Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Blow Jobs, Nipple Clamps, Under-negotiated Kink, Hotel Sex, Light Dom/sub, Oral Sex, Bottom Shane Hollander, Written after episode 2, Sub Shane Hollander

Language:

English

Collections:

*Heated rivalry melts my heart*

Stats:

Published: 2025-11-29 Words: 1,319 Chapters: 1/1

Power Play

Summary

It was Ilya’s thing, apparently. A week of texts leading up to this game. Blurry photographs of toys laid out on a quilted over and links to videos that had Shane achingly hard in anticipation. It was a promise, not a request.

Notes

This show has caught me in its clutches. I paid for HBO for this. Apologies for what will almost certainly be the most overused title in this fandom.

Shane thought Ilya might have been half drunk already, if he showed up at all. Shane had seen them on the way to their victory party, climbing over each in a jubilant pile. The game had been brutal, the kind that settled in a bone-deep exhaustion, soreness lingering in the curve of his spine and his twinging calf.

The rap on the thin hotel door was perfunctory. Ilya bullied his way past and into the room, his hair still shower damp. He’d dressed properly, neat gray slacks and a white shirt half-buttoned, nothing but bare skin underneath. There was a whiff of vodka about him, the barest taste on his tongue when he pressed Shane against the wall to kiss him, hungry and demanding.

“Sit,” he said, jerking his chin towards the bed. Shane did, settling back on the covers, propped on his elbows. Ilya slung a backpack down on the end of the bed and rummaged through it, not looking up.

“How’s it feel?” Ilya glared up at him, and Shane shrugged one shoulder, apologetic. “It looked like it hurt.”

“Does not hurt,” Ilya said. The bruise had already started to form, purple pooling along the high line of his cheek. Shane winced in sympathy.

“Do you want me to–”

“Shut up, Hollander,” said Ilya, and upended the bag on the bed. Shane’s mouth went dry. He wasn’t a virgin. He’d watched porn, more than his fair share of it. He knew what those things were for, but the dildo had always been enough for him, that and his hand. Ilya fished a thin chain out of the pile, and looked up at Shane, eyes sparking.

“Shirt off,” he said, and Shane scrambled to tug the soft tee over his head. It was humiliating how eager he was. Ilya’s lip curled in satisfaction as he watched. He made a small gesture with two fingers, crooking them slightly to summon Shane across the bed.

“Hands,” Ilya said, and Shane panicked briefly, unsure, until, “behind the back,” Shane added, and softened the tone with those same two fingers trailed down Shane’s face and set under his chin, tilting his face up to be kissed.

It was Ilya’s thing, apparently. A week of texts leading up to this game. Blurry photographs of toys laid out on a quilted over and links to videos that had Shane achingly hard in anticipation. It was a promise, not a request.

Shane thought it might be his thing, too, as his hand found his opposite wrist behind his back. He shuddered as Ilya’s fingers found his nipple, teasing it to hardness. “Stay still,” said Ilya, his face a mask of concentration that had Shane wondering how much of this, if any, Ilya had done. The bite of metal shook the thought from his mind.

“Jesus fuck.” Shane reached instinctively to bat it away, but Ilya caught his wrist in one broad hand.

“No,” he said, and guided Shane’s hand behind his back again. Shane’s heart was beating in his throat, hot and wanton. The spike of pain had settled into something new, low in his stomach. He shivered, and the movement sent the sensation surging again.

He bit his lip against a whine as Ilya set the second in place, but couldn’t hold back the sound when he flicked it. Shane’s shoulders hunched automatically, drawing in against the feeling, even while his hands stayed fixed in place.

“Pretty,” said Ilya, his voice a rasp. He stood, unbuttoning his shirt slowly, and Shane stared up at him, eyes fixed on the skin that revealed itself. He imagined he could still smell the game on him, sweat and power.

“I didn’t know if you’d come.”

Ilya winked at him, mouth twisted. “I intend to come.”

All of the blood in Shane’s body had settled in his cock. It strained against his boxers and the soft sweatpants. “Are you going to–”

“Patience,” Ilya chided. “Or do I fetch the gag?”

“Gag,” Shane repeated, stunned, and then, “no, I don’t need–” Ilya was laughing at him, a hint of mockery. He liked having Shane off kilter. Shane swallowed, his throat thick.

Ilya ran his thumb across Shane’s lower lip, tugging his mouth open. “No,” he agreed.

They had never done it quite like this. Shane kept his hands behind his back as Ilya tugged his cock out from the front of his trousers, hard and flushed and leaking. He clenched his thumb in his fist as Ilya pushed in, cock sliding across Shane’s tongue and to the back of his throat. This was when he would use his hands, sliding up the furred skin of Ilya’s thigh, cupping his balls, holding him steady as Shane set his own pace. He sucked breath through his nose, steading himself, when Ilya pulled back.

Ilya didn’t wait for a nod or a blink. He judged Shane ready and shoved forward. Shane’s eyes watered and his hands clenched convulsively. His whole body strained with the effort to stay still. To take. There was a surrender to it, a place that his body resisted but his mind fell into. It was like the morning fog burning away, revealing the shape of things.

Ilya thrust in short, jagged movements, groaning above him. He twisted a hand in Shane’s hair, holding him still as he forced himself into Shane, over and over, pulling back to let him breathe and then in again.

“My god, Hollander. So good. You are so good.” It came out in grunts, hot exhalations of breath. Pleasure rippled down Shane’s back at the praise, a melting, liquid feeling that washed away the discomfort into a soft floating pleasure. Ilya thrust again, once and twice more, and then pulled himself free, his hand tugging frantically at his cock, a blurred sight in Shane’s tear-stained vision. Ilya cursed as he came, and it spattered across Shane’s face, on his cheeks and lips and throat.

He waited until he knew Ilya was watching, and licked deliberately, catching the come from his lower lip and pulling it into his mouth. His whole body felt raw as he swallowed, hands still held carefully in place. Every breath set new shudders, the clamps sparking with a pain-pleasure that ripped through him.

Ilya touched one gently, almost reverently. Shane wondered if he’d forgotten they were there. He shifted, legs wider apart, like he couldn’t contain the need otherwise. He was rock hard, throbbing with it. He would beg if he had to. He wanted–anything. He wanted Ilya’s mouth or his hand or his cock again, hard up against Shane’s own. He wanted to be told which one he would get.

Ilya tugged on the chain between the clamps, dragging a sharp gasp out of Shane. He led him backwards, scrambling on his hands as they settled on the bed properly, Shane on his back, Ilya kneeling above him.

“Losers don’t get blowjobs,” Ilya said, and ran his nails down Shane’s chest. “Losers get fucked.” The word was pointed in his accent, pulled out from the back of his throat.

“Already?” Shane managed a raise of an eyebrow.

“Losers come from my cock,” said Ilya, drawing Shane's sweats down. The air was a shock on his overheated skin. Ilya’s hand followed, a slow drag down and back up. 

Shane's head thumped back onto the bed. He couldn't help the smile that bubbled up on his face. He was giddy with it, with the hot anticipation. Despite what he'd said, Ilya's mouth was on Shane already, hot and tight.

“If you say so,” Shane agreed, and canted his hips upward for Ilya’s reaching fingers. His eyes fluttered shut, mind steadying into quiet. The day’s aches disappeared, replaced by new, deliberate ones. There would be more, he was sure. Ilya would build them in him, fingers and tongue and whatever else he had brought in that backpack. The night was young.