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:
x / x / x / x / x / x / x / x / x / x / x / x / x / Drag Hunt by R_Knight
trying to conceive a situation where post-outing pre-Cens Shane's in NYC in a State and he and Ilya have just had a fight about all the shit that's just hit the fan and so when Scott tells Shane he wants buy him a commiserating drink after their game Shane's like. fine. good. great. let's go Trailblazer but then Scott takes a hit from Our Homophobic Totem Comeau and can't make it so he sends Kip in his stead and Kip's like, completely misreading the situation, hey Shane why dont we go to the sauna ! could be fun! and Shane's like ooookay... I like a sauna.... and they get there and Kip's like so are you and Ilya open? me and Scott are, anyway -- and Shane's like no, of course not, we're not in trouble, why do you -- looking around in wide-eyed Kath & Kim panic suddenly all too aware of what's happening here like oh my god. oh my god. and he practically Cinderellas out the bathhouse eyes burning so mortified facetiming Ilya in the Uber like i'm so sorry baby let's never fight again i don't want to be Gay in a greater cosmopolitan context i just saw so much -- there were old men, big guys, they were all -- i just -- saw ,,, and Ilya's like [calm voice] i am getting on the plane now i will meet you in your hotel room after i have finished killing Kip Artschool also dont you fucking dare jerk off about this till i get there or so help me Shane
david hollander: oh shit i wasn’t supposed to see that. i have invaded his space and seen something he didn’t want known. he was hiding away in the cabin with a man. because he wasn’t ready to come out yet. he didn’t want us to know and now i know. wait that’s rozanov! what the fuck is he doing with rozanov? oh no that felt judgy of me. hold on am i being homophobic right now? i’m intruding and it was a secret and - fuck i just outed my son. what if I just run. what if i signal that i didn’t see anything by simply dashing out the door. shane i promise i didn’t see anything. fuck yuna help i fucked it all up.
haha so cute the centaurs have a video of ilya and shane — let me stop you there. shane would never. he would never! he has an airtight agreement with the marketing and comms team that anything posted of him is strictly professional. he knows every comment on social media will be about him and ilya already, and he will NOT be encouraging it. he is a hockey player. my shane would rather die than discuss his married life on instagram on the official centaurs account. or any platform. are the other centaurs doing this?? the other hockey teams??? no. he is an athlete not a reality star.
there’s a really beautiful AU that exists in my head where shane is some sort of faceless technically-focused reviewer on youtube (like the lockpicking lawyer) and ilya is a dedicated viewer leaving increasingly horny comments about his hands and like, sending him expensive locks to pick on camera
HollanderUnlocks: Here’s my review of the Litelok X3 bike lock. It’s got its issues, but it’s strong enough for the average bike-rider.
rozzingoff: i have a handcuff lock u could help me out with ;))
HollanderUnlocks: Have you lost the key? If you are currently cuffed but able to reach your phone, I would recommend calling emergency services right away. If you are not currently cuffed: most handcuff locks are relatively simple to pick. I have some other videos on my channel where I discuss lockpicking for beginners, as well as an affiliate link where you can get a 10% discount off your first set of picks, if you don’t have any.
rozzingoff: if i were locked in them could you come save me ;)
HollanderUnlocks: I am not sure where you’re located, but if you’re in need of help, please dial your local emergency services as soon as possible.
A few weeks ago, an anon asked if Shane from Dawn in the Altered World ever finds out about Ilya's magazine. And given the amount of time I spent in that fic's headspace, honestly it would be more surprising if I didn't have a detailed headcanon about how that happens. So here's this. Many thanks to @acesgroupchat for the beta!
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Year Eight
Ilya is no longer trying to keep the magazine a secret, but most days he doesn't think of it. A single black and white image of Shane Hollander smiling vaguely at the camera is nothing compared to what Ilya gets to see, hear, and touch on a daily basis. When Ilya remembers, it is only to spare a thought for the hollowness of his life before Shane staggered back into it.
All of which is to say, Shane discovers the January 2016 issue of Gourmand by accident.
It's one of the first times they've managed to fuck on the bed, and Ilya is so transported by the sight of Shane's face, almost overcome and still begging with his eyes for more, that they end up jolting the mattress halfway off the bedframe. Shane takes first shower. Ilya is scrubbing himself down with the last of the wash water when he hears a telltale crinkle of paper, and then Shane says,
“Hey babe? What's this?”
Ilya is so distracted by the things his chest does at being called babe that he doesn't immediately answer.
“Four Bold New Takes on Tiramisu,” Shane reads to himself.
“Ah,” says Ilya, hanging up the towel. “Yes.”
“Why—” Shane starts.
Ilya climbs into bed, tucks the blankets around them. There is no point in trying for cool and casual. That ship has sailed, and mostly Ilya has no regrets. It does mean these moments hit a little harder, though. Shane has seen him undress many times in the trailer but Ilya has rarely felt more naked.
“Open it,” says Ilya.
Shane blinks, confused, but obeys, the cracked spine of the magazine immediately yielding Ilya's secret: Shane and his wrist, rendered in glossy flat monochrome.
