featherhearted



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    Shane doesn't have anything against fighting in hockey. Truly he doesn't. But there are a million different things to love about playing on the same team as Ilya Rozanov, and watching him stew in the penalty box like a caged animal is near the bottom of that list for Shane.

    Ilya can't keep out of the box, so he's not allowed to put it in anymore.

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    02 Feb 2026

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    Sometimes life came at you with a clenched fist and Ilya had never figured out how to duck.

    So here he was, twenty-eight years old, single, dealing with the fallout from injuries given to him by the game he loved, and the second youngest assistant coach in the league to one of the worst teams. Stability was hard to come by, but he was managing.

    Then along came Shane Hollander to knock him on his ass, one more time.

    Series
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    10/10
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    26 Jan 2026

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    “No one is going to kill me. Except maybe you,” says Ilya, sprawling in the chair across from her. “I didn't need any of the other bodyguards and I don't need this one.”

    “You're going to have to talk to him sooner or later.” Svetlana turns her attention back to Hollander. “Ilya doesn't take the threats against him seriously.”

    “He's not my first client to feel that way,” he says. He has brown eyes and freckles, a spray of them across the bridge of his nose. “Can you tell me more about the threats?”

    “Of course.” She gestures to the chair next to Ilya and pulls out a binder for Hollander. “He came out as bisexual last year and the threats started not long after.”

    “I receive a lot of good mail too,” says Ilya. “DMs, letters, even photos. Very nice ones.”

    “The binder for dick pics you've gotten is ten times as thick,” says Svetlana. Ilya opens his mouth to crack another joke, but she holds up her hand. “Yes, yes, like your dick. Get some new material.”

    --

    Ilya retired from hockey and became a model. His agent thinks he needs a bodyguard. Enter Shane Hollander.

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    19 Jan 2026

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    “No,” he says, smiling gently, like he doesn't know how irritating he's being. “Is my room first, da? You should speak with front desk.”

    Hollander stares at him.

    And then he starts to laugh.

    You ask the front desk,” he shoots back, in between his odd wheezes. Ilya's heart starts to pound in double time, because this is not—this cannot be Shane Hollander playing bed chicken with him. Their competitiveness is fierce, to be certain, but surely, Hollander would be the bigger person, no? “This is my fucking room, Rozanov. Wild horses couldn't drag me away.”

    OR: Ilya's apartment is under construction. Shane's in town for a game. It'd be a shame if they somehow had the same hotel room.

    [or, or: we need some more goddamn 'there was only one bed' out here.]

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    05 Jan 2026

  5. Public Bookmark *

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    Shane knows he shouldn't, and yet he still does, or: every hookup Shane and Ilya should've had between 2011 and 2013. Because TV budgets aren't infinite, but our need for smut between these two is.

    They shuck all their clothing off—Shane doesn’t even bother to fold his, he’s too hungry, too impatient—but as he moves to pull Rozanov towards him and into bed, he’s arrested by Rozanov’s grip on his forearm.

    He follows the direction of Rozanov’s gaze and finally remembers: the bruise. He hasn’t paid much attention to it. Hasn’t felt it, really, since Rozanov has stepped into the room.

    It’s a real beauty, about the size of his palm, and dark purple-blue. Rozanov is staring at it like he’s hypnotized.

    “I did that,” he says, half question, half statement.

    “Probably,” Shane says.

    “No, it was me,” Rozanov says, and this time he sounds absolutely certain. He brushes gentle fingertips over it; Shane shivers.

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    Language:
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    05 Jan 2026