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  1. Public Bookmark *

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    Ilya glances at Shane, at the way the dying light is catching in his hair, refracting. At that spiderlily mouth, slightly open and curling coyly, two teeth peeked through the dark gap like an American Girl doll. At that shoulder, bare and pale and close enough to touch if Ilya just leaned forward, if he just reached out and took another liberty.

    To touch another person is to say: I know you will die, and I am doing this anyway.

    His mother used to say something like this. About painting.

    Every portrait is an act of faith, Ilyushenka. Faith and futility both.

    contrary to personal preference, ilya gets a roommate.

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    15 Jan 2026

  2. Public Bookmark *

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    Hi Mr. Hayden,

    We’re pretty sure you’ve never noticed, so you might find this funny. Over the years, a few of us have been piecing together the Rozanov-Hollander saga from your fanmails.

    In mine, Ilya Rozanov was chatting in Russian in the background saying some very colorful things about someone's something.

    For a second, I actually wondered if he was your secret lover. But at this point, aren’t we all just second-guessing?

    or: Hayden Pike finally realizes he never actually double-checked any of his videos

    Series
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    7,158
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    4/4
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    14 Jan 2026

  3. Public Bookmark *

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    Lily: i am alive

    Lily: hurt

    Lily: but they gave me drugs it’s nice

    Lily: i want you

    Lily: my hands miss yours

    or; ilya gets injured on the ice. shane can't handle it.

    Language:
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    13 Jan 2026

  4. Public Bookmark *

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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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    Language:
    English
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    22,370
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    13 Jan 2026

  5. Public Bookmark *

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    He nuzzles against the exposed skin of his neck, inhaling the scent that clings to his suit jacket collar. It’s perfect.

    “...Hollander,” He hears Rozanov say, urgent like it’s not the first time he’s said it. “Shane,” he follows it up with, and that snaps him out of it. He’s never called him that. Shane, reluctantly, lifts his face a little, eyes glazed over as he meets Rozanov’s eyes.

    “What?”

    “You stink,” Rozanov says, concern dripping. “No, you—fuck. You reek. What is—” Ilya’s fingers lift up, tugging at the scent patch, revealing more of the spot beneath it. Even Shane can smell himself at that point. He does reek. Reeks of heat, of Omega, of honey and sweetness, of something that would melt on your tongue.

    Shane reefs himself back. The Omega inside him aches, mourns, whimpers at the loss of contact. It’s needed, though. He scrambles back, hand slapping at his neck to force the peeled patch back down over his scent gland. He backs up till his spine knocks against the bathroom stall.

    “You are in heat at award show? Why would you hide this? Why would you not call out sick? Are you—are you insane? You care this much about trophy?”

    OR Shane goes into heat in Vegas

    Language:
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    12 Jan 2026