The Irina Foundation

He becomes a consultant who shitty teams trying to not suck, good teams who want to last further into the playoffs, great teams who want to finally win the cup, call to Fix Them.

He is paid absolutely bonkers amounts of money to watch a team play for five minutes and immediately diagnose what’s wrong with them. He is always right.

Ok 5 minutes is probably an exaggeration. The coaches send him a bunch of tape to review in advance. They probably focus on their best players or the ones they think need the most improvement, but half the time Shane requests more, focusing on players they hadn’t paid much attention to before. Then one day at practice, the players look up into the stands and are filled with awe, terror, and wonder, because Shane Hollander is sitting there staring directly at them with a scarily thoughtful look on his face.

He meets with the coaches and gm and reports his conclusions. Who to trade and for who , how to get better results from certain players, how to run power plays and penalty kills, changes in line makeups.

Some lucky players get to meet with him. He takes about five minutes to list off or demonstrate everything they need to do to stop sucking. He has no time for chit chat or hero worship. Focus, listen, learn, and do exactly what he says and you will be good. Fail to do what he says and you will shame your entire bloodline.

🤣I wish my writing reflected that

They’ve been celebrating Ilya all weekend. Shane made sure of that. First, Svetlana flew into town for dinner and drinks and dancing, and Ilya came home to Shane giddy and drunk on champagne. The next night was a low-key dinner at Yuna and David’s. David grilled steaks, Ilya won two hands of gin rummy, and at the end of the night, Shane’s cheeks hurt from smiling. And now it's the day Shane’s carved out for just the two of them. He’s made it clear to anyone who needs to know that he and Ilya will be off the grid. Incommunicado. Do not disturb. 

Except now Ilya’s not following Shane’s plan. Shane’s cleared away Ilya’s breakfast in bed, but Ilya’s not grabbing him and pulling him in for a kiss, or sliding a hand into Shane’s boxers to find where he’s stretched and open and ready for him. No, instead he’s turning away from Shane to reach into his bedside table and take out a small blue bag stuffed with tissue paper. Ilya presents it to Shane with a flourish and a glint in his eye. Inside the bag, Shane finds a nondescript box. And when Shane opens the box, bright metal shines back at him. 

“Ilya,” Shane says. His mouth feels dry around the word. His heart is pounding in his ears. “This is a, um—” 

“A cock cage, yes.” 

A: Love it. Spend my time combing AO3 for it.

B: Like it. Not one of my bigger cravings, but it can scratch a certain itch if I’m in the right mood.

C: Neutral. A good author might be able to sell it, but a bad one will kill it deader than dead.

D: Not my favorite. I avoid it if I can, but it won’t necessarily put me off reading something.

They are also, crucially, having the filthiest and nastiest sex that two guys in their twenties with an extremely willing monogamous partner can think up. Things are WILD. They are Yes And'ing each other in ways that they are legit going to have to process by sitting quietly alone in a room for an entire day at some point in the future.

They're going at it raw, of course. Ilya is spitting in his mouth and making Shane thank him for the privilege, then calling him a slut when he does. Shane is letting Ilya chase him through the woods. He's wrapping Ilya's fingers around his neck and begging while Ilya tightens his grip. Ilya decides at one point that if Shane can't come on his cock alone then he doesn't get to come. Shane doesn't receive oral a single time at the Cottage without having to swallow his own cum. Ilya walks around with a piece of gauze on his forearm because Shane bit him and drew blood. Ilya fucks Shane with his nose way up inside Shane's armpit the entire time, huffing and licking. Ilya comes on Shane's face in the shower and Shane is so far down and loves the feeling of being marked so much that he asks Ilya to piss on him. Shane is never more than two minutes away from having Ilya's tongue or dick in one of his holes, no warning given aside from a command to spread his legs or get on his knees.

Noc-turn was the street you took when the air around you got heavy, your limbs dragged and a hole opened in your chest. Most humans didn’t know about it until it decided they were supposed to know. It was how they kept this place secret. 

Maugry knew about it. But she wasn’t human. She was put together by the crows. Maugry was part of different wholes, ones that didn’t necessarily fit together. Her left arm was heavier than her right, one leg slightly longer than the other, and her face was a sight out of Frankenstein itself. 

Noc-turn was where she spent most of her time. Her world was distorted anyway, two different eyes from two different people, which made it hard to focus on one thing at a time. The street never looked the same. Sometimes it was cobblestone, sometimes brick or cement. Sometimes it was a dirt road in the forest. The hue between dusk and night caught the seams of liminal space, keeping Noc-turn in an eternal blue-hour state. It was just dark enough that when Maugry walked down the street, littered with carcases of birds, the signs that hung from the doors blurred together. 

