks warily.  

    Ilya rolls his eyes and tosses a look over his shoulder. “Do not worry. I will find something that works for your special hockey diet,” he teases. He reaches back into the fridge. “Tuna melt okay?” 

    “No,” Hollander says primly. “And it’s a disease. Not a diet.” 

    He pulls his hands out of the cold and turns, blinks. “What?” 

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    07 Jul 2026

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    “We usually fuck after games!" Ilya defends. "We are off schedule. My body knows this. It is confused.”

    “Yeah, well, we’re not getting any closer to fucking—at home—unless you get the damn ointment on me. Fucking—shit, Ilya.”

    His entire face scrunches up when Ilya, now kneeling on the floor in front of him, slightly readjusts his leg for a better angle.

    Every inch of him is flushed with the control, blood running hot just underneath the surface, trying to circulate the pain meds. Shane looks tender like this, the familiar planes of his body watercolored with bruises and scrapes, the pain not so much one central thing as it is a pulsing, throbbing presence in the room with them. Ilya wants to play with it, a little. Wants to take it gently between his teeth and tongue at it until he’s worked out all the tears and pleasure and messy insides.

    So he is definitely horny, yes.

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    06 Jul 2026