Adrenya



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    Once outside, he leaned forward and put his hand against the cold stone wall. His phone was still to his ear, the message still recording. 

    “Ilya. Please. Please. I can’t do this. I don’t know what to do. Please. You can’t be dead.” His voice broke on the word. “I love you. I love you so much. More than anything. I need to hear your voice. I need you to…I need you…I need you…fuck. Please Ilya, please.” 

    Shane took the phone away from his ear and held it between both hands as though he were praying. He realized he was on the floor and didn’t know how he got there. He was crying. He was fairly certain he was hyperventilating. 

    His brain was desperately trying to grab at anything. Any thread of logic. Any idea of what to do next. 

    I have to see him. 

    Yes. That made sense. Shane needed to get to Tampa. Now. He would go there. He would find Ilya. Ilya would be fine. They would be together. He would see him. Tell him how much he loved him. He had to go. He had to go now. 

    ***

    OR: What if Ilya lost his phone during the emergency landing, Shane couldn't reach him, he panicked, and chartered a plane to Tampa to find him instead...

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    11 Jan 2026

  2. Public Bookmark *

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    An answer to the question: what if the Centaurs were chaotic disasters (affectionate) on social media?

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    10 Jan 2026

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    “So I want you to tell me what’s wrong with this,” Harris said, pushing a printed-out screenshot of a tweet toward Ilya.

    Ilya glanced at it. His lips quirked up into a grin.

    “It says ‘Happy Pride Month,’” Ilya said. “What is wrong with that?”

    Harris dragged a hand over his face.

    “The problem,” Harris said, “is that it says ‘#BeGayDoCrime’ after that.”

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    10 Jan 2026

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    Ilya’s thumb rubs slow circles into his hip, gaze dark and locked on him. “You’re doing so well, moya lyubov'.”
    Shane whimpers.
    “Such a good boy. Look at you—riding me like a slut.”
    “Just—just for you,” Shane chokes out, blushing hard, hips stuttering. “I—f-fuck—”
    “I know,” Ilya says, sitting up a little now, his mouth curving into a grin, holding steady on Shane’s hips. “You’re so good for me.”

    ---
    or: shane is overstimulated. ilya takes care of him afterwards.

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    10 Jan 2026

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    The want tears through him like a hurricane, entirely unconcerned with all the destruction it might leave in its wake. Right now, tomorrow doesn’t matter. Right now they don’t have to consider the consequences of this reckless night they’re about to spend together; a night where all their unspoken rules are being tossed out the window in favour of simply letting their bodies be honest.

    They can figure all this out later, but now…now Ilya needs Shane naked and writhing beneath him before he combusts.

    (Or, what happens in the hotel room in Florida.)

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    09 Jan 2026