UnhingedAnhinga



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    It’s just something else on top of everything that’s going on. The light in the room is still dim, the cigarette in his mouth unlit, his hands slack at his sides. It had been going so well before tonight. Ilya had been able to ignore Hollander’s text for months after the moment he talked to him in Sochi. But he had underestimated the way his body would react to the proximity of Hollander. Ilya can say no to his needs if he wants to. He drinks because he likes to, he fucks because he wants to, but at any point he can stop, and he has, when necessary.

    Saying no to Hollander should be easy. But of course, Ilya doesn’t want to. It doesn't matter that it is not good for any of them.

    or

    the dom drop Ilya fic.

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    27 Apr 2026

  2. Public Bookmark *

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    Rozanov posts on Instagram a lot. Not on his feed, but his stories.

    Every time he lands in a city, he posts a story. Usually it's just back of his seat, or sometimes the view out the window—on the tarmac, never anything exciting, one of just many cities their lives are broken up into—and a location tag. Low effort.

    It’s pretty obvious what it is. Guys laugh about it, call it Rozanov’s Fuck Signal. The easiest way to get the hot girls who follow him to slide into his DMs.

    Easy pussy.

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    27 Apr 2026

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    “What did she look like?” asked Hollander.

    “She was brunette,” said Ilya. Marleau’s eyes trailed along the hard lines of his traps, past the glint of his crucifix, the swells of his pectorals, towards the trail of hair disappearing into his shorts. They landed on the thickening outline of his cock. “Pretty little thing, with freckles. Big, brown dumb eyes, begging to be made to cry.”

    Hollander’s breath hitched. Marleau realized, perhaps belatedly, that this was a game in which truth was incidental.

    In 2014, Ilya and Marleau went to Paris on a girl to celebrate the Stanley Cup win. Ten years later, on a balmy evening spent in the Hollander-Rozanov Ottawa home, Marleau reminisces and, courtesy of Shane and Ilya, re-enacts.

    It’s just a game of play pretend.

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    27 Apr 2026

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    JJ didn't think the others saw it. Hayden, maybe, but Jackie was the only WAGs's name Shane had committed to memory so Hayden never brought it up. JJ didn't have a wife or girlfriend. He had his hookups and the names of the best restaurants in each city they player in. If JJ had a dog, Shane would probably mix its name up with Drapeau's. The others didn't get that however pathetic or sad they might think Shane, Shane thought the same of them tenfold when they missed shots at practice or ate fast food on weekdays. Shane wasn't being prissy or funny when he said, don't embarass me—JJ still doesn't know exactly what it was, but he doesn't care to find out.

    Shane had poured everything into his team (possessively: it was his team) and he asked them to give it back that day, so they delivered. When Shane smiled at them afterwards, it felt like love.

    Character study on neurotic batshit hardass Captain Shane Hollander. The awe-inspiring and aloof Canadian Hockey Jesus Shane Hollander. Unwilling MHL sex icon Shane Hollander, the face on many mens' dart boards.

    or, JJ on the enigma of (his feelings for) Shane Hollander over the years.

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    27 Apr 2026

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    Coming out to the Pike's was not the plan for the evening.

    It wasn't even in the top 10 list.

    And yet, here Shane is, sitting on their living room floor, having fought Rose Landry to get his phone back, and making a Face. He knows he is making a face, he can feel his forehead scrunching and his jaw aching and he can do nothing about it except wait for -

    "So who's Lily?!"

    Fuck.


    This is mostly a series of vignettes focusing on Shane's friendships with Rose, Jackie and Hayden, in that order.

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    27 Apr 2026