jaywonesque



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  1. Public Bookmark *

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    Shane doesn't know how long they sit there in silence.

    He isn't counting seconds or minutes as the time passes by, quiet and heavy in the dim light of the hotel room. Instead, he counts Ilya's breaths—the ones that tremble and shake against the skin of Shane's neck, the ones that are buried in the fabric of Shane's shirt, the ones that become steadier the longer that Shane holds him as tight as he can.

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    09 Feb 2026

  2. Public Bookmark *

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    Ilya hums, playing the card he's been considering for this entire conversation. “We could make more interesting, yes? A bet.”

    “A bet,” Shane repeats, eyes flashing. “Like what?”

    The reporter cuts in. “What about wearing the other player’s jersey?”

    They both turn to her, and Shane says, “Like, the loser wears the winner’s jersey?”

    “Maybe at the next game in a couple of months?”

    “Is a good idea,” Ilya muses, nudging Shane’s elbow. “You will look better in my jersey than in Montreal jersey.”

    Shane makes a low noise, his eyes holding a bit of a spark when he looks back to Ilya. It’s what Ilya was hoping for—the tiniest crack in the mask. He can see a hint of exasperated affection around the corners of Shane’s eyes, a little bit of fire burning just beneath the surface. It sends a thrill down Ilya’s spine, and he wonders if Shane will be snarky when Ilya gets him naked tonight.

    “That’s not happening,” Shane replies, shaking his head. “Because you’re not winning.”

    ---
    Ilya should have known better.

    Language:
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    08 Feb 2026

  3. Public Bookmark *

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    “What the fuck?” Shane breathes, and he knows it’s the wrong thing to say when he sees the hurt flicker through Ilya’s eyes in the dark of his room.
    Ilya falters, just for a second. “Problem, Hollander?”
    “No!” Shane is crossing the room in a second and crawling into bed. (He’s still wearing his pants; he never wears his outside clothes in bed.) Ilya is good at hiding his hurt from Shane, but he’s ‘Hollander’ again, he’s not Shane, he’s not baby, he’s not moya lyubov. He’s on his knees between Ilya’s legs. From here, he can hear everything: the wet sounds of Ilya’s fingers sliding in and out, the rustle of the sheets. His entrance is puffy and swollen, slick with lube. There’s a spot on Shane’s comforter, like Ilya was overzealous with the lube, like he wasn’t sure how much to use on himself.

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    07 Feb 2026

  4. Public Bookmark *

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    Lily: is it too late now to say sorry?
    Lily: cause I'm missing more than just ur body
    Lily: is it too late now to say sorry?
    Lily: yeah I know that I let you down
    Lily: is it too late to say I'm sorry now

    OR: an exploration of Ilya's Spotify listening history the 2 months shane ghosted him and started dating Rose. ft an uncomfortable number of songs about heartbreak, jealousy and a man whose “I don’t care” playlist says otherwise.

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    07 Feb 2026

  5. Public Bookmark *

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    Ilya is watching the sun rise over the lake at the cottage when Shane joins him and makes a little request.

    “So, I was wondering…next time we fuck…would you like to, uh, skip the condom? Because I’ve been thinking about feeling you skin-to-skin inside me for a while now, and it’s been driving me—”
    Shane did not get a chance to complete his sentence because Ilya had hauled him over and was giving him a kiss, fierce and biting and ravenous.
    After many glorious moments of kissing, the sun warm on their cheeks, Ilya pulled back. Shane licked his lips and gave Ilya a darting glance before looking away. “Anyway, yeah, it’s been driving me insane,” he said, and cleared his throat.
    “Well now that you said it, it makes me insane too,” Ilya replied. “Come.” He stood and hauled Shane up along with him. “Chop chop, Hollander. No time to waste.”

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    04 Feb 2026