yllz0613



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  1. Public Bookmark *

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    Summary

    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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    19 Feb 2026

    Bookmarker's Notes

    "I don't want to—I want a different ending."
    "Then we'll make a different ending, baby.”

    Or, about making peace with peace (Irina).

  2. Public Bookmark *

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    Sometimes life came at you with a clenched fist and Ilya had never figured out how to duck.

    So here he was, twenty-eight years old, single, dealing with the fallout from injuries given to him by the game he loved, and the second youngest assistant coach in the league to one of the worst teams. Stability was hard to come by, but he was managing.

    Then along came Shane Hollander to knock him on his ass, one more time.

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    13 Feb 2026

    Bookmarker's Notes

    they're inevitable (what the fuck)

  3. Public Bookmark *

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    That girl at the club meant nothing. Shane drunk-texting Ilya at 2 AM means everything.

    or

    A bandaid for my brain following the Club Scene in episode four.

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    09 Feb 2026

    Bookmarker's Notes

    "Some things were better left unnamed, left enormous and undefined."

  4. Public Bookmark *

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    God, Shane never wanted to be mad at him. He hadn’t wanted to continue it. He had wanted to play, too, to suspend reality and just let himself believe that this room was his whole world, that he could talk to Rozanov, play with Rozanov, that nothing else mattered. And the champagne in his blood, the looseness it brought to his shoulders, the ease it granted his brain made it so he could merely sniff in the extra moisture in his nose, blink away the wetness in his eyes, and look up at Rozanov like they were normal, like nothing else had been said. “Why would God take a call from you, Rozanov?” he had said, voice small but brave.

    Rozanov had finally grinned, had let Shane see his beautiful teeth. Shane had wanted to be bit, in that moment, all over. “He knows me,” had been his response.

    Shane had sniffed again, had looked down at Rozanov’s shoes, how one of them was gently stepping onto Shane’s foot. An anchor. “God’s not gonna take a call from you.”

    “Hm. Why?”

    His chest had felt warm. “Because you’re evil.”

    or, Shane's drunk, and yearning for Ilya Rozanov is inescapable, and probably bad for him

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    02 Feb 2026

    Bookmarker's Notes

    “I don’t care about you, you can’t make me cry.”

  5. Public Bookmark *

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    Shane’s immediate reaction is to say that he doesn't know when it started. He doesn’t know who his soulmate is. This is what he’s been telling himself for years, because if he stops for more than a second to think about how long he's been collecting little pieces of Ilya Rozanov, he thinks he'll spiral out of control.

    He'll hit the deck like a firecracker dropped unceremoniously onto the sidewalk, burning wildly and spiralling haphazardly, until he's fizzled out with nothing left to show for himself but smoke, ashes, and the knowledge that his soul is bound to Rozanov's.

    or:

    shane hollander spends twenty-five years not thinking about his soulmate. the drawer in his apartment filled with cigarettes, toothpaste, and awful t-shirts says elsewise.

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    23 Jan 2026

    Bookmarker's Notes

    fuckass hockey gay show