Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Original Characters

Additional Tags:

Soft Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Knits, Certified Loverboy Ilya Rozanov, Certified Horny Ilya Rozanov, Hand Jobs, Scent kink maybe? i'm not sure but it gets the job done for Ilya!, Scent Kink

Language:

English

Series:

Part 3 of the knitsey scale

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-29 Words: 2,853 Chapters: 1/1

i wanna hover with no shape

Summary

Ignoring his hard-on (for now) Ilya sits on the couch, alone in his apartment with his hands limply at his sides while he takes a beat, his brain reorganizing itself with the reality where one of the sexiest photos Ilya has ever seen of Shane exists and is out in the world and Shane is wearing the scarf that Ilya knit. Inhale, exhale.

Distantly Ilya thinks about his ice-cold cool guy we-can-fuck-however-you-want persona. He waves at it from the shore as that Ilya sets off for Valinor never to be seen again. Price and Marleau hosted a Lord of the Rings watch party once when they were snowed in in Calgary. Ilya liked it more than he anticipated, sue him.

Notes

This was going to be a "trip to the yarn store" maybe multi chapter addition, but then it got waylaid by smut and it felt crazy to start the work with come on his chest and then chapter two is like "i'm in a yarn store! 😀"

Don't fear! the yarn store is coming, but for now enjoy the one shot!

title is from Wreath by Perfume Genius

Thursday afternoon finds Ilya sitting on the couch, hair damp from his shower after morning skate, scrolling through his twitter feed. His attention is flitting between his phone and the LA Kings getting decimated at low volume on the television. Pausing his scroll, he watches the Portland team intercept a particularly sloppy pass, the Winterhawks taking possession. Rolling his eyes, Ilya refocuses back on his phone screen as he continues to move through his feed.

His fingers stutter as he sees a familiar shade of maroon flash past. Instantly Ilya scrolls back up in his feed, his thumb stilling when he comes to the photo, a familiar mix of excitement and desire bubbling in his chest. Ilya stares down yet another picture of Shane wearing the scarf. Make no mistake, Ilya wants, oh how he wants, to be with Shane–in photos, in his home, in his day-to-day life, for all the little moments to no longer be mediated by a screen–but Ilya cannot deny the thrill of seeing Shane like this.

Ilya loves all the candid shots of Shane walking the streets of Montreal. He saves them to a private album inconspicuously named “recipes.” But this shot of Shane? This shot is devastating. Shot in profile, Shane is captured walking down the sidewalk looking ahead; his shoulders loose, gait relaxed, with his hands tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket. The pink in his cheeks make his freckles stand out even more. And his hair, oh his hair. Ilya can tell that Shane has foregone his monthly trip to the barber in the way that the strands are caressing the top of his ear, curling slightly around the shell. Ilya’s mouth waters as he zeroes in on Shane’s hair, tracing the path it takes as it brushes across the tip of his ear. Shane’s hair wasn’t long by any means, just grown enough to make Shane’s current look a little shaggy, a little unkempt, like he just woke up and rolled out of bed (even though Ilya knows Shane would never do this). Regardless, Shane looks good, like really good–unbearably good–stylish and poised, confident as he makes his way down the street. If this is the quality of style Shane is going to exhibit on the street Ilya should send flowers to his new stylist.

Already this photo is one of Ilya’s tops tops tops. It was already a foregone conclusion that he would be revisiting this image, but nevertheless he finds his attention being pulled away from Shane’s coif as Ilya’s gaze falls to his neck–the low voices on the television slow down and stretch out, eventually fading to a slight ringing noise as Ilya’s breath comes heavier.

The scarf. Shane is wearing the scarf.

Sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth, Ilya studies the way the scarf, wrapped three times around with the last wrap brought up to his chin, caresses Shane’s neck. Ilya hones in on the fibrous edge that he brought forth from his own two hands, the way that edge grazes the boundary of Shane’s bottom lip, half of his smile hiding in its folds, his eyes bright as they lock onto the lens.

Shane is breathtaking.

Ilya’s heart stutters–too much too much–adrenaline in his throat, before everything slams back into reality and he finds himself torn between being in awe about the fact that Shane is wearing something he made; wearing it in public, getting photographed in it–like a part of Ilya gets to touch him, to comfort him, to warm him, to be with him–Shane is in public with the scarf, with Ilya draped across his body from three-hundred miles away; and being desperately unbearably aroused. His dick is insistent against the seam of his sweats.

“Holy fuck. Hollander,” Ilya swears as he grinds up into his palm, his phone close to his face as he drinks in every pixel he can of the man he loves. Ilya has found a surprise oasis in the desert of his desire. Exhaling, he removes his hand from his aching dick. He makes sure to wipe it on his sweats before saving the photo “recipes.” And he bookmarks the tweet. Can never be too safe.

Despite the photo being almost painful to look at in its beauty and overwhelming in what it represents, Ilya knows that it’s going to run his life this week. Ilya adds paparazzi to the people-that-should-receive-an-anonymous-bouquet-or-maybe-steak-dinner mental list that he guesses he’s starting today. Ilya commits himself to it. This quality of art should be rewarded.

