hyperfixationbox



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    If you ask anyone who knows even the slightest bit about hockey, they would say that Shane Hollander is one of the nicest players out there. A generational talent with talks of a dynasty.

    If you ask Ilya Rozanov, he’d announce loudly that Shane Hollander is the best thing that happened to him. Don’t get it wrong; he’d still call him boring and polite and “very Canadian” and only the second best hockey player in the league. But there’d be a sparkle in his eye and a soft smile on his lips, and it wouldn’t be hard to see the pure adoration the man had for Shane Hollander. He’d mock him with “golden boy Shane Hollander,” but there’d be a thread of something hidden in his voice. Almost as if he doesn’t truly believe it.

    Or, Shane Hollander left Montreal. He's not sure if all of him did, though.

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    04 May 2026

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    It'd been easier for Shane to pretend the emotional meltdown that he'd had after their 2014 encounter in Vegas hadn't happened than to bring it up to Ilya. It'd only ever happened that one time. There's no reason to dwell on it or rehash old stuff when both of them are great at aftercare now and have been since they officially got together.

    --or, Shane definitely should've told Ilya sooner

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    03 May 2026

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    “Don’t go,” Ilya manages to choke out, burying his face under Shane’s chin and squeezing his eyes shut. He inhales sharply, pressing his nose deeper into Shane’s throat to breathe in his scent. Right now, it’s Ilya’s body soap, vanilla and spice, masked under salt and skin. He inhales it like it's his own personal supply of air, what he needs to extinguish the burning in his lungs.

    “Ilya,” Shane says, voice urgent, “you’re shaking, I—your breathing’s too fast—” He tries to pull back, needs to see Ilya’s face, needs to see what’s wrong, but Ilya just shakes his head and clings tighter.

    “Please don’t go, Shane,” Ilya whispers, pleading. I’m sorry, please don’t go, don’t go—  

    OR: ilya and shane accidentally recreate the tuna-melt day, and ilya realizes just how much old wounds hurt.

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    03 May 2026

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    ‘Hollander, you're going to have to be more specific, you have me? What more you want, marriage?’

    Laughter bubbled from Shane's throat, and Ilya's smirk melted in a soft gentle grin. ‘Not quite marriage, although I'm not opposed...But no.’ Shane paused, taking a gulp of air ‘I want you to mark me up, I want to know I'm yours.’ Shane slid his eyes shut to avoid seeing Ilya's reaction.

    ‘Ah okay, so love bites, why didn't you just say.’ Ilya nodded sagely.

    ‘God who even calls them that!’ Shane's eyes flew open. ‘Gross. And no, I want you to mark me up…inside.’ The last word was little more than a whisper. Shane scanned Ilya's face, searching for a reaction.

     

    Or...

     

    In the private tranquility of the cottage, Shane gives into his desire to be closer, physically and emotionally, in a way he never has before.

    This is my interpretation of Shane and Ilya forgoing condoms for the first time.

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    03 May 2026

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    Ilya Rozanov spoke like he knew him because he fucking did.

    “Oh my god,” Shane shrieked, the sound too loud for the space. “Oh my GOD,” Shane repeated, heart thrumming in his chest just like before.

    This was a sick, cosmic fucking joke. How hadn’t Shane put two and two together before? His memory and pattern recognition were what made him so good at his job, his ability to remember the small details others tend to over look is what made him recoil into himself because others didn’t remember minute particulars, others certainly didn’t voice them and make others uncomfortable. 

    Shane couldn’t believe it. How had he been so fucking blind? So fucking obtuse all these months with the back and forth?  

    Rose’s comment weeks ago came front and center into his mind.

    “He’s really getting under your skin, isn’t he?”

    Shane wanted to fucking die. 

    Shane Hollander knew Ilya Rozanov. How the fuck could he ever forget?

    OR

    An office AU no one asked for.

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    03 May 2026