therealshed



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    Ilya's hand continues its path up and down Shane's back, and Shane thinks again about how love is sometimes just this: a palm on the spine, moving in circles, waiting for you to come back to yourself. There is no promise of saving you—Ilya cannot save him, they both know this and are alright with it in their own ways—but there is a vow of staying, lingering in order to witness. Touching the bruise so that its pain triggers the memory that you are allowed to be touched.

    Outside, the snow continues its work of erasure. Inside, Shane's breathing begins to even out, every limb recalling how to be a man at rest rather than an animal fawning and freezing. The trembling subsides, wave by wave, as if Ilya's hand is smoothing it out of him.

    "Sleep, зайчик," Ilya says softly, his free hand coming to rest in Shane's hair. "I have you."

    This is not true, Shane thinks, and it is also the only true thing.

     

    recovery, shane learns, is not a straight line. to begin to understand something, you must first name it.

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    01 Feb 2026

  2. Public Bookmark 67

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    "You want to know how to suck my dick?" Rozanov asks, lips curling. His accent makes the words filthy, makes the hard 'ck' of 'suck my dick' glottal, makes it feel like he's feeling Shane up with words alone. "It's a bit late for that, no?"

    Shane is warm, he notes distantly, despite being totally nude where he lays atop the covers. He's already half hard, his cock pinned between his hips and the mattress. He nods weakly, unthinking, rolling his spine and rutting against the bed.

    "But," Shane starts, breathless, "I, I want—I want to know—"

    Rozanov's eyes flicker with something unreadable as he asks, "You want to know how to suck my dick, da?"

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    29 Jan 2026

  3. Public Bookmark 67

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    What Ilya does is repetitive, non-performative, and private. Because collecting the photographs had never meant anything more to him than accumulating icons of the thing he worshiped the most – Shane.

    They were not decorative, to be framed and admired, to be loved and adored by anyone other than Ilya. He revered them, kept them safe and close and hidden in a corner of his life, snipped and cut and torn from print media to cherish for the rest of his meagre life. Where his mother believed in intercession, Ilya believed in memory.

    TLD: Ilya has collected photographs of Shane from the moment they met, evidence of his love and devotion.

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    29 Jan 2026

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    Oh no, Shane thought.

    Oh God. No.

    Ignoring his clammy palms, he scanned the tiny hotel room, wondering where he could even lay his bag.

    Then, after a breathtaking second, he forced his eyes to meet Rozanov’s.

    With a mischievous smirk, Rozanov was sitting casually on the only bed, arm draped over the pillows—including the pillow that Shane had to sleep on.

    And Rozanov’s muscular chest and arms were on full, shameless display.

    Shane might just die.

    “So,” Rozanov said, “you and me, we sleep together?”

    Or: Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov were stuck in the same hotel room in Saskatchewan after the International Prospect Cup ended—and there was only one bed.

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    29 Jan 2026

  5. Public Bookmark *

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    “You like it, right?” Shane whispered against his lips.

    “Hm?” Ilya tried hard to focus on Shane’s words but Shane felt too good, the pressure of his ass on Ilya’s crotch too maddeningly distracting.

    Shane leaned in so that his mouth was now right on Ilya’s ear, stilling his movements. “I said,” he breathed hotly, “you like it? Being my dog?”

    And this was new. The words sent an electric shock down Ilya’s spine, making him involuntarily thrust up into Shane. Ilya swallowed, closing his eyes and nodding furiously, as Shane nibbled on his ear lobe and sucked sweetly at the skin there.

    “Speak,” Shane said simply, the same tone he used when talking to Chiron or Anya. When talking to dogs.

    “Fuck,” Ilya choked out. “Yes, da, yes, I like being your dog.”

    or, Ilya discovers a new kink about himself.

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    29 Jan 2026