Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, eager shane hollander, Vampire Ilya Rozanov, Feeding, Coming Untouched, Biting Kink

Language:

English

Series:

Part 24 of Retro Writing - May 2026 Challenge

Collections:

Retro Writing Month (2026)

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-24 Words: 2,345 Chapters: 1/1

Just a taste

Summary

Rozanov’s eyes shoot open, and Shane swears he sees a glimmer of red in them before they fade back to their curious peridot green.

“Hollander.”

“Are you okay?” Shane asks awkwardly, adjusting his grip on his towel.

Notes

Prompt fill for day twenty four of the Retro Writing May 2026 Challenge: Vampire AU!

(I have been SO looking forward to this one!)

Possible Trigger Warning: This fic does contain a vampire and feeding on blood. Not super graphic, but tread with caution!

Still giddy from the impromptu giggling breakdown he’d shared with Rozanov during the CCM shoot, Shane’s hardly paying attention when he enters the showers. The showers here in Toronto were just the same as any other locker room shower line he’d ever used; shitty water pressure and generic soap dispensers that only worked half the time.

Luck wasn’t on his side, and Shane had to move down the wall of showers opposite his own before he finally found a dispenser that worked. Something that sounded suspiciously like a groan sounded from deep within the empty locker room, and Shane hurried to rinse off. If Rozanov was still here, and he came into the showers, Shane wasn’t entirely certain he’d be able to keep himself from staring.

There were plenty of fit guys in the league. None of them could hold even a candle to Rozanov.

Not that Shane was looking.

Cranking off the water and hastily drying himself before wrapping a towel around his waist and heading towards his locker, Shane pauses as he hears the groaning again. It’s followed by a sharp hiss, and Shane frowns.

He and Rozanov are supposed to be the only people in here; it wasn’t like the photography team needed to wash off make-up and sweat from the photoshoot.

Following his ears, Shane lets them lead him to the source of the pained sounds; he lets out a choked off sound of his own when his brain registers just who they’re coming from.

Rozanov is sitting at the end of a line of lockers, legs straddling the bench, body slumped back against the sweating concrete wall; towel is barely holding on to the splayed position of his powerful legs. He’s paler than he’d been even on the ice, and he doesn’t seem to register Shane’s approach; at least, not until Rozanov takes a deep breath.

Rozanov’s eyes shoot open, and Shane swears he sees a glimmer of red in them before they fade back to their curious peridot green.

“Hollander.”

“Are you okay?” Shane asks awkwardly, adjusting his grip on his towel. It’s not even remotely slipping from where he’s neatly tucked it in on itself, but the motion gives him something to do with his hands. Something that isn’t reaching out and touching Rozanov’s face to check him for a fever, or to see if his curls are as soft as they look.

“Fine. Hungry.” Rozanov admits.

“Oh.” Shane struggles for only a heartbeat before asking, “Uh. Want to go- I don’t know, do you want to get something to eat?”

Rozanov smirks, but it’s wobbly. 

“Do not think they have what I need at Applebee’s.” Rozanov drawls, closing his eyes and tipping his head back against the concrete again. His nostrils flare on his next inhale and he mutters something that sounds like a curse in Russian. “You should go.”

“Are you vegetarian or something?” Shane presses, bewildered. With the amount of calories a professional athlete has to take in, he doesn’t think he’s ever heard of a vegetarian-

Rozanov barks out a sharp laugh.

Shane’s almost affronted, because hello, he’s trying to be nice here, when he notices something more than Rozanov’s laughter is sharp.

His lips are curled back as he huffs in amusement, and it reveals the shine of his teeth; Shane’s eyes are caught on the sharp points of Rozanov canines. His very long, very dangerous looking canines, ones that definitely had not looked like that during the photoshoot.

“Holy shit, you’re-”

Shane doesn’t say it out loud. It’s rude, probably.

Rozanov cocks an eyebrow at him, lips pressed tightly together and very clearly wary of whatever Shane is going to say next.

“-not vegetarian.” Shane finishes lamely; it has the added effect of making Rozanov smirk again. 

“No. Not this.” Rozanov nods. He’s starting to shake, and Shane frowns.

Vamps weren’t barred from professional sports, not for a few decades now. There had been a lot of pushback about letting any supernaturals into the league back then, but they’d eventually settled on having official observers on the ice; Elders, always at least one for each kind of supernatural player on the playing teams. 

