friends-to-lovers is my kink

Inspo🖼:The Meeting on the Turret Stairs

@transharrisdrover this is for u. i didnt forget.

Ilya drove slowly up the long, winding gravel driveway lined with leftover lumps of dirty snow, and parked his rental car in front of the house, heart beating in his throat. The drive from the airport had taken nearly two hours, and it had been almost twenty minutes since Ilya passed through the last small town, and ten since he had seen the last house. If his phone even got a signal in this remote location, Ilya would be surprised. Part of him wondered whether the Hollanders had lured him out here to murder him and quietly dispose of his body. He was not sure he could blame them.

He knew Shane's parents would never consider him good enough for their son, and Ilya privately agreed with them. But he was the one who had put Shane in this situation. He knew all too well how many decisions about their bodies and their lives were out of their hands as professional athletes. It was the least he could do to stand by Shane and give him his support, making certain that whatever choice Shane made, it was his and no one else's.

"I'm sorry," said Ilya quietly. "It's not your fault," said Shane. "You didn't do this on purpose." No, thought Ilya, but if I wasn't so weak, I would have ended this a long time ago, and we wouldn't be here now. He should never have gone back to Shane after the Sochi Olympics -- should have just let him believe that Ilya was the type of man who never texted again once he got what he wanted -- should have let them both move on. Because it had been clear even then that it was not just sex between them anymore, but something altogether more dangerous that could not simply be ignored until it went away. Weak, lazy, selfish, his father's voice whispered through the branches of the trees overhead.

He closed his eyes, remembering Svetlana, skinny and scared, hugging her knees just like Shane was now. His father had found out. Ilya rubbed his jaw, still feeling the ghost of his angry backhand. He had told Ilya that if he could not keep it in his pants, the least he could do was be smart about it and not ruin his future and the reputation of the daughter of a prominent man. Svetlana had gone the next week to stay with her mother in America for the summer. They had never talked about it again, and Ilya had always used condoms after that.

"We're going up to my room for a nap," Shane announced. "We'll be back down for dinner." "Your room?" Mrs. Hollander's mouth tightened and her eyebrows nearly lifted off her forehead. "Yes, Mom," Shane said flatly. "Twenty-five years old, remember? Anyway, it's not like Ilya can get me any more pregnant." Ilya thought he heard a stifled snort of laughter from the kitchen.

Ilya drove slowly up the long, winding gravel driveway lined with leftover lumps of dirty snow, and parked his rental car in front of the house, heart beating in his throat. The drive from the airport had taken nearly two hours, and it had been almost twenty minutes since Ilya passed through the last small town, and ten since he had seen the last house. If his phone even got a signal in this remote location, Ilya would be surprised. Part of him wondered whether the Hollanders had lured him out here to murder him and quietly dispose of his body. He was not sure he could blame them.

He knew Shane's parents would never consider him good enough for their son, and Ilya privately agreed with them. But he was the one who had put Shane in this situation. He knew all too well how many decisions about their bodies and their lives were out of their hands as professional athletes. It was the least he could do to stand by Shane and give him his support, making certain that whatever choice Shane made, it was his and no one else's.

"I'm sorry," said Ilya quietly. "It's not your fault," said Shane. "You didn't do this on purpose." No, thought Ilya, but if I wasn't so weak, I would have ended this a long time ago, and we wouldn't be here now. He should never have gone back to Shane after the Sochi Olympics -- should have just let him believe that Ilya was the type of man who never texted again once he got what he wanted -- should have let them both move on. Because it had been clear even then that it was not just sex between them anymore, but something altogether more dangerous that could not simply be ignored until it went away. Weak, lazy, selfish, his father's voice whispered through the branches of the trees overhead.

He closed his eyes, remembering Svetlana, skinny and scared, hugging her knees just like Shane was now. His father had found out. Ilya rubbed his jaw, still feeling the ghost of his angry backhand. He had told Ilya that if he could not keep it in his pants, the least he could do was be smart about it and not ruin his future and the reputation of the daughter of a prominent man. Svetlana had gone the next week to stay with her mother in America for the summer. They had never talked about it again, and Ilya had always used condoms after that.

connor storrie in an old photoshoot 📸 by Jazeel Gayle (via hudconupdates_)

Jacob Tierney liked this post on Instagram about respecting the cast and crew during filming of Heated Rivalry Season 2 | post by shades.of.rebecca x

Ilya drove slowly up the long, winding gravel driveway lined with leftover lumps of dirty snow, and parked his rental car in front of the house, heart beating in his throat. The drive from the airport had taken nearly two hours, and it had been almost twenty minutes since Ilya passed through the last small town, and ten since he had seen the last house. If his phone even got a signal in this remote location, Ilya would be surprised. Part of him wondered whether the Hollanders had lured him out here to murder him and quietly dispose of his body. He was not sure he could blame them.

He knew Shane's parents would never consider him good enough for their son, and Ilya privately agreed with them. But he was the one who had put Shane in this situation. He knew all too well how many decisions about their bodies and their lives were out of their hands as professional athletes. It was the least he could do to stand by Shane and give him his support, making certain that whatever choice Shane made, it was his and no one else's.

"I'm sorry," said Ilya quietly. "It's not your fault," said Shane. "You didn't do this on purpose." No, thought Ilya, but if I wasn't so weak, I would have ended this a long time ago, and we wouldn't be here now. He should never have gone back to Shane after the Sochi Olympics -- should have just let him believe that Ilya was the type of man who never texted again once he got what he wanted -- should have let them both move on. Because it had been clear even then that it was not just sex between them anymore, but something altogether more dangerous that could not simply be ignored until it went away. Weak, lazy, selfish, his father's voice whispered through the branches of the trees overhead.

Ilya drove slowly up the long, winding gravel driveway lined with leftover lumps of dirty snow, and parked his rental car in front of the house, heart beating in his throat. The drive from the airport had taken nearly two hours, and it had been almost twenty minutes since Ilya passed through the last small town, and ten since he had seen the last house. If his phone even got a signal in this remote location, Ilya would be surprised. Part of him wondered whether the Hollanders had lured him out here to murder him and quietly dispose of his body. He was not sure he could blame them.

He knew Shane's parents would never consider him good enough for their son, and Ilya privately agreed with them. But he was the one who had put Shane in this situation. He knew all too well how many decisions about their bodies and their lives were out of their hands as professional athletes. It was the least he could do to stand by Shane and give him his support, making certain that whatever choice Shane made, it was his and no one else's.