Ignoring his hard-on (for now) Ilya sits on the couch, alone in his apartment with his hands limply at his sides while he takes a beat, his brain reorganizing itself to the reality where one of the sexiest photos Ilya has ever seen of Shane exists and is out in the world and Shane is wearing the scarf that Ilya knit. Inhale, exhale. Distantly Ilya thinks about his ice-cold cool guy we-can-fuck-however-you-want persona. He waves at it from the shore as that Ilya sets off for Valinor never to be seen again. Price and Marleau hosted a Lord of the Rings watch party once when they were snowed in in Calgary. Ilya liked it more than he anticipated, sue him.

Ilya suddenly physically aches to be in Shane’s presence again. Bitterly, he realizes that it’s doubtful the scarf still smells like him. His scent probably dissipated into the air weeks ago. Ilya is torn between pain over this thought–the idea that he can just waft away–and intense delightful pleasure in thinking about the fact that if his scent is gone it means that it’s been replaced by Shane. Shane inhabits that scarf now, his scent, his skin, his oils, his essence soaking into Ilya’s scarf, the yarn gently holding Shane’s ineffability for when Ilya is able to see him next.

Ilya’s hand slides down his chest towards his sweats as his mind wanders. He imagines himself snooping around Shane’s room the next time they are together (in two weeks). Ilya would silently snoop through Shane’s closet and drawers to find the scarf while Shane is in the bathroom cleaning up (or better yet getting ready, Ilya’s traitorous mind supplies). His stomach tightens as his fingers lightly tug along the line of hair leading down to his groin. This isn’t a fresh path for Ilya’s mind to wander down. He’s already painstakingly decanted his cologne into a travel size atomizer. Ilya is prepared for this moment when it arises.

The Kings game babbles quietly in the background as Ilya continues to lose himself in the fantasy; how he would search Shane’s room naked while the other man was in the bathroom, find the scarf, bring it up to his face to inhale the new scent deeply. Ilya can feel the way his exhale will dampen the scarf, the yarn expanding slightly as it absorbs Ilya’s humid warmth, layering it on top of past remnants of Shane’s same warmth.

The tips of Ilya’s fingers sneak beneath his waistband, nails catching at the rough hair above his cock. He drags the pads of his fingers left to right, left to right.

Ilya would inhale again, holding the mixed particles of the two of them in his chest until it became painful. He would exhale, spritz the scarf three times–one on the end, one on the middle, and one on the other end–and then he would silently replace the scarf in its spot, return his cologne to his bag, and join Shane in the restroom.

Ilya wonders how long it would take the scent to dissipate again. He’s never had enough time with Shane at once to know. Ilya deflates slightly, his hand slackening in his sweats as his thoughts turn maudlin. But–actually? Ilya perks up again thinking–actually, he’s never truly gone because the scarf is tangible. It’s the first tangible real thing that Ilya has ever given Shane. Not even that, it’s the first tangible real thing that Ilya has ever given Shane and it's seeing the light of day; it's been observed by others, noticed by others, commented on by others.

Ilya snags his phone with his free hand, tapping into the comments. There is a marked uptick in the amount of comments, but that makes sense because this photo is exceptional. But yes! There it is; a few users calling this scarf out as a repeat article of clothing for Shane. Ilya soars. He quickly scrolls through the rest. No one has any suspicions about the scarf; what it means or what it signifies or who made it. And how would they? The truth is so farfetched as to be inconceivable. Ilya feels giddy.

Instead of making him feel small, that inconceivability makes Ilya bold. His claim is on Hollander for all to see. Hollander has dozens of brand deals–organizations that lay claim to his wardrobe, his diet, his image, his body. There are thousands of pairs of hands involved in every stitch, every follicle of Shane’s outward appearance; dozens of decisions made for him on a daily basis. But there is only one pair of hands involved in making that scarf. The one personal decision Shane made about his appearance before leaving his house was to wear something that Ilya made him, to wear it again and again and again–to wear it enough that a small faction of eagle-eyed fans noticed.

The post-game analysis drones on in the background as Ilya lifts his hips to shimmy his sweats down, his hand now firmly down his pants. So no, even if his scent isn’t on the scarf any longer, Shane is still his. He pervades in Shane’s life in a way that has been photographed multiple times. Ilya looks back down at the photo. His cock twitches in his grasp as Ilya firmly commits to this moment (mine mine mine).

What would Shane do if he walked into Ilya’s house this moment? If this picture was taken while Shane was out to grab coffee after waking up in Ilya’s bed? Ilya pumps his cock once, twice, three times, his legs spreading further, the stitching on his sweatpants cracking as the seams are stretched to their limit. Would Shane scoff at his boyfriend, panting on the couch, so desperate for it that he couldn’t even wait until the real thing came home, so desperate he had to satisfy himself with a paparazzi photo?

No. No, Shane would not laugh, Shane would be glorious.

