Pretty_Lame



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    “I’m sorry,” Shane chokes, closing his eyes. Rozanov draws his hand, pulling Shane’s with it, to his face and wipes his cheeks.

    “There is nothing to be sorry for, любовь моя, it is okay,” Rozanov murmurs, tugging at Shane’s hair again. Shane exhales, letting him clean his cheeks. “You got overwhelmed, yes? It happens.”

    “I can’t be fucking normal,” Shane says quietly, whining, head falling back, pressing into Rozanov’s hand.

    “No, if you were fucking normal, you would not be my Shane.”

    // shane is a liar, and he's tired of it all. his life falls apart, and he finds that he doesn't actually mind.

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    20 May 2026

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    Shane had been up for hours already. He'd showered and shaved, then came back to bed and tucked himself under the covers, arranged them to look like he'd never left. His eyes were big and dark and too fucking awake for 6AM on a day they had nothing to do and nowhere to be.

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    16 May 2026

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    “I dare you not to know who I am. One night before it all kicks off. Like we just met, as strangers.”

    “Just me and you,” Rozanov mused, before he grinned and put out the cigarette. “You want I treat you like any other pretty boy I meet at party?”

    “I’m not pretty,” Shane objected. “But—” it sounded dangerous— “yes.”

    Tomorrow, the rivalry between Hollander and Rozanov begins. Tonight, they’re just Shane and Ilya.

    An alternate meeting AU in which Ilya doesn’t join the NHL until Shane’s second year.

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    15 May 2026

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    Rozanov looks away, breathing hard. “Does not matter,” he says. “Forget it. I should go.”

    And no. Shane doesn’t want Rozanov to go. He wants to fix whatever is wrong. He grabs Rozanov’s face and turns his head so their eyes meet.

    “Fuck, baby,” Shane breathes. “You know how good you are.”

    For a moment, he’s taken aback by Rozanov’s expression, until he realises what he just said.

    ---

    Or, five times Shane calls Ilya baby unprompted, and one time Ilya asks him to.

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    15 May 2026

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    “Good game,” Ilya snarks, he can’t help it, and Hollander shoves him hard enough into the wall that he only narrowly avoids banging his head. “You looked so hot, that goal in the second, you deserve reward—”

    “Shut the fuck up,” Hollander says, and he slams into Ilya with hardly less ferocity than they’d hit each other during the game, crushing their mouths together.

    Ilya’s vision whites out, his knees nearly buckle. He’s grateful for the wall as he grabs at Hollander and pulls him in tight, shoving a thigh between Hollander’s legs, sucking and biting at his lips, groaning loud and uninhibited as Hollander’s hand comes up to the back of his neck, fingers twisting into his curls. The kiss is furious and wet and hot and so much, Ilya is so fucking hot for it, he’s been thinking about this for weeks, reading through his text thread with Jane, jerking off almost every night with the memory of the last time playing in a loop behind his eyelids.

    He’s never wanted anything like he wants sex with Hollander, and it sort of feels like they’ve already been going at it for hours, every glance and chirp and hit on the ice has been building to this, working him, driving him fucking crazy.

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    15 May 2026