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, Inappropriate Use of Therabands, Exercise as Kink, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Hand Jobs, A whiff of predicament bondage, Light Dom/sub, Under-negotiated Kink, Explicit Sexual Content

Language:

English

Collections:

*Heated rivalry melts my heart*

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-09 Words: 2,808 Chapters: 1/1

like the wave

Summary

Rozanov has a lot of ideas. Shane likes most of them.

Notes

I know a lot about skating and nothing about hockey. All blame for this fic goes to greattemptation who outlined it in a series of increasingly unhinged DMs and then fixed my em dashes.

Apologies once again to Neruda for the title theft.

It's late when Rozanov pushes his way through the door. They linger at the bottom of the stairs, Shane's back against the cold wall, Rozanov hot against his front. He kisses like a thunderstorm, ripping away the months apart and replacing them with the heady now. His hands are everywhere; on Shane's thighs and grasping his hips and peeling his shirt up to rest snow chilled fingers on his stomach.

“Fuck you,” Shane says at that and wiggles, peeling himself away and up a single step, then another. “Come on.”

Shane likes his home. It’s warm and spacious, too big for one person probably, but he’s already looking forward to knocking down the wall between the units. It’s the tangible reward for years of hard work, a place where he can be less than perfect. When he bought it he spent a whole evening sitting in the middle of the living room, arms stretched out like he could feel the space around him.

It doesn’t feel that big now. The room is smaller with Rozanov in it. Space bends in around him. It’s not just the hockey build, the shoulders, and the height. He's the center of every room, the beacon to which Shane is indelibly drawn.

Rozanov stands in the middle of that room and shrugs off his black jacket. Underneath it, he has on slouching blue jeans and a team hoodie. A cap squashes his curls around his face. The look is oddly cherubic, like he could garnish the Christmas tree in the stadium’s lobby.

“Take your clothes off,” he says, belying the comparison.

Shane does. His own hoodie ends up over the back of the couch and his underwear and jeans follow. He stands naked in the middle of the room, half hard already, breathing like they’ve just come off the ice. It’s been hours since the game: long enough for the adrenaline kick to fade and the tenderness to build. He wonders if Rozanov can see it in him, his skin standing out stark where the pain throbs underneath. Shane doesn’t bruise easily, not even when Rozanov tries, but he has a knack for finding Shane’s tender spots, rubbing a knuckle along a sore rib or biting where the muscle pulls under his scapula.

Rozanov is fighting a grin, the corners of his mouth pulling up and then settling. He looks Shane over, his gaze palpable when it lingers. There’s a proprietary feel to it, like Rozanov is cataloguing Shane’s hurts, locking them away.

“Do you want to—” Shane gestures to the kitchen. He doesn’t want to rise to Rozanov’s bait, not yet. Naked, he opens cabinets, fetching glassware and a bottle. The vodka is the good stuff, and he pours a generous glug into the thick-bottomed glass where it swirls viscous around a chunk of ice. Rozanov takes a sip, and one eyebrow raises.

“Why are you still here?” He gestures toward the open bedroom door. “Go.”

Shane goes. He sits on the bed, naked, his legs curled up underneath himself, heels pressed up against his ass, and immediately feels ridiculous. He moves, curling on his side, but it’s worse, like one of those poses they had him do for the underwear ad, and he settles for sitting on the end of the bed, toes pressed into the weave of the carpet.

Rozanov takes his time, and Shane grits his teeth against the impatience. “Are you coming or what?”

“Yes,” calls Rozanov from the other room. He appears in the doorway, the glass still in his hand, a duffel bag in the other. The zip is open and the contents look liable to spill out onto the ground. “You were hurt?”

It’s Shane’s PT bag. Therabands and ointments and the stapled packets of notes dictating the exercises. Mostly he does it in the therapist’s office, but they gave him everything to take home anyway, more rules to add to the list. He doesn’t need to explain it. Rozanov knows the cycle of injury and recovery just as well as Shane does. 

“My hip,” Shane says. It still twinges. Probably will forever. “It’s fine now. It didn’t take me off the ice.”

Rozanov nods. The bag drops onto the bed with a thud. “Did they make you do—” he gestures, a wave of his hand back and forth while he looks for the words. “Is with band around the knees. Bridges.”

“Why are we talking about this?” Shane is properly impatient now, verging on annoyed. He’s been naked and waiting while Rozanov has been fucking around with his PT kit. The hoodie is gone, but Rozanov is still dressed like they’re going to get coffee, casual and unconcerned. Shame prickles under Shane’s skin at being left like this.

“No, no.” Rozanov’s hand brushes over his face, thumb across Shane’s lips. Shane opens his mouth automatically, catching the thumb between his teeth. “Do not worry. I have an idea.”

The excitement on Rozanov’s face is catching, even with the glinting apprehension that follows. Rozanov has a lot of ideas. Shane likes most of them.