Ilya can picture the pause as he turns the corner and takes in Ilya gasping with his hand down his pants. Ilya would tilt the phone towards him so that Shane could see his image on the screen. Ilya can envision the way that Shane’s eyes would sharpen, the moment coming into focus for him. Ilya can see him coming into the room, broad shoulders shrugging out of his jacket as he passes Ilya on the couch to make his way to the kitchen. Shane would leave his jacket folded over a dining chair before getting a glass of water. Ilya imagines the slight clink as he leaves it on the dining table (on a coaster of course) before making his way back to the couch.

Ilya’s thumb swipes over the top of his cock, gathering the precome there to ease the way on the next one, two, three pumps. Ilya swallows, his breath coming faster, breathing out slight ah ah ah’s as his abs clench with every stroke. Sweat starts to prickle his brow as Shane would come around the couch to straddle his thighs, the ends of the scarf brushing Ilya’s bare chest, the denim rough on his legs.

Ripped out of him, Ilya’s groan cuts through the silence of his apartment. Ilya squeezes his eyes shut as his head falls back.

Shane would remove Ilya’s hand from his cock and replace it with his own, leaning down to share air with him, breathing into his mouth. In and out and in and out. Ilya can almost feel the humidity of Shane’s breath on his face. Ilya presses his head harder into the back of the couch as his hand speeds up on his cock. Shane would close the gap between their lips, kissing him slow and wet, his tongue sliding into Ilya’s waiting mouth soft and slick and sinister in its expertise as his hand would slowly jack Ilya, the heat searing on his cock.

In the photo Shane’s lips are slightly chapped from the cold, a small piece of skin sticking up from a split down the center. A small sound escapes from Ilya as he thinks about pulling Shane’s bottom lip into his mouth, his teeth scraping that piece of skin off and swallowing it, that sliver of Shane becoming his own private communion at the altar of their making. Shane’s hand wouldn’t falter in its rhythm–up, slight twist, then down and then up, slight twist, then down as he kisses Ilya. His other hand would come up to slowly unwrap the scarf from around his own neck.

On the couch, eyes glazed over and breath coming in pants, Ilya slows his hand on his cock, fully overtaken by his fantasy. Shane would take care to wrap the scarf around Ilya’s neck, holding the ends in the unoccupied fist to make sure nothing gets on his scarf. Ilya knows Hollander is particular about his clothing and he knows that this scarf is at the top of “Must Care For” list. Shane’s hand would grasp the ends of the scarf close to Ilya’s neck, holding it tight in his fist, the scarf tightening around Ilya’s neck.

Ilya’s stroke quickens, his thumb rubbing over the head again collecting whatever he can to ease the way. Ilya is barely conscious of the slick slap slap slap of his hand on his cock. What would it feel like? To have that scarf so full of Shane wrapped around his neck, pulling snug, Shane’s fist holding the leash pulling Ilya’s up up up, his back arching off the couch, pulled in by Shane forcing him to crane into a kiss as he tightens the scarf furth–

Distantly aware of a high pitched Ah! that tumbles down into a groan, Ilya’s back arches in a pantomime of his imagination as his release paints his abdomen, leaving him gasping for air as his ears ring. Although he’s ridden his crest, Ilya’s hand still furiously works his cock yes yes yes yesssss one final exhaled groan as his cock kicks, one last spurt of come dribbling down the shaft. Ilya sinks back into the couch, his chest heaving. “Fuckkk. Ni khrena sebe…” Ilya exhales, his heart thumping rapidly in his ears. “Fucking hell, that was crazy,” Ilya laughs. “Holy shit.”

Ilya stays on the couch—cock soft on his thigh, come tacky on his chest—for a long time.

So yeah, Ilya will smell the scarf, inhale the scent of Shane’s neck, his tenderness, his life into his nostrils and hold it in his chest feeling everywhere that Shane took Ilya with him while they were apart and then Ilya will exhale, spray the scarf with his cologne, and place it gently back in the drawer he found it in, and join his boyfriend in the shower to take his communion again.

Later, after peeling himself off the couch and cleaning up, Ilya is looking at the photo while he waits for his DoorDash. Zooming in again on his ear, he notices that Hollander’s ears are red from the cold. He has an idea…It’s low risk for Shane and high reward for Ilya—Ilya’s favorite. Making up his mind he gets up off the couch and brings Anne’s text thread up.

Anne 🧶

Today, 11:45 AM

Ilya

Hello Anne

i have a question

Anne

yes ilya

Ilya

How is best way to make snug hat?

Canadian call it toque.

I will not be calling it a toque.

What’s it called?

Anne

A beanie Ilya. You’re asking me the best way to make a beanie. (I will never call it a toque either 🫂

Ilya

Yes, da a beanie. How would I do that?

Anne

Do you still have the needles I gave you? With the cord in between them?

Ilya

Yah

Anne

Okay, it's a start. The best way is to knit in the round.

Ilya

Cool.

What’s that mean.

Anne

What’s your schedule like this week?

Smiling, Ilya puts slides his phone back into his pocket. Ilya loves to have something to look forward to. He is a very goal oriented person in that way.

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