Shane’s new team had three Vamps, a couple of Were’s, and two others that he hadn’t met yet; they could be anything from a Fae to a Selkie. Shane didn’t particularly care, as long as they played good hockey. Suffice it to say, there had been additional training when he’d signed on with Montreal, not the least of which was basic first aid for the various supernaturals he might encounter in the league.

Shakes in a Were could indicate an oncoming shift; shakes in a Vamp were dangerous.

“When was the last time you fed?” Shane asks, instead of running for an emergency blood supply. They usually kept them near the AED’s in the locker rooms he’s been in before-

“Probably too long ago. Yes, I think.” Rozanov’s eyes shut as he takes in another shuddering breath. “Was not how I planned tonight to go.”

His accent has gotten heavier, and the points of his sharp teeth bite into the plush skin of his lips. Shane licks his own in sympathy and he steps in closer. There’s something about Rozanov that makes the warning bells in his mind dampen, a sense of security that he should absolutely not feel in the presence of a hungry Vamp.

“Can I help?” he asks quietly. This was in the first aid training too; as long as Rozanov wasn’t frenzied yet, Shane could-

Rozanov’s eyes snap open again, and this time the red glow is unmistakable.

“Are you fucking stupid?” he demands, and Shane ducks his chin in embarrassment. 

“Sorry.” he mutters, shaking his head and taking a single step back.

Too late, the warning of the first aid instructor rings loud in his memory; never flee from a hungry Supernatural, or you risk invoking their predatory instinct.

Rozanov is on him in a flash, and Shane didn’t even know a person could move that quickly.

“You really should have left.” 

🩸

Ilya is barely holding himself together by the time Hollander rounds the corner of the row of lockers; he’s been tracking the other player by sound alone since he entered the locker room. The moment that he’d been close enough to scent on the ice of their photoshoot, Ilya’s teeth had begun to itch.

Now, here was Hollander, offering something he couldn’t possibly understand. Unfortunately, as his father always said, Ilya is weak.

Hollander’s single step back had been enough to drive his hunger to the fore, the need to feed overriding his futile attempts to beat it back until he could get to the prescribed, if bland, blood replacements he was allotted. He’d moved without thinking, and now he can feel the heat of Hollander’s body, still warm from his shower, against his supernaturally cold skin.

It should scare him, this loss of control; Ilya has never felt a hunger he couldn’t put off for a few hours or more if needed. Something about Hollander makes him feel like he’s on the verge of a frenzy just from being in his proximity.

“You really should have left.” 

With one hand on Hollander’s lower back and the other gripping tight to his well muscled arm, Ilya’s hunger is fully in control now. He can smell the ripe, tantalizing scent of Hollander’s blood beneath his skin, can hear it pulsing through his veins; faster now that Ilya is touching him. 

“I’m not scared of you.” Hollander says, and it takes a moment for Ilya’s hunger addled mind to process this; sure, Hollander’s heart rate has increased, likely from the adrenaline of having a predator nearly at his throat. But he’s not trembling with fear; if anything, Hollander’s body had relaxed, practically melting into Ilya’s grip. 

“You are not very smart then, hm?” Ilya growls, emphasizing his statement by baring his teeth.

Hollander’s pupils blow so wide that they nearly swallow the pretty brown of his irises; Ilya wants to swallow him.

“Ah. Is like that.” Ilya coos. With his prey- no, with Hollander in his grasp now, he can afford to toy with him.

Mother had warned him not to play with his food, but she was dead, and Hollander was very, very much alive.

“Like what?” Hollander frowns, adjusting his towel without even the barest attempt to free himself from Ilya’s grasp. 

“Fang chaser.”

Hollander’s cheeks flush pink with frustration, ratcheting Ilya’s hunger higher at the sight of such potent blood rising to the surface; practically beckoning him in for a taste.

“No.” Hollander denies. “I’ve never- I’m not trying to fuck you, I just thought you’d feel better if-”

Rozanov laughs, soft puffs of amusement escaping his mouth. Shifting his weight so that his thigh presses against the humid warmth of Hollander’s towel, he deliberately nudges up against the growing hardness between Hollander’s legs.

“You are sure, zakuska?” Ilya teases, because Hollander is a little snack at the very least, and given how delectable his scent is, possibly even more than just that. “Because your dick-”

“It’s a natural reaction.” Hollander insists, squirming now. Ilya finds this delightful, because Hollander is not wiggling to escape; he’s seeking friction against the very cock that’s betrayed his interest. “Just a normal physical reaction to being touch- I mean, you’re basically naked.”

