lampshader



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  1. Public Bookmark *

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    “Mmm. You want it bad,” Ilya purrs, teeth grazing the column of his throat.

    “Yeah,” Shane whines, hating how petulant it sounds. A fresh flare of determination rises up in response. “Just give it to me. Ilya. I can—just go hard. Just make it fit.”

    Ilya laughs quietly, incredulously. It’s hot against Shane’s ear. “Make it fit."

    -

    Or: in the midst of a stressful season, Shane's a little... out of practice. He's not gonna let that stop him getting what he wants.

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    19 Jun 2026

  2. Public Bookmark 87

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    Like two images superimposed, Ilya sees the Hollander from that public bathroom in Vegas: different suit, dorkier haircut, same glassy-eyed stare. He’s in both places at once, facing down the same beautiful wealth of opportunity.

    Ilya’s blood sings. It’s so clear, suddenly, how to get exactly what he wants. How to exorcize this horrible post-game worthlessness.

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    18 Jun 2026

  3. Public Bookmark *

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    The world did not work like this, with him under Rozanov, with Rozanov fucking him for the first time in his life and then again and again and again. It did not work like hiding his whole life, the important parts of it, from his parents. But also, it did. And fuck if Shane was going to give it all up because he was scared.

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    15 Jun 2026

  4. Public Bookmark *

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    There was a small recoil, nothing Shane would consciously register as a recoil, just a slight drawing-back of his head and a micro-expression crossing the bridge of his nose.

    His brows pulled together for one second, and he pulled the carton away from his face, examining the opening.

    Ilya Rozanov has seven cameras. Ilya Rozanov has a blog.

    His gay roommate doesn't know about any of this.

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    14 Jun 2026

  5. Public Bookmark 31

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    Love is miserable, Ilya thinks. It's dirty work. It fights worse than an MLH enforcer with a drinking problem and seven missing teeth. It'll toss you about and break your bones and leave you bleeding out on the ice.

    He's been in love twice, and both times he fucked it.

    The first time, he hadn't even known what it was until it was gone. He had learned its shape from the hole it left behind. Hollander had gone. Poof, whoosh, like a ghost. All that was left was the man on the ice, jaw tense and eyes dead, who played like Ilya was a bug to be crushed. Ilya tried to play so dirty Hollander would throw down his gloves and then they could at least touch each other again, fist to face, but all he got was decked by a series of troglodytes in Metros jerseys.

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    13 Jun 2026