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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“Oh my god,” the intruder says, voice coming faster and higher-pitched. “Shane, what the fuck? Oh my god.”
“Eeleeyah, come to my cottage,” Ilya mocks, voice muffled by Shane’s skin. “Don’t go to Russia. Come to my house instead. Is so private. No one will know…we will be completely alone. Together.”
“Oh my god, is that Ilya Rozanov?” the intruder yelps like he's about to start hyperventilating. “Why is Ilya Rozanov half-naked in our kitchen, Shane?”
“Okay, I know how this looks,” Shane tells Ilya, “But I mean, technically, we are still alone. Together.”
or,
At the cottage, Shane and Ilya meet eighteen year old Shane Hollander. This is really only a surprise for one of them. Everyone handles it as well as can be expected.
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- Part 3 of my heated rivalry anon fics
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20 Feb 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
He fits his hands over Ilya’s face, tilts it up so he can see him better in the fading light. There’s no reason to resist the urge to give him a kiss on the forehead, so he doesn’t. Then he kisses his cheek, the bridge of his nose, his other cheek, his chin, his jawline.
“You are not mad I broke the rules?” Ilya asks, even as he leans up into Shane’s lips, eyes fluttering shut under the delicate treatment.
Shane shakes his head, rubs his thumb over the line of Ilya’s cupid’s bow and then shakes his head again. He loves him so much he can’t stand it sometimes. It’s even harder to bear, now that it doesn’t hurt anymore. It feels like he’s swallowed a miniature sun. He doesn’t know how he’s just supposed to keep it inside him without letting anyone else see, not when it feels like he’s burning up on the inside. Not when it feels like he could play on a hundred hockey rinks wearing just a shirt and shorts and never be cold again.
“Not this time,” he mutters, kissing the curve of Ilya’s cheekbones, twisting them on the couch so he can climb on top of him, nestle as close as he can get without crawling into Ilya’s skin. “Don’t do it again, obviously, but—no, this was good. We needed this.”
“What do you mean?” Ilya asks, tilting his head up and looking at Shane through half-lidded eyes. His hands have yet to let go of their tight grip on his shoulders. Maybe—yeah, okay. Maybe Shane should have been more explicit about what happens when Hollanders go back to their correct timeline. He sees that now. “I forget to compost banana peel, you get angry and call me oil-country tree murderer, but I tell younger self that we are in love and get together, and hm, this is fine?”
Shane leans back, as far as Ilya’s hands will let him. He blinks down at his boyfriend. He feels...shocked. He feels sort of shocked. He can’t believe Ilya doesn’t know, doesn’t get it. But then—Ilya has had maybe five minutes of living in a world with those words. Shane’s had eight years of clutching them close to him like they’re rosary beads.
“I wish I could say it is so simple,” he says. Recites. His thumb rubs along Ilya’s jaw, up to carefully move an errant curl back into place. “But it is not. We make it very complicated, but is beautiful. Beautiful and complicated.”
“Shane?”
“I will not be…there are things, in my mind. Maybe it is difficult for both of us. But I think about you many, many times. Very often. I do stupid things to get your attention. For many years. And there is good hockey, in between. And bad hockey.”
“Shane,” Ilya says, like a prayer. His eyes are wide, wet. He gets it now, maybe. A part of it, at least.
“And when I see you, it is hard to look away for many years,” Shane murmurs, bending down so he can ghost his lips across Ilya’s mouth. “Until I realize I don’t ever want to stop looking at you, not ever.”
Ilya’s arms wrap around his back and crush him into his chest, like he’s afraid someone will come and take him away. Like he’d rather die than let that happen. “You…all of it?”
“I remember it,” Shane agrees. “All of it, of course I do. It was—God, I thought about this all the fucking time. I couldn’t believe it when I got drafted, when I won the cup, when we first...but I knew this was going to happen.” He kisses him, because there’s no good reason not to, and Ilya’s face is wet like one of them is crying a little bit. Maybe both of them are. “It was fucking awful, some parts,” he mutters, and Ilya’s hands tighten then loosen like he knows and agrees.
Shane shakes his head, rushing to get ahead of Ilya thinking any of it was his fault alone. “I wasn’t…I wasn’t ready to face it all, anyway,” he says. “Like the—the being gay stuff. And the being in love with a guy part. But I knew it was going to happen. That it would work out. Because you told me. Fuck, you were the first person to tell me that it was okay. Of course I didn’t forget that.”
