bon_secours



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    Under the leather coat Ilya had shrugged off and above his missing shoe was a familiar glass plaque, familiar because he had the same trophy at home in his trophy room, First Draft Pick for the NHL. Shane felt stomach acid churning in his gut and something close to panic seemed to claw up his insides.

    “Tell me you’re not Ilya Rozanov.” Shane demanded. “Tell me I didn’t fuck a rookie.”

    Not just any rookie, but the rookie Shane had avoided looking at, thinking about, or researching for the sole reason that they called him "Hollander Come Again.” Shane hadn’t even left the ice yet and they were already trying to replace him with a younger model, apparently an unparalleled talent from Russia whose scores in the Juniors had kissed Shane’s records in a way that a rookie hadn’t in the almost decade since Shane set them. He was going to be sick.

    “You did not fuck rookie, rookie fucked you.” Ilya Rozanov said and Shane moaned, this time in a growing despair because not only was his replacement maybe better than him, he was also a fucking asshole about it too.

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    20 Jan 2026

  2. Public Bookmark *

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    The ritual is simple: morning skate, home for a protein shake, then Shane strips to his briefs, lies in bed, and starts scrolling.

    Or, a Grindr AU

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    20 Jan 2026

  3. Public Bookmark *

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    Rozanov posts on Instagram a lot. Not on his feed, but his stories.

    Every time he lands in a city, he posts a story. Usually it's just back of his seat, or sometimes the view out the window—on the tarmac, never anything exciting, one of just many cities their lives are broken up into—and a location tag. Low effort.

    It’s pretty obvious what it is. Guys laugh about it, call it Rozanov’s Fuck Signal. The easiest way to get the hot girls who follow him to slide into his DMs.

    Easy pussy.

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    20 Jan 2026

  4. Public Bookmark 5

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    This friend of Cliff's had been making out with a girl against the back of Shane's car for the last three minutes. Shane watched in the side-view mirror as he stole another kiss, then another, with his arm braced against the roof.

    They were supposed to leave for New York twenty minutes ago. It was proof of Shane's Canadian citizenship that he didn't lean all his weight on the horn.

    Two minutes later the guy, Ilya, dropped down into the passenger seat. He spared Shane a curious look.

    'We were supposed to leave twenty two minutes ago,' said Shane, lifting the parking break.

    Ilya was unconcerned. 'Oh.'

     

    //Inspired by Shane's favourite film, When Harry Met Sally

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    18 Jan 2026

  5. Public Bookmark *

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    The morning after Shane's heat breaks, he wakes up in an empty bed with a deep, throbbing mark on his neck and a text on his phone from Ilya that says, I am sorry. We should break the bond.

    Or, a bite in Vegas ruins everything, for a while.

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    18 Jan 2026