“Yeah?” he asks when Rozanov pulls his thumb out to drag a wet line down Shane’s chin, down his throat where his pulse hammers under thin skin. “I don’t know if now’s the time for PT. We could—” He wiggles down to press his face to Rozanov’s crotch, cheek against rough denim. He swallows convulsively. Rozanov lets him undo his flies and pull his cock out, hard and red and glistening at the tip. Shane’s gotten good at this. Enthusiasm carried him through the first few times, but he knows some tricks now. He knows how to clasp his thumb in his fist and swallow so his nose presses up against those dark brown curls.

Rozanov is muttering profanity above him, the usual slew of it interspersed with the good that sets Shane alight. His breath is scarce, his lungs burning. He feels like one of those desserts you set on fire, flames crackling across his skin. He’s not even touching himself and he’s about to come, just from Rozanov’s hand in his hair and the thick weight in his throat.

“No, no,” Rozanov mutters, sounding regretful, and that hold turns into the clasp of a leash as he tugs Shane backwards and off his cock. “Too much,” he says, and kisses Shane. “Too good.”

“You want to fuck me?” Shane feels bold, his head woozy from something between oxygen deprivation and the sheer closeness of Rozanov, his smell and his hands and his cock.

“Mm. Yes. Not yet.”

“Fuck off,” Shane says, and goes for another kiss, but Rozanov’s hand is still in hair, holding him fast. The prickle of pain on his scalp goes straight to Shane’s cock.

“On the floor,” Rozanov says, and gestures to the space in front of the fireplace. He moves to sit on the floor, one leg bent upward so that he can rest his glass on his knee. The fire lights up his curls in gold. Shane rolls his eyes and follows.

“So what are we—”

“You lie down,” Rozanov says, and prods at Shane’s chest. “Stay there.”

Shane lays on his back and cranes his neck to watch as Rozanov digs through Shane’s PT kit. He tugs out a strip of elastic, black, and ties it into a loop. “I don’t think this is what that’s for,” Shane offers. He rolls onto his side to watch, his chin on his hand.

“So impatient.” Rozanov frowns and adjusts the band into a tighter loop.

“You’re not tying me up with that.”

That earns him an incredulous look. “Of course not. Is not good for that. Do you want me to tie you up, Hollander?” Rozanov’s face splits into a broad grin. “Is that what you want? Do you touch yourself thinking of that?”

“Fuck you,” Shane says, because it’s easier than yes. He can feel his cheeks burning. It’s only a bare step past what they do anyway. Rozanov likes to be in control and Shane likes to let him, but no one’s shown up with handcuffs yet.

“Is not tying up,” Rozanov says, and settles next to Shane on the floor. He runs a hand down his flank, nails dragging. “Roll over. On your back. Good.”

Shane lifts his feet for Rozanov to pull the band over them and wiggle it up to his knees. It catches on his leg hair on the way up, and Shane rolls his eyes to cover the mortifying flush of arousal. The band is loose around his knees, and he knocks his legs apart so they hold it tight. He’s got a few inches of leeway there. Not quite tied up, he reminds himself when his pulse picks up.

Rozanov arranges Shane into a familiar position. Feet flat on the floor, his knees hip width apart so he has to fight the band to maintain the distance between them.

“What are you—”

“Shh.” Rozanov’s hand settles around Shane’s cock, and Shane jerks, his whole body surging up into that touch. “Good? You want more?”

“Fuck you. Yes I want more.”

Rozanov shrugs. “You will have to show me.” His hand is just at the head of Shane’s cock, callused skin too rough to feel good precisely. The want is a physical thing inside Shane, curling up behind his ribs and scratching at his throat. He knows what Rozanov wants. It’s a swallowing gulp of shame first, and then he lifts his hips, his knees held at that precise width, feet planted firmly on the ground.

Rozanov’s hand moves with him, gripping tight when Shane moves into the top of the bridge. Shane swallows, waiting. He can hold this position, he thinks. At least long enough for—but Rozanov isn’t moving. His hand is firm and still on Shane’s cock. Shane makes a noise, an embarrassing thing halfway between moan and complaint. “Are you going to do something?”

Rozanov tsks. “You do not want it?”

“I fucking want it,” Shane snaps, and lets his hips sink a scant inch. Rozanov’s hand doesn’t move. “Oh, you fucking asshole.” Shane lifts again experimentally, bucking into the tight curl of Rozanov’s fist.

He’s never understood why a handjob, something he can do to himself at his own leisure, in the shower or under the covers in his bed, is so much better when it’s someone else’s hand. It’s the movement, maybe, the uncertainty of having someone else control it. There goes that theory, he thinks in a buzzy haze as he bucks up again. Rozanov isn’t moving at all. He’s holding precisely still while Shane contorts himself to catch him, fucking up into this painful movement to catch the thread of pleasure.

It doesn’t take long for it to start hurting for real. They just played a game, and Shane’s muscles are sapped. He should be in an ice bath, not playing fucked up games with the enemy. He shudders through the next thrust, hips and thighs and abs straining. He’s embarrassingly close, which is more about the look on Rozanov’s face, the little half smile doused in wonder.

