mayfriend
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Lestat’s face is blank of everything, but his dark eyes latch on Louis’ own, locked as tightly as a prisoner’s chain. “You left me.”
Louis swallows. “I shoulda left you decades ago.”
Louis gets on the train, Lestat takes him off it. This is what comes after.
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Flight 771 shouldn't have been any different than any of the hundreds of other flights that Shane has taken over the course of his career, aside from the fact that it was taking him towards his lifelong dream—towards the Olympics.
It shouldn't have been any different.
BEND OVER, STAY DOWN.
BEND OVER, STAY DOWN.
BEND OVER, STAY DOWN.
It is.
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Bookmarked by mayfriend
26 Jul 2026
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“Captain Hollander,” Ilya says in a teasing lilt, and is rewarded by the sight of a slight flush rising to stain Shane’s cheeks.
“Shut up,” he mumbles.
“No,” Ilya says—and really, Shane should know better by now than to think that there’s anything that will ever make Ilya shut up. “You are captain of this plane crash, yes?”
“You do realize that makes it sound like I was the one who crashed the plane, right?” Shane replies, voice dry.
“No,” Ilya says. “Then you would be captain of the plane. You are not. You do not even know how to fly plane. You are captain of plane crash.”
At least, Ilya assumes Shane doesn’t know how to fly a plane, but really, who knows? Ilya certainly hadn’t expected Shane to know all the other shit he’d revealed already. For all Ilya knows, Shane might spend his days off flying little planes all around Montréal.
Shane’s mouth twitches like he’s having to fight to hold back a smile, and Ilya doesn’t bother to try and repress his matching smile.
“Shut up,” Shane says again, louder this time. Ilya opens his mouth to reply, but Shane gets there first, words rushing out to beat Ilya to the punch. “You’re just mad that you’re not captain for once.”
“No,” Ilya says, more sincere than he meant to be. He hastens to cover it up, making his voice bright, teasing, as he continues. “Captain this group? No way. Too many Canadians. Why would I want to captain bronze-medal team?”
“Fuck off,” Shane says, not managing to hide this smile this time.
“I think I am alternate captain,” Ilya muses, tapping his chin. “Focus on keeping up morale, yes? So you can be Captain Serious. Captain Wilderness. Captain Paramedic.”
“I’m not— I just took one course,” Shane says, blushing again.
“Must be some course,” Ilya says skeptically.
“It was only a couple days,” Shane says, looking embarrassed. “And it was a few years ago.”
“Ah, I see,” Ilya says. “This is just more perfect Shane Hollander then.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Shane says, because he might be perfect at a lot of things, but comebacks to chirps is not one of them.
“No, is very impressive,” Ilya says, insistent. “When you decide you are tired of being second-best hockey player you can be paramedic instead. Show up in ambulance like, bonjour, I am Shane Hollander, would you like mouth-to-mouth?”
“People who need mouth-to-mouth aren’t awake, Rozanov,” Shane says, looking deliciously smug at having an actual retort this time.
“I don’t know,” Ilya says. “I was pretty awake.”
Shane’s blush gets even darker, even as he looks around to see if anyone is near them.
“You are impossible,” he hisses once he’s confirmed what Ilya had already checked—there’s no one near enough to hear them.
“I have been told,” Ilya says, feeling far more cheerful than he had been. Yakov’s earlier words are still lingering in the back of his mind, a bleak, leaden weight, but Shane doesn’t seem any different than he had the last time Ilya had spoken to him. It’s still obvious that he’s not breathing as deeply as he should, but it doesn’t seem any worse, and Ilya clings to that fact with everything he has.
He will not die, Ilya thinks, something between an order and a prayer. A command, issued to the universe. A prayer, to the God he’s not sure he really believes in anymore. Though he also maybe believes in Him more, now, than he had yesterday.
It might have been how it would have turned out regardless of divine intervention, but the frantic, desperate prayers that had run through his mind, over and over, as the plane went down had been answered.
Shane had survived.
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Celebrity Crush(ed) by thisisnotthenerd
Fandoms: Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types
22 Mar 2026
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It is a truth universally acknowledged that naming Shane Hollander as your celebrity crush does not make you gay.
It just means you love hockey.
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- Part 2 of crackin' open a cold one
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Bookmarked by mayfriend
25 Jul 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
A rookie defenseman from San Francisco says it, blushing slightly as he’s chirped but justifying it with Hollander’s shots on goal stats from their most recent game.
A vet out of Tampa calls him his celebrity crush, if only because he can’t say his wife as an answer.
A backup goalie in Toronto calls him hockey Superman, or maybe the Flash. That one gets a surprising amount of agreement from various goalies across the league. Sleep paralysis demon is the phrase that gets thrown around for a while after that.
It’s enough that Ilya can occasionally say it himself, when he feels like it. It always earns him an angry text from Jane that makes him stir in more ways than one.
The truth, of course, always stays locked away, behind hotel room doors, in dark alleyways, in dark corners where no one can look too closely.
Ilya watches Shane Hollander lift the Stanley Cup for a second year in a row as his teammates chant, “Crush! Crush! Crush!” around him, and feels his heart descend.
It’s impossible to hate him. Shane Hollander is the epitome of a nice Canadian boy, never chirping when he can outplay you, never making an illegal play when an appropriately forceful check will do, never dropping his gloves. He is quiet and kind, tossing pucks to kids in the stands and speaking to them not as children but as people, giving his time, his focus, his energy to everyone he speaks to.