“You get one chirp,” Ilya says. “One free chirp. Make it count.”
But when Shane looks up from the page, his eyes are wide, shiny with what might be tears. Ilya gently takes the magazine, deposits it on the floor. He switches out the lights and wraps Shane in his arms.
“What?” says Ilya.
Shane is quiet for a moment. “So when I came down from Montreal,” he says, “I passed through the outskirts of Boston. I went through a few houses out there, looking for supplies.”
“Yes, everyone has done this,” Ilya says, in case Shane feels some residual guilt over what certainly no longer counts as breaking and entry.
“And I wound up with a jersey,” Shane says. There is a pause as Ilya attempts to make sense of this. “It was, uh, it was a Rozanov jersey.”
“What?” says Ilya.
“A fan jersey,” says Shane. “It was white with black letters.”
“And you wore it?” Despite the circumstances, Ilya can feel himself starting to smile.
“A few times,” Shane says. “But then I met up with the survivalists, and, uh. They knew who I was, and they knew who you were, and no way I was gonna be able to explain. I knew they would've been shitty about it. So I kept it in the bottom of my pack. The whole time I was with them, I had to be careful, whenever I opened my backpack around them.”
“Those fucking dipshit losers,” Ilya agrees. “Do you still have it?”
A slight rustling that is Shane shaking his head. “After I, uh, left, I wore it almost every day, over my shirt. Under my coat, in the winter.”
“Oh,” says Ilya. The pieces are starting to slide together. “When that fucker stabbed you—”
“Yeah,” says Shane. “And I could repair my coat a little with the tape, but the jersey was white, so all the blood—”
His voice wavers. Ilya kisses Shane's shoulder, comforting.
“Wearing it made me feel less crazy, I think,” Shane says. “Less like I'd made you up in my head.”
Ilya considers this. “Well, Shane,” he says. “I am sad for us both. Sad for you, that you had such a fucking horrible time out there, and met only awful shitty people for so long. And sad for me, that I won't get to fuck you in your Rozanov fan jersey.”
Thankfully, Shane snorts. “Asshole. It's not like I had a lot of shirt choices. It was the end of the world.” He's squeezing Ilya's hand tightly.
“But I have to think,” Ilya says, squeezing back, “whatever you found, probably you could have scavenged something that did not have my name across the back in big black letters.”
“Oh, fuck off,” says Shane, and Ilya can hear the smile in his voice. “How long have you kept your magazine photo?”
“Since Year Three,” says Ilya. “Cliff saw, that’s why I think he knows.”
Shane hums.
“I think he knows…babe,” Ilya amends.
“Oh,” says Shane, sounding maybe a little embarrassed, “you noticed that. It kinda just came out.”
It is late autumn; the cold November rain is pounding the trailer roof but this is a sign of the coming winter. Ilya nestles a little closer to Shane, who will not roll away towards the wall. Shane, who is here for the duration.
“Is okay,” Ilya says, yawning. “Is okay, kotik. And anyway, I have it on good authority this is not the end after all.”
People the other day were posting about the Hollanov AU possibilities of prince/knight and for the record, that is great and I support it. But if I could quick also make an argument for prince4prince?
Okay, so walk with me: this would take place in a world where political marriages between two men sometimes happen, but it's a pretty recent thing and some people still have hangups about it.
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“You wanted to see me,” says Rozanov, “alone?” He’s smirking in a way that makes Shane reasonably sure he’s being mocked, but for once in their very short acquaintance, Shane won’t take the bait.
“Yes,” says Shane, heart pounding. “Close the door behind you.”
It’s the first time they’ve ever been alone together before. Rozanov raises his eyebrows, but he does close the door. He takes the chair across from Shane. The way he slumps in his seat is unfortunately attractive, but then, that applies to nearly everything he does.
“How did you escape the rest of your retinue?” asks Rozanov idly.
“I evade them very rarely,” Shane says. “They were not prepared.”
“Mm,” says Rozanov. “I evade mine very often, so I am always prepared.”
There is no point in prolonging this. “I need to tell you why the marriage cannot take place,” says Shane.
“You mean our marriage,” says Rozanov blankly. “The one happening in ten days.”
Shane nods. “There is a provision,” he says. “It’s not used very often but if we both object, we can still get out of it.”
“You agreed before. What has changed?” Rozanov’s tone is unreadable, and Shane cannot make himself look at him.
Shane had known, on some level, that the only way out of this situation would be to explain it to Rozanov, but his resolve had been considerably stronger in the early hours of the morning, following another sleepless night. With Rozanov in the room, Shane’s determination is weakening every second.
“I’m sick,” Shane tries.
“You seem healthy enough to me,” says Rozanov.
Shane can feel his face start to heat. “Not that kind of sick.”
“What kind, then?” Rozanov presses.
“Does it matter?” says Shane.
“You are the most duty-bound person I have ever met,” Rozanov says. “Your entire life is obligation. Why is this the one charge you refuse?”
This is agony. Shane reminds himself how much worse it would be, for the whole mess to come to light after the wedding. An annulment. Rumors swirling around them, Rozanov sent home in likely disgrace.