She inhaled. Maugry didn’t mean to stumble down the dim ally; she never does. The stumbling steps, the fearful eyes with the accusatory word monster splashed across their pupils, the weight of her own immortality — it dragged her away. The pungent smell of rot filled her nose and she was drawn to it. 

There were always dead birds in Noc-turn. 

The air was too thick for them to fly. It was a place where gravity reached its clawed hands from the ground and wrapped them around your throat to choke out whatever air was left in your lungs. Once you were down, suffocating on your own grief, the shadows would come out of their hiding spaces and enter through your pores, sucking the light from within and leaving only a bone-dry carcass in its wake. 

Birds were too free for this place, and too fragile to make it to the other end. Humans, however, were frequent visitors. They were stronger than the birds. They would inevitably shake themselves free and run as quickly as they could towards the dying sun, some so frail from staying in the Noc-turn they couldn’t do much more than crawl. 

Maugry tried to help those she could. Because of the distorted light, humans didn’t regard her in such a disgusted manner. She could grasp them under the arms and hoist them from the shadows grip, set their gaze forward and push. Few ever looked back, some stumbled and fell down again. Maugry has carried a few herself before, far enough that the shadows disperse and the light on the other side burns red welts in her skin, but brings out an angelic glow in humans.

She couldn’t save all of them, though. There were so many people in the Noc-turn all the time. Although Maugry wasn’t the only one lifting them to their feet. 

Cats roamed the street of Noc-turn, silent creatures whose eyes glowed green and yellow and blue. They had a magic of their own, and would use it to guide people out of the space. 

This was Maugry’s purpose. This was why she lived as an undead. The shadows had already eaten her, taken her inner light in her lives before. She was but her own shadow, a memory only she carried. 

“I hear… singing,” the woman in the yellow dress mumbled distractedly. Maugry gripped her with unfaultering hands. 

“Yes, my dear. Go towards it,” she replied to the ghost-faced woman, using all her minimal strength to keep her from falling back down. The echo of Maugry’s voice sounded like the creatures who put her together. It was hoarse, she croaked out the words as if she was merely mimicking. It reminded her of the birds.

“Who is that? Who is singing?” the woman asked, her own warm, fleshy hands jumping to grasp Maugry’s. 

“That is your hope.” She watched as the woman’s legs firmed up beneath her, and Maugry slowly let go, watching as she dragged herself towards the sound only she could hear. 

This was a place of silence. Any words that were spoken were eaten by the thick atmosphere unless you were inches away from the person. The suffering that happened here was not loud. It was the type you accidentally stumble into on a friday night at the bar when you realize no one's listening to you and your friends are busy having lives of their own.

It took a while for people to notice your absence. 

And when they do, it's usually too late. 

“These are awful,” Shane mumbled in a completely dumbfounded voice, gaping at the screen of the phone in his hand. “I–people really write these?”

Ilya, who was sitting next to him, cackled in delight. “You have really never looked your name up in Twitter before? Is great confidence boost, Hollander. You should do when you are feeling sad.”

“I go to the gym when I’m feeling sad, this is just…ridiculous,” he muttered, shaking his head, feeling himself flush bright red. “I mean…c’mon. ‘Shane Hollander can slam me into a wall any day #harderdaddy’ Like….what the fuck?”

Ilya let out another belly laugh. “Can you blame them?”

“Yes! It’s…terrible! Look at this one! ‘Hot girl tip of the day: always get to Metros games early to see Shane Hollander stretch on the ice like a slut.’ Or…oh my god, this one! ‘fucked up at work today bc I was too busy thinking about Shane Hollander’s big, brown, wet, bottom eyes.’”

But at this, Ilya just looked at him, confused. “Who made this Tweet?”

Shane frowned, glancing back down. “Um… hoforhollander81?”

The other man broke into an unapologetic grin. “Ah. Was me. I missed three shots, day after we met up last time in Montreal. So embarrassing.”

“You–you have a secret Twitter?” Shane gasped, trying to decide if he was shocked, appalled, or amused. “Where you post thirst Tweets about me?”

The prompt list is HERE! Two prompts for each day! You can use both or just one for each of the days.

Below are the alternate prompts, which can be used in place of any of the daily prompts:

Additional info, including a link to the Ao3 Collection and a text-based version of the prompt list, are below the read more. Happy writing!