Shane could travel to a thousand different moments of his life, relive the whole thing, however many years he ends up getting, and he’d never forget that. Never forget being eighteen years old and holding out his darkest, most shameful secret in his hands and someone cupping his palms with all the love in the world in their eyes and saying, This? Oh, sweetheart, this is nothing.
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Shane sends him a text that says 'thinking about your cock' with a picture of his rippling abs, and even though Ilya really appreciates the abs, all he can think about is the faint bruise blooming on Shane's ribs, and whether it hurts him very badly, and whether there's anything Ilya could do to make it hurt less, if he were there. He wants to be there, he realizes. He wants to be there for the rest of his life.
He has to duck out of the team weight room so he can cough up a fistful of petals.
So.
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Or: Ilya gets Hanahaki disease.
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- Part 6 of my anonymous heated rivalry fic
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Bookmarked by mayfriend
20 Feb 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
“It’s going to kill you,” Marly says. “You’re letting it kill you. I just don’t understand what could be worth that.”
Grunting, Ilya pushes himself to his feet. He aches all over, but then he always aches all over, now. Like without enough oxygen his body is always playing catch-up with recovery. The injuries are stacking up faster than ever before.
“Luckily, you do not have to understand,” Ilya says, because how could he possibly explain it? Of course he knows he’s not in Russia now. He could get the surgery. Most people would. Sure, he wouldn’t be able to return home at the end of it, but it’s better to live a long life in America than to die a young man on Russian soil.
But if Ilya got the surgery, he wouldn’t live a long life in America. He wouldn’t. It would be some other person, the person he was before he fell in love with Shane Hollander. The cocky nineteen-year-old who thought he could fuck a hot rival two or three times a year and never think about it again, the arrogant little shit who was terrified telling anyone anything about himself lest they hurt him with it, the dumb little boy who still shied away when his father raised his voice—
That person is gone. The person Ilya is now—he can’t claim to be an unbiased observer. But he likes to think he’s better, now, than he was before he loved Shane. If Ilya loses that love, he’s not sure he won’t lose himself right along with it.
It’s an obvious decision. Perhaps the most obvious decision he’s ever made.
And, hey: when Ilya was a kid, he always loved the idea of being a martyr. Someone who sacrificed a lot, endured a lot of pain, but earned respect and honor, a man of principles.
A martyr for love wasn’t quite what he had in mind, but it’s better than nothing.
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I'm Reading Your Lips (You're Speaking My Language) by some1_around
Fandoms: Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid
22 Dec 2025
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Rozanov cocked his head. “You speak Russian? Or just the curse words?”
“Yes, I speak Russian,” he snapped, defensive and angry. He knew that it had been a mistake to even try to be friendly with Rozanov. “Why? Do I not look Russian to you?” He scoffed.
“No, not really,” Rozanov said. Some of his teammates laughed, although they mostly looked surprised that Shane was speaking to them at all. Rozanov didn’t laugh, though. “Are you Russian?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
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Despite an inauspicious start, when Russia’s Ilya Rozanov learns that Canada’s Shane Hollander is fluent in Russian at their first World Junior Championships tournament, it changes everything and sets them on a different course. Instead of being branded as rivals from the very beginning, Ilya and Shane start off as friends.
And, after all, a little friendly rivalry never hurt anyone, did it?
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- Part 1 of Competition is Better With a Friend
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Bookmarked by mayfriend
19 Feb 2026
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Bookmarker's Notes
Ilya turned and lay down on the couch, putting his head on Shane’s thigh. Shane shifted slightly so he could cross his legs and cradle Ilya’s head and neck in his lap. Slowly, he slid his fingers through his curls. Shane felt compelled to whisper, like if he raised his voice, it might shatter the world around them. “Is this weird?” he asked.
“Is what?” Ilya said.
“I don’t know,” he murmured. “Sitting here. Talking like this. We don’t… do this that often.”
“I like listening to you talk,” Ilya said.
Shane felt his eyes burn and had to look away. “I like it too, but you know what I mean.”
“Do I?”
Shane huffed. “Ilya, we share two languages, and we’ve talked about almost everything there is to talk about, but we’ve… we’ve never had a single conversation about us. You know?”
“In Russia, when I needed to talk, you let me,” Ilya said, contradicting him. “My birthday, two years ago, you needed to yell at me, and you did. Right now, we don’t need it, so maybe it feels different because we are not desperate, no, but… we can still talk. I like talking with you. I like your voice.”
“I like your voice too,” Shane admitted. Ilya’s eyes were on him, and they were so fucking familiar; those eyes had been watching him for nine fucking years. How could Shane ever look away? “I could listen to you talk for hours. About anything. Even if I didn’t understand the words.”