And after years of endlessly chasing his rise, Ilya Rozanov can’t fall any further.
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“I’m trying to figure out,” Rose wonders aloud. “Are you always a complete prick? Just with women? Or just when you lose a game?”
Ilya barks a laugh, shocked and almost delighted, and his smile spreads wide enough that Rose can see all those pearly whites of his that are so much nicer than she expected any hockey player’s to be. “All the time,” he grins, “all the time. However much of an asshole Hollander has told you I am, double it.”
She answers truthfully, shrugs her shoulders in her tiny silver dress. “He hasn’t mentioned you at all.”
After a shitshow of an evening in a Montreal nightclub, Ilya wakes up the next morning in Shane’s bed. Only, he’s not in Shane’s bed — Rose Landry is, and he’s in Rose Landry’s body, and she’s in his. Well, what the fuck are they supposed to do with that?
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Bookmarked by mayfriend
21 Jul 2026
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“That’s the end?” he asks.
“You sound disappointed.” Ilya’s mouth twists in a smile.
“I thought it would have a happier ending, I guess.”
Ilya doesn’t think it’s happy or unhappy, necessarily. He thinks it simply is, the way life simply is sometimes. “It’s supposed to be romantic.”
“Well yeah, I got that, but — wouldn’t it be more romantic if they ended up together? Happy?”
I ask myself that question every day. Is it a confession, to acknowledge such a fundamental human truth? Would Shane, who understands so little of what’s spoken to him directly, even comprehend that this universal thing applies in their circumstance? “You can be without someone. It does not mean you love them any less.”
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lily8124
whenever rozanov gets put in the box they should put hollander in there too. he needs enrichment.lily8124
‘ohh lily then how is his team supposed to play?’ dont care. hollander chew toy for rozanov send postBookmarked by mayfriend
24 Jul 2026
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shared joy (shared sorrow) by sleepixgstars
Fandoms: Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types
22 Jun 2026
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“You speak Russian?” Ilya’s voice is simultaneously incredulous and thrilled, like he can’t quite believe it, but he’s excited all the same.
Hayden shakes his head, shrugging, still rocking Amber. “Uh, not really? I only know a few words and phrases here and there from my Deda and Baba. I understand it more than I can speak it.”
Ilya’s eyes somehow get wider. “Deda and Baba- You have Russian grandparents? You are Russian?!”
“I guess? Technically?”
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Hayden Pike never really talks about his mom's family. Ilya finds out why and decides he simply *must* fix this.
He is going to teach Hayden Pike how to be Russian, whether Hayden likes it or not.
AKA the Russian Hayden fic for my sister
Series
- Part 2 of Ilya "professional ragebaiter" Rozanov
Bookmarked by mayfriend
23 Jul 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
“Does it piss you off? The way people say your name.” Hayden asks, still focused on his pelmeni.
“Eh.” Ilya shrugs. “It did at first - I was very annoying, correcting people all the time, but… after a while, it did not matter. It doesn’t matter if they call me Rose-ah-noff or Ro-zan-ov. As long as they know my name, I don’t care how they say it, you know?”
“Huh. I hadn’t thought of that.”
Ilya smirks at him. “That is because no one knows your name, Pike.”
“Oh, fuck off, Rozanov.” Hayden rolls his eyes. He deliberately pronounces Ilya’s name correctly, because it might not be important to Ilya, but it’s important to Hayden. He’s noticed Shane says it the Russian way too, so it’s probably not unwelcome. He hopes so, at least.
Ilya just laughs and continues carefully flattening, filling, folding–
"I think my Baba used to make these."
The words come out before Hayden really thinks about them.
Ilya glances up. "Da?"
"Maybe." Hayden shrugs awkwardly. "I don't know. I was little."
The admission sits heavier than he expects.
Because that's the thing: he doesn't know. He remembers fragments.
A tiny apartment that always smelled like onions and dill. A woman with rough hands that pinched his cheeks and a warm voice that called him Vnuchek or Zayka, or sometimes Kheydenushka. A hunched man who smoked cigarettes on the balcony when his mom wasn't looking, who always scolded him for not knowing how to read Cyrillic. Russian cartoons he couldn’t understand playing on an old television with so much static you could hardly see the screen. The sound of his mom’s voice singing an old Russian lullaby he was never able to Google because he couldn’t remember the words.
But none of it connects.
It's like trying to remember a dream.
"She used to make some kind of dumpling." Hayden frowns. "Maybe these."
He remembers gnarled hands kneading dough, flour dusting countertops. A faded headscarf she once told him was a wedding present from her mother. A birthday card with loopy Cyrillic cursive that he'd had to ask his mom to help him read. A few faded photographs she had taken with her when they left Russia. He… doesn’t know what happened to those pictures, actually. His mom probably kept them after Baba died, but he has no clue where they ended up after she died.
Ilya waits.
Hayden realizes he's waiting for more.
So he keeps talking.
"I don't remember her face very well."
The words feel strange, shameful. He has never admitted that out loud before. Not to anyone, not even Jackie.
Because what kind of grandson forgets his grandmother's face?
"Oh."
Ilya's voice softens.
Hayden stares at the pelmeni in front of him. "I remember my mom's face. I remember my dad's face." He laughs weakly. "I remember the stupid ugly mascot from my peewee hockey team."
Ilya snorts.
"But I don't remember her face."