pangolinPP13



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    "Oh, it looks like you’re doing better! With those scores, I guess we won’t have to meet as often anymore." Shane was beaming, proudly looking down at the transcript. Ilya’s smile immediately dropped.

    Needless to say, he scored 20 points lower on the next midterm.

    In which popular hockey fuckboy Ilya Rozanov falls madly in love with the university's golden boy Shane Hollander. Somehow, they go from being the talk on campus to becoming that couple.

    Alternatively, my take on the Jock!Ilya x Nerd!Shane trope bc it is desperately underrepresented.

    Language:
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    13 Jun 2026

  2. Public Bookmark *

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    Shane had been used to being alone. He'd never thought of himself as lonely. He honestly often craved the solitude, found it grounding. But that was before he knew what it was like to have someone to call, someone to touch. He was never lonely before Rozanov, but he'd been lonely ever since.

    April 2017: Shane does not get laid out on the ice.

    Ilya goes through with ending it.

    Shane lets him.

    What follows is eleven months of distance, denial, and a quiet kind of devastation neither of them knows how to name, let alone fix.

    They learn how to live without each other.

    (Or at least, how to pretend.)

    And then, almost a year later, the infamous collision happens and Shane goes down cold.

    And suddenly, neither of them can pretend it doesn’t matter.

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    21 May 2026

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    “What -“ Ilya started, his voice shaky and wet with blood. The movement made Shane’s hand slip, another gush of blood spurting across his fingertips.

    “Shut up,” Shane bit in return, fraught. “Shut the fuck up.”

    Or: At the Montreal - Boston game in April 2017, it is Ilya who is injured instead of Shane.

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    20 May 2026

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    After tuna meltdown, Shane had to go back inside. What he saw changed everything.

    (Or, the lovers to friends to boyfriends fic that has eaten my brain.)

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    20 May 2026

  5. Public Bookmark *

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    “You are…” Ilya licked his bloodied teeth and tried to remember the word. “Squeamish?”

    “No,” Hollander said. His eyes were still so wide, tracing over Ilya’s bruised face like searchlights. “Fuck. Just—”

    He stepped back, stumbling a little on socked feet, and jerked his head at the doorway. Get in.

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    17 May 2026