Fandom stuff!

Look at his face! His eyes. He is trying so so so hard to be so chill. So nonchalant. "Don't look down. Turn the volume down. Don't look at him yet. He might disappear. Be cool. Don't spook him." And oh my god he is not chill in the slightest. He is so touched that Shane seems to care. He asked about the girls thing and it didn't go well so he's taking this as a sign that maybe Shane does care. It goes downhill in like 5 minutes but you know.

And then:

He settles in a bit and he looks almost almost relaxed. But he still can't look! And the barely-there jaw flex, shoving down the emotions. Looking makes it too real. Even though it's already very real for Ilya.

- Shoulders. Back. Arms. 🫪 (Yeah this is the horny balloon emoji again for those who can't see.)

- Fixing the hair? Soooo casual. So nonchalant. Doesn't care at all.

- Imagine answering the door shirtless in October and that just being a casual choice you're making with no alterior motive at all. Happened to my best good friend Ilya Rozanov

- The Rick Owens haunt the narrative

- Moles.

- Literally he is serving and for what. Shane walks in the door like "Wattup you know who built this place" and has to be redirected like a distracted dog.

- He is trying to be so cool and casual and nonchalant. He's so chill and cool and nonchalant in fact that he breaks a personal fucking record for how long it takes him to get Shane's legs around him. (42 seconds. I counted.)

- Starting to think that Shane has Doritos at the Cottage because he's being fully sublimated into it by Ilya's shoulder to waist ratio. Like it is that serious.

"Hmm?" Shane nuzzles his cheek into the pillow under him. He can feel the phantom grip of Ilya's fingers on his hips from only moments ago. The real thing teasing over his ear is a welcome guide back to reality.

"On your ear. A freckle. Right here." Ilya gives it a gentle squeeze, like he can imprint the small dot on the pad of his thumb.

"Mmhm. I've got lots of freckles, Ilya." All over me, Shane thinks, and then he wonders if Ilya's fingerprints are all over him too, little bruises left behind, proof of how Ilya holds him so tight when they fuck. Shane hopes so.

"Oh, do you?"

"Yep," and he grins because he knows the exact look on Ilya's face right now, can see that perfect smirking fondness even though his eyes are closed. That look still makes Shane's stomach flip, even after all these years.

Ilya squeezes the spot again, a little harder this time, then soothes the pinch with a soft kiss. "Well, I never noticed this one." The hot breath on Shane's ear sends a shudder down his spine.

Ilya's fingers move lower, tugging at Shane's earlobe before running up and down over the curve of his ear, a delicious tease that Shane leans into. "Have you been hiding freckles from me, kotik?" Ilya's voice is soft and low and a little dangerous, and his thumb is pressing and stroking just right against the hinge of Shane's jaw and up behind his ear. It makes Shane's mouth drop open, releasing tension he didn't know he was holding. It shouldn't be this easy to make him hard again, just a few simple touches and Ilya's breath on his ear, but he is, and his mind is too fuzzy to care.

"'m not hiding," Shane stretches out against the mattress as if to prove it. He wants more pressure, more contact beyond the little touches Ilya's giving him.

"Hmm, no," Ilya says, pondering, "not hiding, but maybe..." and then Shane's eyes fly open and he lets out a yelp as Ilya's hands find his hips once more, this time to flip him onto his back. Ilya straddles him and pins him down, and if Shane wasn't hard before, he definitely is now.

"Maybe it's time for me to count these freckles again, yes?"

The entire Boston roster piling behind Marly as he types, trying to decide what to say that could save them because their captain has been possessed by the spirit or a soviet military trainer with knife shoes and if they are forced to make double bagskates again they will either puke or die or both.

what is it indeed. one could say it is a sublime exploration of enjoying being caught in a hunter's snare. one could say it's an ode to the way your heartbeat crystalizes in your veins at the sound of a predator at your back. one could say its about the healing power of a forest morning run through the mud or a man's dominant rough hand on the nape of your submissive neck or his orders aligning your life with spring clarity in the dead of your winter. one could say, it's a global sensation and celebration.

but let's poll the public. people are saying, drag hunt is:

Shane can’t look away. His face grows hot, which makes no sense at all. He’s seen Rozanov’s cock before—has touched it, held it in his mouth, felt every thick inch of it inside him. It’s absurd for him to be blushing like a virgin at the sight of it.

He tears his eyes away before Rozanov can say something obnoxious like “Like what you see?” or “Is rude to stare,” but Rozanov is towering over him now, and when Shane drags his gaze up, his entire field of vision is filled with rippling muscles.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters.

“Like what you see?” Rozanov asks, looking down at himself.

“Yeah,” Shane says, resigned. No point in denying it.

Warm hands cup his face, tip his head back. “Is rude to stare, you know.”

Shane allows himself to melt into the touch. “I know.”

He feels the tension drain from his shoulders the moment their mouths meet.