“Look,” says Shane, “you deserve someone who can be with you.” He fights the urge to drag a hand down his face. “Someone who could properly consummate the marriage.”
“And you cannot?” says Rozanov. “What, are you going to try to tell me you aren’t interested in men?”
Shane freezes. Rozanov is more perceptive than he looks. “No,” Shane grits out. “Uh. I am.”
There is a long pause.
“The problem is the way I’m interested,” says Shane.
“And what way is that?” asks Rozanov.
Shane presses his lips together.
“What,” says Rozanov, “should I start listing ways?”
“No,” says Shane before he can stop himself. “Fuck you.”
With some men, this would be the start of an international incident. When Shane risks a glance at Rozanov, there is no fury, no outrage. Maybe a glimmer of triumph, although that makes no sense.
“I, uh,” Shane says. “The things I want are—are perverse.”
Again, no anger. Rozanov also does not run screaming from the room. He says only, “Perverse how?”
For obvious reasons, Shane has never needed to tell anyone before, but he does probably owe Rozanov the truth.
“I have heard other men talk,” Shane says unsteadily, “about what they like, when it comes to matters of the flesh.”
Rozanov nods. Shane is standing with his toes over the edge of a precipice. There is nothing left to do but fall. He swallows.
“I have never heard another man say he wants to be the one on his knees,” Shane makes himself say.
Another pause. Shane’s heart is in his throat.
“This is not unusual, in my experience,” says Rozanov.
Shane stares at him. “What?”
“Every time a man has his cock sucked, there must be someone doing the sucking,” Rozanov says. “The act cannot happen without it, no?”
Shane’s mouth is hanging open. He closes it. “I mean, it happens,” says Shane at last. “But a man isn’t supposed to—”
“Enjoy it?” says Rozanov softly. “And you do?”
“I think I would,” says Shane, ruthlessly honest. “Very much.”
“You think you would, but you have never done it?” Rozanov says. He’s almost smiling.
Shane feels absurd all of a sudden. In my experience, Rozanov had said, implying he has committed such acts before, maybe with some frequency, while Shane has done almost nothing. He breathes through his nose and tries not to feel like a child. Shane’s inexperience is not the problem. His perversion is.
It occurs to Shane that he had chosen to share perhaps the mildest of his predilections. Worse, that he had done so because on some level, he still does not want Rozanov to think less of him. Stupid.
“That is not the only thing I want,” says Shane. And he reaches for the worst, most incriminating fantasies he can think of, thoughts that make him burn with shame even when he is alone. And Rozanov—cocky, boastful, outrageous Rozanov—sits and listens. It is absolutely horrible, but after the first few, there is something strangely comforting about admitting these things aloud to another person. He wonders if this is how Catholics feel in confession.
Rozanov does not react with mockery or disgust. Occasionally, he asks a question—so in your mind, when this man holds you down and makes you take it, is he rough with you? Does he hurt you? And Shane answers with the same curious detachment, Maybe but it is less about the pain and more about not being able to stop him, because he knows I want it.
Sometimes there is an odd strain in Rozanov’s voice, but he does not flinch away from any of Shane’s lurid, sinful imaginings. Shane regrets meeting this more considerate side of Rozanov only now, before they are to prevent the wedding from ever happening.
If Shane is being honest, he loses track of the time, is only reminded of the outside world when footsteps sound in the hallway behind them, from the other side of the door.
“Ah, so they’ve found us,” says Rozanov, with an unfairly devastating smile. “Your people or mine, do you think?”
An awful thought seizes Shane. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?” he says, cold in the pit of his stomach.
“Of course not.” Rozanov stands, stretches. “Who would believe me?”
The door opens. “Your Highness, where have you been?” An unfamiliar voice. One of Rozanov’s retinue, then.
Shane busies himself with the papers on the table.
“Right here,” Rozanov tells his attendant. “No international incidents today. We were just having a chat.”
“Thank you for the conversation, Highness,” Shane tells Rozanov, holding out his hand to shake. When Rozanov steps close enough to clasp hands, Shane adds in an undertone, “I can draft the papers to void our engagement tonight.”
Rozanov takes Shane’s hand in his own. His palm is warm and dry, his fingertips rough with callouses. His Royal Highness Ilya Rozanov is known to be a fine athlete, skilled in fencing. So is Shane. There is a reason King David and Queen Yuna had hoped the match might be a happy one. Shane feels a pang of something, that they will likely never have another conversation alone. Still, he has at least freed Rozanov from a life shackled to Shane’s debaucherous soul.
Rozanov squeezes Shane’s hand. “Don’t,” he says.
“What?” says Shane.
“Don’t draft the papers,” says Rozanov, almost casual. “I will not sign them.”
He releases Shane’s hand, turning to go.
“What do you mean?” says Shane dumbly.
Rozanov looks back at Shane and smiles again. There is an edge of something to it that Shane doesn’t know how to define, except that it makes him shiver.
“Our wedding is in ten days,” says Rozanov. He backs out of the door, attendants urging him forwards. “Thank you for the conversation. Very illuminating,” he calls from the hallway.
