Judex



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    When they make it back to the station, Eddie expects things to go back to normal. Clearly, he imagined something, his own guilt transpiring into something edging toward an auditory hallucination. He pushes on, shedding his gear and making his way into the kitchen. He chops up the vegetables handed to him, slicing them finely, long fingers careful with the blade, well, until—

    I don’t even know how to stop staring. God, his hands. Holy shit. I wonder how many of his fingers would fit in my mouth—

    “Jesus Christ,” Eddie chokes, knife slipping in his hand, almost nicking his finger. He pauses, placing the knife to the side of the chopping board. “What did you—what was that?”
    Buck looks up from where he’d been staring at Eddie’s hands, catching his eye. “Huh?”

    His eyes are beautiful, Buck says—or his voice does. Eddie watches, but there, right in front of him, Buck’s mouth is unmoving.

    OR Eddie's forced to confront the situation at hand because he can't get Buck's voice out of his damn head.

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    13 Jan 2026

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    “Shane,” Hayden says, voice tight. 

    At once, the hairs on Shane’s arms stand to attention. He sits up, bracing himself for whatever’s happened now. 

    “What’s happening?” 

    “You’re getting married to Rose Landry.” 

    Shane chokes. “What?” 

    Or: news breaks that Shane Hollander is getting married to Hayden Pike, and then, improbably, to Rose Landry. The only problem? He isn’t. 

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    12 Jan 2026

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    A squawk, followed by an incensed, “Jesus! It’s Hayden! Hayden Pike! Shane’s best friend? A guy you’ve played against for years?”

    Oh. This is… not good.

    Ilya very slowly lowers himself down on the bed, spine straight. “Why are you calling?”

    Pike huffs. “Trust me, I don’t want to be.”

    “Okay, then, why? How do you know… Lily?”

    A beat. Then, “You’re Lily.”

    Protectiveness rears its ugly head. Severely, Ilya declares, “This is none of your fucking concern.”

    “He’s asking for you.”

    OR: when Shane gets hurt on the ice, Hayden Pike reaches out to Boston Lily.

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    12 Jan 2026

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    Ilya picks up on the third ring, breathing heavily into the phone. Shane hears a door slam shut through the device. “Do not yell at me.” 

    Shane stares at the half-empty bottle of vodka on the coffee table. “You suck.”

    “I suck? I scored hat-trick! In your stupid body! I have not eaten in six hours, Hollander. I have not pissed. I have not laid down. I want to go home.” 

    “Rozanov–” 

    “Your mother has called twenty times. Your manager has called thirty times. Your father text me picture of crossword puzzle and ask for help. Clue is about American President from the 1980s. I cannot help!”

    OR: the hollanov bodyswap fic. 

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    12 Jan 2026

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    Ilya watches Shane drop the gloves on live television and thinks he looks like an angry kitten. It’s a terrible idea to tell him that.

    He does it anyway … along with presenting evidence.

    Shane’s going to kill him. Or maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll put on the stupid cat ears, just this once, just for tonight, and let Ilya see him the way nobody else gets to: unguarded, trusting, and finally willing to stop fighting for a few stolen hours.

    (They can’t keep doing this. They will anyway.)

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    12 Jan 2026