jenofindy



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    The first sound Ilya hears is a thin, discordant symphony of beeps and whirs. Something vibrating. 

    The next thing he hears is…wet. A sort of shaking, gargling sound, that feels like the ugliest crying he’s ever heard. And through it, Shane’s voice. 

    “I’m with him now, mom. He’s— he’s not fine. He’s not. I know—”

    Ilya wants to ask who's not fine, but he can’t feel his own body, his mouth, enough to ask.

    “Yeah,” Shane is saying, only slightly calmer. “I know. He wasn’t breathing—"

    Ilya knows there's a link, between the clinical musicality of medical settings, Shane’s audible, awful distress, and his own physical incapacity. It’s just, it’s so tenuous, and the air around him is so thick, so heavy. It would be easy, to sleep, a little. 

    -
    Footage of the last game between Ottawa and Montreal is everywhere; it’s breached containment from the sports world, and now it seems like everyone is baying for Montreal’s blood. Except, Ilya is oblivious. Not exactly blissfully so, but as the fight for accountability within the league rages on without him, Ilya just wants someone, anyone, to tell him what happened.

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    07 Jun 2026

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    Ilya is not going to steal Shane Hollander's dog. That would be illegal. And wrong. And someone would probably find out and make Ilya give him back.

    So. Not stealing.

    But there is nothing wrong with giving Chernysh all the pats and treats that he deserves, is there?

    Nothing wrong with encouraging Chernysh to spend more and more time at Ilya's house until he doesn't even remember who Hollander is.

    Because Hollander is stupid and boring and does not deserve a dog as good as Chernysh. No, he doesn't, does he? Because Chernysh is the best boy in the whole world, yes he is.

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    03 Jun 2026

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    Ilya starts calling Shane boring regularly after that, not cruelly but persistently, the way you press a bruise you know is there just to confirm it still hurts. Shane's cereal is boring, Shane's training schedule is boring, Shane's shoes lined up by the door are boring, and Shane responds with variations of "fuck off" and "you're an asshole" that become increasingly creative and occasionally surprising. They do not talk about anything that matters. They talk about groceries and whose turn it is to take out the trash and whether Ilya's music is too loud at midnight, which it is.

    On the ice, Shane is someone else entirely. Ilya watches him from the upper stands every morning with vending machine coffee going cold in his hand and doesn't tell anyone.

    Or: Shane asked Ilya once how you know when it's the right person. Ilya described Shane to him, and Shane didn't recognise himself.

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    28 May 2026

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    25 May 2026

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    It starts simply enough. Ilya has him pinned to the bed, his mouth on Shane's neck the way he likes, his hands loose on Shane's wrists. They aren't naked, not yet, but that's just a matter of time; right now, Shane is enjoying the frustration of his cock held back by his pants, the pull of his shirt twisted tight at his waist. Ilya releases one of Shane's wrists to grope at his fly, sliding the zipper down, setting him free, and because it's too soon, too easy, too good, Shane moans "oh no" just softly, the barest whisper of breath, already arching up into Ilya's hand.

    OR

    Shane says no, but he means yes.

    OR

    It turns out, Shane can cum three times in a hour.

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    22 May 2026