MagneticEmbrace



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    Ilya Rozanov’s opponents would describe him as a brutal savage with a dirty record, known for hitting after the bell’s gone off. Spectators would describe him as a cocky spitfire with the stats to back it up, dollar bills passed around like candy whenever he was in the cage. Commentators would describe him as a barreling force of nature with a promising legacy. Weighing in at a hundred and eighty-five pounds of raw muscle, he was the son of Grigori Rozanov, notorious Russian street fighter, and he pulled no punches, so to speak.

    Shane would describe Ilya Rozanov as a fucking asshole with, admittedly, a pretty clean uppercut. Hardly any of the matches he’d watched him win had lasted the full five minutes.

    *

    AU. Shane first introduces himself to Ilya Rozanov ten minutes before they’re slotted to beat the shit out of each other in front of a live audience. They go together like fire and gasoline.

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    22 Jun 2026

    Bookmarker's Notes

    this healed the freak in me

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    “Happy winner,” Rozanov says, kissing Shane’s hip. “How does it feel? Good, yes? Such a strong alpha.”

    Despite the teasing lilt, a soft, rolling r in strong, Shane can tell that Rozanov is being sincere. He has never gotten the impression that Rozanov uses it as an insult with him—unlike every time he whips it out mid-game to taunt an opponent, or to provoke someone in an interview. Shane blinks down at him, and is reminded of what this is. Of why, in every way, they are implausible.

    Rozanov adds, “What?”

    “You just never call me that,” Shane says. His grip on Rozanov’s shoulder tightens.

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    17 Jun 2026

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    Ilya loves to look; that's not new.

    The gleam of lube and sweat on Shane's thighs, how Shane stretches and shakes and takes him, thumbing at the plush gape of Shane's spent body, fascinated; Ilya is always hoarding these details in his memories like gemstones.

    Today, there's something else he wants to try and see.

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    13 Jun 2026

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    It's the Metros' season; Shane knows it. And no matter how many hits he takes, Shane's always been good at getting back on the ice.

    Letting Ilya Rozanov touch his bruised body when he comes off the ice doesn't change anything. It can't; Shane knows that, too.

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    12 Jun 2026

  5. Public Bookmark 71

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    Amundsen-Scott Station, Antarctica

    In grad school the only flirting he had mastered was the strategic deployment of phrases like ‘oh, really?’ and ‘is that so?’ It was brought to his attention by one of his more regular hookups in the kitchen of his apartment while they were cooking dinner, and he had said whenever Shane wanted to fuck he started talking like a coastal elite college girl who’d never had to ask for it outright. Now, in this strange point of contact with Ilya where it was obvious something vaguely carnal had passed between them, he thought about emulating his particular brand of assured charm. Whatever ideas he’d concocted devolved rather quickly into his own unintentional directness, and he said, “Does it scare you?”

    “Does climatology scare you?” Ilya’s face was measured and calm, his foot still pressed against the curved joint above Shane’s heel.

    “Yeah,” the word came out like a laugh, “it does, actually. A lot.”

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    09 Jun 2026