His thighs are burning. Shane knows how to work through pain. He’s been doing it all his life. He knows how to force his muscles to move. Another rep. Another lap. Another raise as his thighs and his stomach ache and the shame drips hot down into his lungs, burning in his breath.

“I can’t—” he says when Rozanov’s touch goes lighter, barely there against Shane’s cock. He’s forcing himself to the limits of his range, searching for that friction. “Rozanov I can’t.”

“You can,” is all he gets, and Shane can. Another arch of his back, two, three, chasing the feeling. That’s not how this ends, though, and they both know it. Not when the reward he gets is the barest brush of skin on skin and the burn in his stomach is only increasing with every thrust.

He lets himself collapse. He’s breathing hard, his skin prickling with sweat in the warm room. His knees are still caught by the band. Not quite tied up, but close enough that he’s held there until he shimmies himself free. He doesn’t. He waits.

“So close,” Rozanov chides, and Shane doesn’t even bother to curse at him. He’s saving his breath. That hand works its way between Shane’s legs again, and Shane groans as the wanted pressure returns in three quick strokes, enough to pull his lagging erection back to full strength. He can feel his heartbeat everywhere, collected in the hollow of his throat and in the twitch of his thigh and the jerk of his cock.

“Say please and I will take pity on you.”

“Please,” says Shane.

Shane’s body shudders as cold glass settles on his belly. “Is good vodka. I am not done yet. Do not let that fall,” says Rozanov, and flicks Shane’s nipple lightly, drawing another shiver out of him.

“Asshole,” Shane mutters, but he doesn’t move. He holds himself very, very still as Rozanov picks up where he left off, his hand running up Shane’s cock and down again. It’s slick with lube now, and every rise and fall of his hand is a balm, drawing Shane closer and closer. He has to fight to stay still, breathing in shallow, panting gasps so the glass doesn’t fall.

“Fuck,” Shane says, when he’s close, and he can’t hold back the full-body tremble in his limbs and the sucking breath that flows all the way to his toes. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he says again, when Rozanov keeps going, drawing all the blood and the heat and the want in Shane’s body into a single pinprick, his entire existence reduced to the point where Rozanov’s hand is touching him. Shane is distantly aware of the thud of glass on carpet and the chill splash of liquid against his side, but Rozanov keeps going, harder and tighter. “You should come,” he suggests, and Shane does, the whole sore throb of his body convulsing in a blinding white sear.

Rozanov strokes his hair as he recovers, blinking back tears. “Fucking hell,” Shane manages after a while. The elastic parts from around his knees with a snap, and Rozanov tosses it and the scissors to the side.

“You did good,” Rozanov says. “We will mark it in your exercise journal maybe.”

“Asshole,” Shane says, though it’s fond and sated and exhausted.

“Tonight?” Rozanov makes a show of surprise. “You are not too tired?” He lost his clothes at some point, and there’s no disguising his interest. 

Shane considers. He stretches, gauging tender muscles. Rozanov would be fine with a blowjob, and Shane wants to give it. He likes it. He likes the bit of control he can wrest back on his knees, and the way Rozanov’s eyes go wide. Sex is harder when he’s no longer on that knife-edge of arousal, the need to come fighting against the burn.

But. “Yeah,” he says, and sits up. “How do you want to—?”

They end up on the bed, Shane on his front, his knees slung wide as Rozanov presses a finger, then two, then his cock inside him. It’s nice. He’s warm and dozy, sated, like this is just the reward after the hard work is done.

Rozanov comes with a grunt, spilling out inside Shane. He’ll feel all of it tomorrow. The game and the game and the tenderness when he moves. It’s nice. Something to take with him.

“Come here,” Shane says, when Rozanov pulls out. They lie chest to chest, kissing languidly. The sweat has flattened Rozanov’s curls down against his temples. He tastes like the last remnants of vodka.

“It was good?”

“Really good.” Shane spawls on top of him, boneless. Fingers trace the line of his vertebrae, the same ones that Rozanov likes to kiss when they fuck. He waits for the familiar I should go. They don’t stay the night. Their movements are too orchestrated for that.

Instead he gets: “You have food?”

Shane levers himself up. “You’re hungry?”

“Of course. You are not?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess.” Shane is, suddenly, ravenous as the demands of the day crash in. “Can you stay for food?”

Rozanov shrugs. “Depends. Can you cook?”

It drags a laugh out of him. “Yeah I can cook. If you want salad and plain chicken.”

A muscled arm flung across a face to hide the smile. “Boring. You are so boring.”

Shane stumbles for the right words for the question. It’s not are you staying or are you sure. It’s also not “aren’t you going to get in trouble?” which is what bumbles out anyway.

“Nah. The schedule is, how do you say? Flexible. Not like you. You will be sore in the morning.” Rozanov winks. “I will be here to see.”