inkandyearning



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  1. Rec *

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    The truth was, yeah, Shane married Ilya, but he’d married hockey first. He married hockey the second he signed his rookie contract with the Metros, and his courtship began long, long before. And his marriage to hockey wasn’t like his marriage to Ilya. Hockey wouldn’t ever love him back. Ilya wasn’t going to chew Shane up and spit him out at some nebulous point after he turned thirty and before he turned forty, his joints busted and his mouth full of dentures and his brain fucked to hell and back. And that marriage—his first marriage—had always come before his second, illicit shotgun wedding.

    It wasn’t ideal, maybe, but that was just how things were. Hell, it was probably the same for Ilya, too. The fuck was Shane supposed to do about it? Nothing, nothing, nothing. He liked his life just the way it was. He didn’t want to do anything different. He still doesn’t. And that’s the worst, most shameful part of it all: at the end of the day, some part of Shane will always wish he could wind back time like adjusting a watch; erase that Instagram post before it ever hit the internet and go back to the life they’d had before; the life that was slowly killing them both.

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    13 Aug 2026

  2. Rec *

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    For a second, Scott pictures it—their tragic gay love affair, conducted in Holiday Inns and Marriotts, following the usual routine; the cut-off afterglow, the tied-off condom burning a hole in someone’s pocket because they were too scared to leave it in the hotel trash, the look-both-ways paranoia leaving the room, fleeing the scene head-down-hands-in-pockets. Scott pictured a decade of that—a four-year marriage of that—and felt sick. Two thousand fucking ten. Christ. Kip had cousins younger than that.

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    13 Aug 2026

  3. Rec *

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    There’s a sign in front of Shane. It says Welcome to Scott Hunter and Kip Grady’s Happily Ever After in a cursive font that makes Shane think of Etsy. Shane’s stomach churns. He briefly squeezes his empty ring finger. He feels, all at once, like he might cry. Instead, he swallows, and breathes, and pastes a smile on his face, and marches his ass down to Scott and Kip’s fucking wedding of the century.

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    13 Aug 2026

  4. Rec *

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    They’re getting into a rhythm now, though, and Shane can see it. He can see this team winning the Cup this year. He tries not to get ahead of himself, tries to stay focused and go game by game, reminds himself that building up a team takes time and several seasons, but god. He wants this legacy: for himself, for Ottawa, for Ilya. For both of them and everyone else.

    Which is why, goddamnit, now is not the time to crash out over fantasies of Ilya working his whole hand down to the wrist into Shane’s ass and fucking him on his fist. And yet. Shane should know by now that timing and “good ideas” are rarely factors in whether or not he gets obsessed with something.

    OR:

    It starts, as a surprising number of things actually do, with a text from Rose.

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    12 Jul 2026

  5. Rec *

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    Ilya grasps Hollander’s chin and turns his head so he can bite a bit cruelly at his jaw and scrape his teeth down his neck. “Guess you’ve caught up with me,” he can’t help but tease Hollander as he shudders under Ilya’s mouth. “Stanley Cup win, League MVP. Copy cat.”

    “Oh fuck you,” Hollander says with that boyish grin, and his hands grip Ilya’s shoulders, map down his arms. Ilya flexes and feels Hollander’s appreciative squeeze at his strength. “Don’t be a sore loser.”

    It's the 2015-2016 season NHL Awards. A few things need to be taken care of before the season's truly over for the summer.

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    11 Jul 2026