“Basically.” Ilya agrees, having made no effort to keep his own towel secured. It hasn’t fallen yet, but it droops low on his hips. “So. Not a fang chaser, hm? Are you sure?”

He’s fairly certain he knows Hollander’s response before he even speaks it, even without his people not being of the mind-reading variety of supernatural. Still, Ilya cannot resist leaning in and pressing the flat of his tongue against the thudding thrum of Hollander’s pulse; opens his mouth wide to let the barest hint of teeth scrape against Hollander’s skin.

A human reaction to being in the maws of the beast like this should be one of terror; Hollander should shy away any second now, and Ilya will have to pounce on him and hold him down so that he can-

Hollander groans, leans in, and presses his throat into Ilya’s open mouth.

Before Ilya can react, to tear himself away, the hunger sharpened tips of his fangs break the skin. Though he cannot see it from this vantage, Ilya can feel the delicious warmth pooling around the tips of his teeth; he’s helpless against the urge to close his lips around the wounds and suck.

Pure heavenly mana dribbles from Hollander’s skin; Ilya hasn’t hit a vein, but even the pinprick marks leak freely from his well hydrated body. 

Letting out a desperate sound of his own, Ilya laps hungrily at the blood, clutching Hollander close and increasing the suction against Hollander’s neck; pulling at the shallow wounds that tease him with their lackluster flow.

“Harder.” Hollander pleads, and now, now he is shaking. “You can bite, it’s okay. Take what you-”

Ilya’s brain whites out at the word take, and he does.

Shifting his grip to Hollander’s tight waist, Ilya sinks his fangs into the thin skin of Hollander’s neck, though he’s careful to avoid burying them inside completely. He wants to feast on Hollander, not turn him. 

The thought of turning Hollander is anathema to him; not because there’s anything wrong with being a Vamp, but because losing this delicious wellspring of blood would be a travesty that Ilya could not possibly survive. In his grip, Hollander shudders.

He’s barely taken three long pulls off of Hollander’s body before he has to break away. Gasping wetly against Hollander’s neck and nuzzling into the delicate span of skin behind his ear, Ilya purrs with delight. Whatever is in Hollander’s blood, be it from his diet or just uniquely him, Ilya is already sated. He usually needs three times that much blood from a live volunteer, and double that for the artificial stuff. 

“Fuck.” he sighs happily. 

“Better?” Hollander croaks. Ilya is unsurprised to note that his own towel has fallen away and that there’s a sticky wet spot on the front of Hollander’s. 

Drawing back to look at Hollander’s face, he’s still flushed pink and dazed from his recent orgasm; his eyes lock with Ilya’s though, bright and pleased. 

“Much better.” Ilya assures him, lathing his tongue over the fading pinpricks from his fangs; they’ll heal quickly now that Ilya’s done feeding from him, but his saliva will help with the process. 

There’s nothing to be done for the lurid mark he’d sucked into Hollander’s skin though, and he takes a certain predatory delight in that.

“I will buy dinner now.” Ilya decides. “You will get dressed, tell me your hotel room, and we will go feed you.”

Hollander blinks.

“You don’t have to do that.” he demurs, and Ilya is forced to sink his teeth into Hollander’s chin, hissing a warning despite the fact that his teeth have returned to their blunt, human passing state.

“I really do.” he counters. “Have to keep you fed; return favor, is best for both of us.”

“Both of us?” Hollander asks, his body melting further into Ilya’s grasp. They are touching, knees to shoulders, and Ilya wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Da. Yes.” Ilya chirps, pressing a kiss to the slight indent he’s left on Hollander’s chin. He feels practically giddy with the fresh blood in his system.

Or maybe that’s just an effect Hollander has on him.

“This way you are ready when I need you again.” Ilya clarifies. “You taste bozhestvennyy, Hollander.”

Divine.

“Bless you.” Hollander says with a half formed smirk. He’s still slightly out of it, and it makes Ilya wants to bundle him up into a nice dark room and possibly never let him leave.

Ever.

“Okay. Dinner. But-” Hollander hesitates, looking down his own body at the mess in his towel before admitting, “I think I need another shower first.”

Ilya’s answering grin is nothing short of predatory.

“Okie. I will join you.”