crashqueen



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    His outstretched glove hangs there, frozen, as the noise of the arena mutates into a ringing buzz. Then he’s moving, pushed away by Marlow, and then Boston’s goalie. There’s a flurry of movement, a trainer with a towel, more blood dripping onto the ice, and he just. Stands there. Staring.

    Ilya is helped off the ice. Shane doesn’t even tap his stick.

    Remember when Sidney Crosby caught a puck with his jaw? That doesn't happen to Shane. That happens to Ilya.

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    29 May 2026

  2. Public Bookmark *

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    unconnected hollanov/heated rivalry fics all by the same author (it's me, i'm the author) // blanket permission for translations (posted on ao3/linked), podfics (posted on ao3/linked), art of any kind inspired by the fics in this collection! i would love to know about them though

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    14 Mar 2026

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    “This is hard to talk about,” is all he says, though he knows it will amount to nothing.

    Shane’s fingertips are feather-soft on his chest. “You have to.”

    He has to, because Shane and Ilya have this thing, now, this agreement. Nothing is too hard to talk about. Nothing is off limits. They have to be bare, have to surrender the deepest crevice of their soul to one another. And Ilya, for whom this is easier said than done, whose chest carries a perpetual weight, an immovable mass, it’s all worth it – worth the relief smoothing over Shane’s features, the reassurance that he’s not worried anymore, that Ilya can give him this peace, albeit only a fragment of what Shane gives him by just being there when he wakes up. He would never say it, but he thinks that what he has to offer to Shane amounts to nothing – nothing compared to what Shane does, what Shane is, by simply nuzzling into his chest and sighing into his sleep, late at night when all Ilya can do is lay awake and just feel.

    “I need more,” Ilya says. “And is nothing you can do. I need you inside me, and it feels terrible.” He swallows, with great difficulty. God. “I need to– I need to eat you.”

    or, Ilya never knew love can hurt this good

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    01 Mar 2026

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    Shane had spent time—a lot of time, really—thinking about retirement. It came with the territory; on average, hockey players retired in their 30s, with a few outliers playing into their 40s. The really good ones got maybe three decades out of it all before putting the stick down and hanging the jersey up. In his mind, Shane liked to think he’d be one of them, playing till he hit forty-five, ending on some high note—the Centaurs winning their nth or so Cup, maybe—before fading, slowly, into the background.

    It turned out it would all just end in a random game, with a random team, boom— all so definitively over that Shane was left falling, completely flailing, clueless about any next step.

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    25 Feb 2026

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    The picturesque village of Buell, Maine is one of the last in the United States to continue the tradition of the “harvest” or “prosperity” lottery. Its residents insist the lottery makes them stronger, even as condemnation from outsiders grows.

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    24 Jan 2026