oddlyenough
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All it takes is one principled stand for Shane Hollander's life to completely unravel.
As he tries to untangle the thread, he finds that every end leads back to Ilya Rozanov.
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Media: Here is the goodest most normal boy.
Me: Oh so he’s a lil fucked up, got it. Here he is developing a bruise kink on top of everything else going on.Something’s different, just in general. Like wearing sunglasses, a filter of sorts over everything, but if Shane was in any way honest with himself, he’d know it was more like going without for the first time.
He’s painfully aware of his body these days; how it looks, how it moves, how it responds to… stimuli. And it is responding, lately. His bruises, too: always just there, so used to them they’d barely registered anymore, but recently there’s been a sort of constant hum of them at the edge of his awareness. It’s a layer of input he really doesn’t need right now, busy as he is.
But he’s been woken up. Restless. Needy.
Late in bed, when all his chores are done, fingers travel up to his collarbone, where the newest acquisition is waiting for him.
Bookmarked by oddlyenough
22 Jan 2026
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A crime, an article, a reckoning.
Shane just stared at the phone, his jaw tightening, but said nothing. Let the hum of conversation wash over him. A sick dip of anxiety into his stomach.
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Nothing good happened on a Friday.Someone tried to rob Ilya Rozanov’s house. Shane Hollander didn’t know the man in the kitchen, but he knew how to keep moving. How to take a blow.
By the time he hit the ice, the story was already out. Hockey, fear, loyalty, and the things you didn’t say all collided at full speed.
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“Why did you even come here?”
“I came to get laid,” Ilya says honestly. “But my friend is not well, so.”
Shane jerks his chin towards the door.
“Still time,” he mutters.
Bookmarked by oddlyenough
18 Jan 2026
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“If you don’t come here, I will come to you.”
“Rozanov.”
“I will drive,” Ilya tells him without sympathy. “Park illegally in my big muscle car. Everyone will notice. Lots of photos, probably.”
Shane rubs his forehead. He gets to his feet and glances at his bag, still packed, on the hotel dresser.
“I hate your car,” he says, at last.
“Yes, I know,” Ilya says. It sounds like he’s smiling.
Bookmarked by oddlyenough
18 Jan 2026