It was so close to a confession. Like dangling a foot over a hundred-foot drop without knowing if you had a parachute or not.
“I’d listen to you speak French, if you wanted,” Ilya said, eyes slipping shut like he was drifting off to sleep. “I don’t care what you say. You could read out your grocery list to me. I’d listen.”
Shane wanted to close his eyes, too, but he couldn’t tear them off Ilya’s face. “Is that what you want?” he asked in French.
Ilya’s lips quirked up. He responded as if he understood. “Yes.”
“Okay,” Shane murmured. He stroked his fingers along Ilya’s precious skull and stared at a face that he adored so much it hurt him, deep in his gut and in his chest. He wanted him, fiercely and desperately, and he wanted this, tuna melts, ginger ale, and conversation, spread across three languages, or more than that. He took a deep breath. Parachute, he thought.
“I kind of want to tell you how I really feel, but I think you would recognize the words if I did, and I suspect that you’re listening in, trying to hear them. Maybe that’s just delusional hope, though. But yeah. That’s right. I’m hoping that you’re listening to me with your eyes closed, and praying that you hear the only French words that everybody knows. How many words do you recognize, Ilya?” Shane saw his eyelashes flutter, but he didn’t open them. “Would you recognize the word 'oui '? ‘Non?’ Or, I don’t know, ‘je m'appelle… Shane?’ Okay, what about ‘baguette?’”
Ilya laughed, shoulders shaking in Shane’s lap. “What are you saying?” he muttered, brow furrowing, and Shane smiled helplessly, happy he had guessed correctly.
“I knew it, you eavesdropper,” he said, pulling on Ilya’s curls gently. “I think I know what you want to hear. Mon ami? Not quite. Mon chéri? That’s a little closer. In Canada, maybe I would call you mon chum, but I never liked that. Ma blonde? Non, but it does fit you. I know what you want to hear, Ilya.” He leaned down, his body curled over Ilya’s like he could shield him from the world they lived in, and the decision they were about to make. “Mon amour.”
Ilya opened his eyes. Shane grinned.
“Je t’aime,” he whispered. “Aishiteru.” He swallowed. “I love you. Ya lyublyu tyebya.” He closed his eyes and concentrated, and he didn’t think about whether his pronunciation was perfect or about what people would have to say about him or his family or his grandfather as he said, “Bi chamd khairtai.” He smiled a little, and the tears welling in his eyes spilled over. One splashed onto Ilya’s cheek, and he blinked. “But you already knew that.”
Ilya reached up slowly. The tips of his fingers brushed Shane’s cheeks as light as gossamer, then slid across his face, up and back, until they ran through the silky strands of his hair. His thumbs settled on the sides of his mouth. “Je t’aime,” he said clumsily. “A-Ay-eesh-i-ter-oo?” Shane nodded, smiling brightly. Ilya pulled him down and kissed him. “I love you. Ya lyublyu tyebya.” The English and Russian rolled off his tongue quickly, both fluent. “Teach me how to say the last one,” Ilya murmured desperately.
“Bi chamd….”
“Bi chamd….”
“Khair-tai.”
“Khair-tai. Bi chamd khairtai. Bi chamd khairtai, Shane.”
“Those were the only Mongolian words my grandma knew,” Shane confessed.
Ilya kissed him again. “I will learn more,” he promised.
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The NHL Edict by nineteenohtwo
Fandoms: Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Heated Rivalry (TV)
08 Jan 2026
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The Athletic NHL ✅ @TheAthleticNHL
In its latest rulebook update, the NHL quietly added a ban on PDA on the ice. Is this merely coincidence or a response to Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov’s now iconic Stanley Cup kiss?Series
- Part 6 of Hit Post
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Bookmarked by mayfriend
19 Feb 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
mads 🏒💔 @goaliegirlie
Can’t believe giving your husband a little kissykiss on the ice is now just as forbidden as straight up biting another playersyd @slapshotsecrets
Replying to @goaliegirlie
I hereby implore Ilya Rozanov to start biting peopleOttawa Centaurs ✅ @OttawaCentaurs
Replying to @goaliegirlie @slapshotsecrets
See here's what we’re not going to do -
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Summary
Ilya and Shane make a private video, too bad it doesn’t stay private…
Bookmarked by mayfriend
19 Feb 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
What do you even say?
Sorry I didn’t delete it because I was selfish and horny and lonely and stupid and I thought it belonged to me. Sorry I lost my phone and some asshole found it and decided your life was content. Sorry I might have ruined you.